Alina Phillips POV
The water didn't kill me, but the look on Jaxon's face when I was dragged onto the bank nearly did.
He didn't pull me out.
A low-level soldier named Enzo did.
Enzo looked at me with unmasked pity as I convulsed on the mud, clutching the Silver Star so hard the edges cut into my palm.
Jaxon stood ten feet away.
He was dry. Perfect. Utterly untouchable.
He had Krystal tucked under his arm, shielding her from the wind while I froze in the dirt.
"Take her to the hospital," Jaxon ordered Enzo. He didn't look at me. He looked at the river, annoyed that I had made a scene. "Get her sedated. She's hysterical."
Hysterical.
That was the narrative now.
I sat in the hospital bed for the second time in a week.
My leg throbbed in its cast. My skin smelled like river sludge and dead things, a scent that no amount of scrubbing seemed to remove.
When Jaxon finally walked in, he didn't ask if I was okay.
He checked his watch.
"This behavior has to stop, Alina," he said, his tone flat, like a CEO addressing a problematic employee. "Jumping into the Hudson? You need to go back to the clinic. You aren't well."
I looked at him.
Really looked at him.
I saw the man I had worshipped since I was a child. The man who taught me to shoot, to drive, to survive.
And I realized he was the very thing I needed to survive against.
"I want a divorce," I said. "From this family. From you."
Jaxon laughed. It was a cold, dismissive sound.
"You don't divorce the Family, Alina. You are property of the Francis estate until I say otherwise."
"I am not a piece of furniture," I whispered.
"You are acting like a child," he said. "We will discuss your treatment plan tomorrow."
He turned to leave.
"Jaxon," I called out.
He paused, his hand on the door handle.
I pulled the ring off my finger.
It wasn't an engagement ring. It was a promise ring he gave me before he sent me to Switzerland. A promise that he would wait.
A lie forged in platinum and diamonds.
"Catch," I said.
I threw it.
It hit the window with a sharp clink and fell into the radiator vent. Gone.
Jaxon stared at the vent. His jaw ticked.
"You will regret that," he said softly.
Then his phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen, and the anger vanished, replaced by urgency.
"Krystal has a migraine," he muttered. "I have to go."
He walked out without looking back.
I turned on the TV to drown out the silence.
The news was on.
Breaking News: Cartel Princess Krystal Gomez-Francis releases debut single 'Shattered Wings'.
My blood ran cold.
I turned up the volume.
The melody filled the room.
It was haunting. Melancholic. Beautiful.
It was also mine.
I wrote that song three years ago. I composed it on the piano in the East Wing, the one Jaxon said was soundproof.
The screen showed Krystal at a press conference, dabbing fake tears from her eyes.
"I wrote this during a very dark time," she told the cameras. "It's about survival."
The anchor's voice cut in.
Sources say a troubled family friend of the Francis clan, Alina Phillips, has been claiming authorship. Insiders suggest Ms. Phillips is suffering from severe delusions.
I threw the remote at the screen.
It cracked, but the sound didn't stop.
I got dressed.
I didn't care about the cast. I didn't care about the hospital gown underneath my coat.
I took a cab to the Francis Corp Headquarters.
I limped past security. They hesitated, recognizing the wife of the Don, too uncertain of their standing to physically stop me.
I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the conference room.
Flashes of light blinded me.
Jaxon stood at the podium. Krystal was seated beside him, looking like a victim.
"Jaxon!" I screamed. "She stole it! You know she stole it!"
The room went silent.
Cameras turned to me.
I looked like a wreck. Wet hair, hospital bracelet, wild eyes.
Jaxon didn't flinch.
He stepped closer to the microphone.
He looked at me with the cold, dead eyes of a Don protecting his investment.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice steady. "I apologize for the interruption. This is Alina Phillips. She is a... troubled family friend we have been trying to help."
He paused, letting the pity in the room settle.
"She has a history of mental instability," he continued. "She often confuses reality with her own fantasies. We are handling her care privately."
He disavowed me.
He looked the world in the eye and called me crazy to protect his alliance with the Gomez cartel.
I collapsed to the floor.
Not because of my leg.
But because the man who swore to protect me had just pulled the trigger.
