Alina Phillips POV

I returned to the Estate like a ghost haunting her own life.

The Fortress loomed atop the cliffs overlooking the Hudson, a sprawling expanse of grey stone and imposing iron gates.

It had once been my sanctuary. Now, it was just stone.

I punched the access code into the keypad at the side gate.

The light blinked green. It still worked.

The ease of it felt like a trap.

I moved through the gardens, my eyes instinctively seeking the soft purple of my irises by the fountain.

They were gone.

Rows of pristine white roses stood in their place, stiff, thorny, and flawlessly sterile.

They looked like funeral flowers waiting for a casket.

I entered the main house through the kitchen entrance.

The chatter of the staff died instantly. Silverware clattered against porcelain as they froze.

Their eyes went wide, tracking me as if I were a corpse that had clawed its way out of the grave.

I ignored the heavy silence and ascended the grand staircase, heading straight for the east wing.

My room.

Or what used to be my room.

I pushed the door open and halted.

The walls were no longer a soft, welcoming blue. They had been painted a stark, clinical white.

My easel was gone. My canvases, my paints, the charcoal sketches of my father-everything had been purged.

In their place stood abstract sculptures of twisted, jagged metal.

Cold. Sharp. Soulless.

A polished brass plaque beneath one piece read: Works by Krystal Gomez-Francis.

She hadn't just moved in.

She had erased me.

Bile rose in my throat, hot and acidic. I turned on my heel, needing air, needing to scream until my lungs burned.

I stumbled out the front door, my vision blurring as I ran down the driveway.

The aggressive roar of an engine cut through the air before I saw the car.

A cherry-red sports car careened around the curve of the driveway, tires squealing.

It was moving far too fast.

I froze.

The driver saw me. Through the windshield, our eyes locked.

Dark eyes, lined with heavy makeup, widened with instant recognition.

She didn't brake.

The engine revved. She accelerated.

I threw myself to the side, but the fender clipped my hip with the force of a sledgehammer.

The impact spun me around, slamming me onto the pavement.

My leg twisted beneath me with a sickening, wet crunch.

Pain exploded up my thigh-blinding, white-hot, and absolute.

I screamed.

The car screeched to a halt only a few yards away.

The driver's door flew open.

A woman stepped out. She was beautiful in a terrifying way, vibrant and deadly like a poisonous flower.

Krystal.

She stared at me writhing on the ground, clutching my shattered leg.

She didn't look scared.

She looked annoyed.

Then, the front door of the mansion burst open. Jaxon came running out.

"Alina?" he shouted, his voice rough.

He looked at me, broken on the asphalt, and then at Krystal.

He didn't run to me.

He ran to her.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, grabbing Krystal's shoulders, scanning her for injuries that didn't exist. "Did the brakes fail?"

I gasped for air, the agony making black spots dance across my vision.

"She hit me," I choked out, the words tasting like copper. "Jaxon, she hit me on purpose."

Jaxon turned his gaze to me then.

His eyes were hard, devoid of the warmth I remembered.

"Don't be dramatic, Alina," he said coldly. "It was an accident. Krystal isn't used to the handling of the car yet."

Krystal immediately buried her face in his chest, her shoulders shaking.

"I didn't see her!" she sobbed, the sound shrill and performative. "She just jumped out! Is she crazy? Oh god, Jaxon, you said she was sick."

"I'm not sick," I gritted out through clenched teeth. "Call the police."

The air around us went still.

Jaxon released Krystal and walked over to me.

He crouched down, close enough for me to smell his cologne, but he didn't touch me.

"We do not call the police, Alina," he stated, his voice dropping to the low, dangerous timbre of the Don. "We handle things in the Family."

"She tried to kill me," I whispered, tears leaking from my eyes.

"She is my wife," he said.

The word hung in the air like a guillotine blade, severing the last thread of my hope.

Wife.

He stood up, dusting off his pants, and signaled to his guards waiting by the entrance.

"Take her to the private wing," he ordered, his tone bored. "Get the leg set. And keep her quiet."

He turned his back on me, wrapping a protective arm around Krystal's waist.

"Come inside, tesoro," he cooed softly. "You're shaking."

He guided her toward the house.

He didn't look back.

As the guards lifted me onto the stretcher, ignoring my gasp of pain, I watched the heavy oak door close.

He left me bleeding on the asphalt to comfort the woman who had put me there.

Alina Phillips POV

The private suite reeked of antiseptic and old money.

It was a facility owned by the Family, designed to stitch up bullet holes and keep secrets buried.

My leg was encased in a cast.

My hip was mottled with deep purple bruises.

But the real damage was invisible.

A nurse bustled in, clutching a tablet like a shield.

"Mr. Francis sent clothes," she said, resolutely avoiding my eyes. "He expects you to be ready in an hour."

"Ready for what?" I asked, my voice rasping.

"The Anniversary Gala," she said.

I laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound.

He ran me over, and now he wanted me to attend his party.

It was a power move.

He wanted to show the world that his little ward was back and everything was fine.

He intended to parade his broken toy.

I put on the dress.

It was black.

Fitting.

Jaxon and Krystal picked me up in a limousine that stretched longer than a hearse.

Krystal wore red.

Not just red-a violent, arterial shade. She looked like she had just bathed in blood and reveled in the warmth.

"I'm so glad you could make it, sweetie," she said, patting my hand. Her nails were sharp enough to draw blood.

"Jaxon told me everything about your... condition. We're going to take such good care of you."

I pulled my hand away.

"I'm sure you will," I said.

Jaxon kept his gaze fixed on the passing city. He wouldn't look at me.

The Gala was held in the sprawling gardens of the Estate.

The same gardens where my father used to teach me how to identify birds.

Now it was infested with politicians, judges, and mobsters.

They sipped champagne and toasted to the happy couple.

A giant screen was set up near the fountain.

It started playing a montage.

Jaxon and Krystal in Paris.

Jaxon and Krystal in Milan.

Jaxon and Krystal on their wedding day, three years ago.

While I was locked in a white room in Switzerland, thinking he was working to keep me safe, he was cutting cake with her.

I felt like I couldn't breathe.

I grabbed a glass of water and retreated toward the edge of the garden, near the kennels.

I needed silence.

I needed to not see his smile on that screen.

I heard a low, guttural growl.

I turned.

A Doberman stood there.

It wasn't one of the old guard dogs. I knew those dogs. I raised them.

This one was new.

It wore a diamond-studded collar.

Krystal's dog.

The gate to the kennel was unlatched.

"Easy," I whispered, holding out a trembling hand.

The dog's ears flattened.

It lunged.

I screamed and threw my arm up instinctively.

Teeth sank into my forearm.

\ The pain was sharp and immediate, tearing through muscle and sinew.

I fell back, the dog's weight crushing me into the earth.

"Jaxon!" I screamed.

He was there in seconds.

He ran from the crowd, Krystal right behind him.

He saw the dog on top of me.

He saw the blood.

He pulled his gun.

"No!" Krystal shrieked. "Don't hurt him! He's protecting me!"

Jaxon hesitated.

He had a clear shot at the dog.

But Krystal grabbed his arm.

"He smells her fear," she cried. "She provoked him!"

Jaxon lowered the gun.

He didn't shoot the dog.

He grabbed Krystal and pulled her behind him, shielding her body with his.

He shielded her from the dog that was currently mauling me.

"Get the handler!" Jaxon roared at a guard.

He waited for the handler.

He let the dog chew on my arm for ten more agonizing seconds because he wouldn't risk a ricochet hitting his wife.

The handler finally dragged the beast off me.

My arm was a ruin.

Blood soaked the black dress.

I looked up at Jaxon from the grass.

He was checking Krystal for scratches.

She hadn't even been touched.

He looked at me, his eyes full of panic, but his hands were still gripping her waist.

That was the moment the last piece of my heart shattered.

He didn't just choose her.

He chose her safety over my life.

Alina Phillips POV

The emergency room doctor pulled the suture thread through my skin in grim silence.

Jaxon stood in the far corner of the room, as far away from the blood as he could get.

He was hunched over, thumbs flying across his phone screen.

Every few seconds, a ping would sound. Sharp. Insistent.

Krystal.

"Is the tendon severed?" Jaxon asked, his eyes never leaving the glow of the device.

"No," the doctor said, snapping the thread. "But the scarring will be permanent."

"Fix it," Jaxon ordered, his tone clipping the air. "Call the plastic surgeon."

"It's fine," I said. My voice was dead, hollowed out by the last hour. "Leave the scars."

Jaxon finally looked at me.

"Don't be difficult, Alina. I want you perfect."

"Perfect for what?" I asked. "To be stored away again?"

He sighed, the sound heavy with impatience, and walked over to the bed.

He reached for my hand-the one that wasn't wrapped in gauze.

"I know this looks bad," he said. "But the marriage... it's just business. You know how the life is. I had to secure the southern borders."

"You have an heir," I said.

It wasn't a question.

I had heard the whispers at the party. The way the elites looked at her midsection.

Jaxon stiffened.

"We are trying," he said. "It's expected."

"So you sleep with her," I said.

"It's duty," he said.

"Do you kiss her for duty?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my resolve. "Do you hold her hand for duty?"

He didn't answer.

His phone pinged again.

He checked it immediately, and the hard lines of his face instantly softened.

"I have to go," he said. "Krystal is in distress. The incident with the dog upset her."

"She wasn't bit," I said. "I was."

"She's... delicate," he murmured.

He turned and walked out.

He left me alone in a room full of bloodied gauze to go comfort the woman who had ordered her beast to tear me apart.

Two days later was my birthday.

I didn't expect him to remember.

But a car was sent to pick me up.

It took me to Le Bernardin. The air inside smelled of expensive wine and the ocean.

Jaxon had rented out the private terrace.

He was sitting at a table with a velvet box.

"Happy birthday, little bird," he said.

Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He looked tired. Good.

I sat down.

"I don't want dinner," I said.

"Open it," he said, sliding the box across the table.

I opened it.

Inside was a jade bracelet.

It was intricate, expensive, and old.

It also had a distinct scratch on the inner rim.

I recognized it instantly.

I had seen it in a magazine three months ago.

On Krystal's wrist.

She had worn it to a charity gala.

He was giving me her cast-offs.

"It's beautiful," I said, closing the box with a snap. "Did she get bored of it?"

Jaxon frowned. "I bought it from a dealer in Hong Kong. It's unique."

"She wore it in Vogue," I said.

Jaxon's jaw tightened. "You're mistaken."

Suddenly, the sky lit up.

Streaks of light tore through the darkness above the city skyline.

A meteor shower.

I remembered sitting on the roof with Jaxon when I was eighteen.

I told him I wanted to see a meteor shower for my twenty-first birthday.

He remembered.

For a second, a tiny, stupid spark of hope flared in my chest.

Then the elevator doors slid open with a chime that sounded like a warning.

Krystal stormed onto the terrace.

She was dragging a black trash bag behind her.

She was screaming.

"You murderer!" she shrieked.

She lunged for the table and upended the sack onto the pristine white tablecloth.

The dead body of the Doberman slid out with a wet thud.

It was stiff. White foam crusted around its mouth.

"You poisoned him!" Krystal screamed, pointing a manicured finger at me. "Because he bit you! You vindictive little bitch!"

She slammed a bottle of pills onto the table.

My vitamins.

The sugar pills.

"I found these in the dog's bowl!" she yelled.

Jaxon stood up. "Krystal, calm down."

"She killed our guardian!" Krystal sobbed, collapsing into Jaxon's arms like a marionette with cut strings. "She's trying to hurt us, Jaxon. She's unstable. The clinic didn't work!"

I looked at the dead dog.

I looked at the pill bottle.

And then I saw the collar.

Tangled amongst the diamonds of the dog's collar was a piece of silver metal on a ribbon.

My breath stopped.

It was a Silver Star.

My father's medal.

The one Jaxon had kept in his safe.

The one he promised to give me when I turned twenty-one.

He hadn't just forgotten me. He had deemed her dog more worthy of my legacy.