Josephine Cole POV:

The world returned in a violent, jarring crash. Metal shrieked against metal. Glass shattered. My body was thrown forward, then slammed back against the seat. My head, already injured, hit something hard-the side window, I think. A supernova of white-hot pain exploded behind my eyes.

For a moment, there was only a ringing in my ears and the smell of deployed airbags and something burning.

My first coherent thought, a stupid, ingrained instinct, was for him.

"Jax?" I croaked, my voice a ragged whisper. "Are you okay?"

From the front seat, I heard a groan. Not his.

"Jax! Baby! My face! Is my face okay?" Brooklyn' s voice, high and panicked.

Then Jax' s voice, thick with terror, but not for me. "Brooklyn! Brooklyn, are you hurt? Talk to me!"

He was unbuckling his seatbelt, scrambling over the center console to get to her. He cradled her face in his hands, his thumbs frantically wiping away a tiny trickle of blood from a small cut on her forehead.

"It' s just a scratch, baby, it' s just a scratch," he murmured, his voice frantic with relief. "You' re okay. You' re beautiful. You' re perfect."

Brooklyn let out a theatrical sob, leaning into his embrace. "I was so scared, Jax."

Pain, sharp and blinding, lanced through my head. I reached up to touch the back of my skull and my fingers came away wet and sticky with blood. A lot of blood. The side of my head had been laid open by the impact. Unlike Brooklyn, I hadn' t been protected by a doting lover. I had been thrown around the backseat like a rag doll.

Jax finally seemed to remember I was there. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second as he took in the blood matting my hair and staining the pristine leather seats. A flicker of something-guilt, maybe-crossed his face.

But it was gone as quickly as it came.

Brooklyn whimpered again, a pathetic little sound, and his attention snapped back to her instantly. His face softened, his entire being focused on her minor injury.

The world outside the shattered windows was a cacophony of sirens and shouting. People were gathering, their faces pale and horrified in the flashing red and blue lights.

Jax fumbled with the mangled passenger door, kicking it open. "Someone help!" he roared to the gathering crowd. "Get her out! She' s hurt!"

He was pointing at Brooklyn.

My vision was starting to blur at the edges. A cold numbness was spreading through my limbs. I tried to call his name again, but my tongue felt thick and heavy in my mouth. My lips formed his name, a silent plea.

Look at me. Please. Help me.

He didn' t.

He carefully, tenderly, gathered Brooklyn into his arms. As he lifted her from the car, his eyes met mine through the space where the windshield used to be. For a single, horrifying moment, I saw his choice in his eyes. He saw me. He saw the blood. He saw that I was seriously injured.

And he turned away.

He carried Brooklyn toward the arriving paramedics, his back to me, leaving me alone in the wreckage.

The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was his broad back, a solid wall between me and any hope of salvation. The last thing I heard was his voice, yelling for help.

For her.

My mind, in its final moments of clarity, dredged up a memory. Years ago, after he' d won a particularly brutal underground fight, I' d been stitching up a cut over his eye. He' d winced, and I' d kissed the wound gently. He' d caught my face in his hands and looked at me with an intensity that stole my breath. "I' ll never let anything happen to you, Jo," he' d vowed. "I' d die before I let anyone hurt you."

The bitter irony was the last thing I tasted before the darkness swallowed me whole.

I woke up to the smell of bleach and the soft, rhythmic beep of a machine. My head was swathed in bandages, and a dull, throbbing ache had settled deep in my skull.

A cheerful-looking nurse was checking my IV drip. "Oh, you' re awake!" she chirped. "You gave us all quite a scare."

She beamed at me. "Your husband is a true hero, you know. The way he rescued that other young lady from the car, and then insisted we take care of you first. He wouldn' t leave your side all night. He must love you very much."

My stomach turned. He' d constructed a narrative, a public performance of the loving, heroic husband.

"He just stepped out to get you some fresh flowers," the nurse continued, gesturing to a vase on the bedside table. It was filled with white lilies.

He knew I hated lilies. They were funereal. Kiera had been allergic to them.

"He' s a hero, alright," I said, my voice dripping with a sarcasm that was lost on the nurse.

"Oh, you have to see this!" she said, pulling out her phone. "It' s all over the news."

She showed me a video clip from a local news station. It showed Jax, his face smudged with dirt, his shirt torn, looking every bit the valiant survivor. The footage, shot by a bystander, showed him kicking open the car door and pulling Brooklyn out. The camera angle was strategic, making it look like he was braving flames to save her. Then, it cut to him directing paramedics toward the backseat, a look of anguish on his face. The voiceover praised the real estate mogul Jax Richards for his bravery in the aftermath of a horrific accident.

There was no mention of the fact that he had left me bleeding in the car. No mention of the fact that his "anguish" was a performance for the cameras that had arrived after he' d already secured his own safety and that of his mistress.

"He even paid to have you moved to our best VIP suite," the nurse gushed, oblivious to the storm raging inside me. "He said nothing was too good for his wife."

I laughed, a dry, brittle sound that turned into a cough. The laugh was for me, for my own stupidity. For ever believing that his grand gestures were a substitute for genuine love.

The love he was showing the world was a lie. A beautifully crafted, expensive lie.

The nurse, finally sensing the charged atmosphere, gave me a nervous smile and quickly excused herself.

The door opened moments later. It was Jax, holding a new, even larger bouquet of lilies. His face was a mask of weary concern. He looked like the worried husband he was pretending to be.

He didn't get the chance to speak.

Josephine Cole POV:

My hand shot out, swiping the vase of lilies off the bedside table. It shattered on the floor, water and broken glass spraying across the polished tiles.

"Get out," I rasped, my voice raw.

Jax froze, the new bouquet still in his hands. "Jo…"

"I said, get out!" I screamed, the sound tearing at my throat.

He slowly bent down, his brow furrowed, and began picking up the larger shards of glass. A sharp edge sliced his finger. A drop of red blood welled up on his skin. He stared at it for a moment, as if surprised.

I watched him, my heart a cold, dead stone in my chest. A year ago, I would have rushed to his side, would have cleaned the cut, bandaged his hand, kissed it better. Now, I felt nothing. Less than nothing. A complete and utter void.

His lack of a reaction from me seemed to unnerve him more than my screaming. He looked up, his eyes searching my face for a flicker of the old Josephine, the one who cared. He found nothing.

"Jo, we need to talk," he said, abandoning the broken glass and stepping closer to the bed. "The crash… it wasn' t my fault. The other driver ran a red light."

"I don' t care about the crash," I said, my voice flat.

"I know you' re upset about Brooklyn," he continued, steamrolling over me. "I was going to end it. I swear. It was just… a stupid mistake."

He tried to excuse his actions in the car. "Brooklyn was in the front, the impact was worse for her. She was screaming. I panicked. But I came back for you, Jo. I told them to help you."

He was spinning a new narrative, one where he was just a man who had made a logical choice in a moment of panic. He pulled a small box of macarons from his jacket pocket-my favorite, from the little bakery near our first apartment. He offered them to me, a pathetic peace offering.

"I brought you these," he said, his voice soft, coaxing.

I slapped his hand away. The box flew through the air, scattering the brightly colored pastries across the floor, where they lay like fallen jewels among the broken glass.

"Get. Out." Each word was a shard of ice.

The flicker of guilt in his eyes vanished, replaced by a familiar spark of anger. His patience, always thin, had run out. The performance was over.

"Fine," he snarled. "You want to be this way? Fine. But don' t forget who' s paying for this VIP suite, Josephine. Don' t forget who paid for every single one of Kiera' s medical bills for the last five years."

My blood ran cold. He was using my dead sister, using my grief, to threaten me. To control me.

"Get. Out." My voice didn' t waver.

He stared at me for a long, hard moment, his jaw tight. Then he turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shuddered.

The moment the door closed, the strength I had been feigning deserted me. I collapsed back against the pillows, and the sobs I had been holding back finally broke free. I cried for Kiera. I cried for the woman I used to be. I cried for the love I had thought was real, a love that had turned out to be nothing more than a cruel and elaborate lie.

For the next two weeks, Jax played the part of the devoted husband for the hospital staff. He came every day, bringing flowers I hated and food I wouldn' t eat. And every day, I threw him out.

Our arguments grew more heated, his frustration mounting with each rejection. The nurses and doctors would watch with pitying eyes, whispering about the poor, heroic Mr. Richards and his ungrateful, hysterical wife. They didn' t see the man who threatened me with medical bills in private. They only saw the public performance.

I marked the days off on a mental calendar, counting down the seconds until I could leave. Until I could disappear.

On the day of my discharge, as I was packing my small bag, the door to my room opened. It wasn' t Jax.

It was Brooklyn.

She sauntered in, looking immaculate in a tight-fitting dress, her face perfectly made up. She looked me up and down, a smug smile playing on her lips.

"Wow," she said, her voice dripping with fake pity. "You look terrible. The accident really did a number on you."

She ran a hand through her perfect blonde hair. "But then again, you never were much to look at. I could never understand what Jax saw in you. You' re so… plain."

She walked closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, I can make him do anything I want. Anything. He bought me a penthouse last week. He' s taking me to Paris for my birthday. And the things he does for me in bed… well, you can probably imagine."

She leaned in, her perfume cloying and suffocating. "He loves me, Josephine. He was just with you out of habit. Pity, maybe."

From her designer handbag, she pulled out a small, tarnished silver locket. My blood froze. It was the locket my grandmother had given me, the one Brooklyn had stolen from my gym locker in tenth grade. The one I had cried over for weeks.

"Remember this?" she purred, dangling it in front of my face. "I' ve kept it all these years. A little reminder of how easy it is to take things from you."

My body began to tremble, the old, familiar terror wrapping its icy fingers around my heart. The room felt small, the air thin. The nightmares I thought I had buried were clawing their way back to the surface.

My eyes darted around the room, desperately looking for an escape. They landed on the fruit basket Jax had left, and the small, sharp knife nestled beside a pear.

Josephine Cole POV:

Brooklyn watched my eyes flicker to the fruit knife, and a sick, excited smile spread across her face. "Oh, look at you," she cooed, as if speaking to a cornered animal. "Still so predictable. Still so weak."

She leaned closer, her voice a venomous whisper. "You know, Kiera was weak too. Jax told me all about her. So fragile. Always sick. A drain on your resources. It' s probably for the best that she' s gone. Now you don' t have to worry about her anymore. And neither does Jax."

The world went red. The air left my lungs.

"He told me how you two met," she continued, her eyes gleaming with malice. "How you used your pathetic sad story and sick sister to trap him. But he' s mine now. He was always meant to be mine."

My hand was shaking as I reached for the knife, my fingers wrapping around the cool, plastic handle. Not to use on her. To ground myself. To feel something solid and real in a world that had dissolved into a nightmare.

"What do you want, Brooklyn?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady. The cold steel in my hand was a focal point, a dam holding back the flood of my rage.

"I want you gone," she said simply. "Sign the divorce papers. Take whatever pathetic settlement he offers you, and disappear. He' s mine. His money is mine. His future is mine."

"I' ve already filed for divorce," I said, my voice flat.

The smugness on her face wavered for a second, replaced by a flash of annoyance. She hadn't known. This wasn't part of her plan. She had wanted to be the one to force my hand.

"Good," she snapped, recovering quickly. "Then this should be easy."

She took a step forward, and in a move so swift I didn' t have time to react, she shoved me. Hard. I stumbled backward, my injured head screaming in protest. I fell against the bedside table, my wrist twisting at an unnatural angle.

The fruit knife clattered to the floor.

Pain, sharp and blinding, shot up my arm. Brooklyn was on me in an instant, her designer heel grinding down on my injured wrist, pinning my hand to the floor.

"You think you can win against me, Josephine?" she hissed, her face contorted with rage. "You have always been nothing. A pathetic, little charity case. And that' s all you' ll ever be."

I cried out, a strangled gasp of pain.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made Brooklyn' s head snap up. In a split second, her expression changed. The rage vanished, replaced by a mask of terror. She snatched her foot off my hand and scrambled backward, her eyes wide with fake fear.

The door swung open. Jax stood there, his face a thundercloud. He took in the scene in an instant: me, on the floor, clutching my bleeding wrist; Brooklyn, cowering against the far wall, looking like the victim.

"She has a knife!" Brooklyn shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the fruit knife on the floor. "She tried to attack me, Jax! She said she was going to kill me!"

Jax' s eyes flickered from the knife to my face, then to Brooklyn' s terrified performance. For a heartbeat, I saw hesitation in his eyes. A flicker of doubt.

But then he looked at me, lying broken on the floor, and his expression hardened into condemnation.

"I was just defending myself," Brooklyn sobbed, running to him and burying her face in his chest. "She' s crazy, Jax! You have to protect me!"

He wrapped his arms around her, his gaze locked on me. "What is wrong with you, Josephine?" he asked, his voice low and filled with a chilling mixture of anger and disgust.

"She' s lying," I choked out, pushing myself up. "She attacked me."

"Don' t lie to me, Josephine," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. He gently stroked Brooklyn' s hair, his touch soothing. "I know you. I know your temper."

He walked over and picked up a tissue from the box on the table, then knelt in front of me. He reached out to wipe the blood from my wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle. It was a gesture that in another life would have meant care, but now it was just a prelude to a verdict.

"We can both have what we want, Jo," he said softly, his eyes searching mine. "I can have my fun, and you can have my name, my money. You can be Mrs. Richards. Isn' t that all you ever wanted? Why do you have to make things so difficult?"

The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. Mrs. Richards. He thought that was the end goal. That my love, my life, my devotion, were all just a transaction for his name and his wealth. The years I had spent by his side, loving him, supporting him, helping him build his empire from nothing… in his eyes, it was all just a business deal.

Nausea, thick and suffocating, rose in my throat. I had loved a monster. A beautiful, charming monster who saw me not as a partner, but as a possession. An asset.

My phone rang, a shrill, jarring sound that cut through the thick tension in the room. I fumbled for it with my good hand. It was my lawyer' s assistant.

"Ms. Cole?" she said, her voice hesitant. "I' m so sorry to bother you, but we' ve run into a problem with the divorce filing."

"A problem?" I asked, my voice hollow.

"Yes," she said. "We ran the marriage license you sent us through the state records, and… well, there' s no record of it. The officiant' s signature is forged, and the license number corresponds to a certificate issued in 1982."

The room began to spin.

"What are you saying?" I whispered.

"I' m so sorry to be the one to tell you this, Ms. Cole," the assistant said, her voice full of pity. "But according to the state of California, you and Jax Richards were never legally married."

The phone slipped from my hand. The world went silent, then rushed back in a deafening roar.

Never married.

It wasn' t a marriage. It was a lie. A five-year lie. He had never intended for me to be his wife. I was his live-in girlfriend. His unpaid assistant. His bedwarmer. A convenient placeholder until someone better-someone like Brooklyn-came along.

The full weight of his deception, of his breathtaking cruelty, crashed down on me. I doubled over, a strangled, animalistic sound tearing from my throat as I started to retch. The nausea was real this time. It was the physical expulsion of a love that had turned toxic, a poison I had been swallowing for years.

When there was nothing left to throw up, the sobs came. Hard, wracking sobs that shook my entire body.

Through my tears, I saw Jax looking down at me with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. He didn' t understand. He couldn' t possibly understand the depth of his own betrayal.

A cold, terrifying clarity washed over me. The tears stopped. The pain receded, replaced by a block of ice where my heart used to be.

I would not let him destroy me.

While he was comforting Brooklyn, I quietly gathered the evidence. I took a photo of my bleeding wrist, of the overturned fruit basket, of Brooklyn' s heel print on Kiera' s ruined sketchbook. I used my good hand to forward the email from my lawyer to a new, secure account. I recorded their conversation from the moment he walked in.

I walked out of that hospital room with nothing but the clothes on my back and a small bag. I left the jewelry, the designer clothes, the life he had built for me. They were all part of the lie.

In the taxi to the airport, I set a timer on an email to Jax. It contained everything. The photos. The recording. The screenshot of the email confirming our marriage was a fraud. It was set to send in exactly one hour.

Enough time for me to be gone forever.