Chapter 5 No.5

Alina Phillips POV:

The crystal chandeliers of the Francis estate ballroom dripped light onto the scene below, freezing us in a tableau of silent horror. The music had died. The chatter had ceased. Every eye in the room was a pinpoint of judgment, aimed directly at me, at Jaxon, and at the woman cowering behind him.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. I kept my gaze locked on Jaxon's, searching the deep, turbulent blue of his eyes for a single flicker of belief, a shred of the trust we were supposed to have built.

Behind him, Krystal Gomez let out a soft, choked sob. Her body trembled like a leaf in a storm, a perfect, calculated performance of a victim.

Jaxon's jaw was a hard, unforgiving line. He didn't answer my question. He didn't even look at me. Instead, he did something that turned the blood in my veins to ice.

He turned, a deliberate, fluid motion, and gathered Krystal into his arms. He shielded her completely with his broad chest, his hand coming up to soothe the space between her shoulder blades in a gesture of absolute protection. It was a movement so instinctual, so possessive, it felt like a physical blow.

That single action was a slap across my face, harder and more humiliating than any word he could have spoken.

The silence broke. A low buzz of whispers started to ripple through the crowd of guests. The sound was like a swarm of angry bees, each one a tiny sting against my skin.

"I told you she was unstable..."

"Poor Krystal, she looks terrified..."

"Such class from Jaxon, handling it so well..."

Every whispered word was a scalpel, methodically carving away the last of my dignity.

After a moment, once Krystal's fake sobs had subsided into gentle shudders against his thousand-dollar suit, Jaxon finally turned his head back to me. The warmth that I had once found in his eyes, the fire that I had fallen in love with, was gone. All that remained was a glacier of cold, hard disappointment.

"Alina," he said, his voice low and dangerous, a predator's growl that carried across the cavernous room. "Look at yourself..."

I took an involuntary step back, the strength draining from my legs. It felt as if the floor had dropped out from under me.

"What about me?" I asked, my own voice a raw, broken thing. "I'm telling you the truth. She pushed me..."

Jaxon's brow furrowed, his expression shifting to one of weary impatience, the way one might look at a child throwing a tantrum. "Krystal is shaken. She needs to rest. And you," he said, his eyes raking over me with clinical detachment, "you need to calm down..."

He lifted his hand, a barely perceptible flick of his fingers. From the edges of the crowd, two men in black suits materialized. They moved with an unnerving, silent efficiency, taking up positions on either side of me.

My pupils contracted. I knew what this meant. I knew what he was doing.

"What are you doing?" My voice trembled, the last of my defiance crumbling into fear.

"I'm getting you help," Jaxon said, his tone final, leaving no room for argument. "The doctors at the hospital will know what to do..."

"I'm not sick!" I shrieked, the sound tearing from my throat, raw with desperation. I looked at him, pleading with my eyes, begging him to see me, to truly see me.

But his eyes were on Krystal. And over his shoulder, tucked safely in the circle of his arms, Krystal lifted her head just enough to meet my gaze. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her lips, a look of pure, unadulterated malice.

And in that instant, I understood. This wasn't a misunderstanding. It was an execution.

The guards took my arms. Their grips were like iron, bruising and absolute. There was no point in fighting. I went limp, all the struggle draining out of me. I raised my head and looked at Jaxon one last time.

The man I loved, the man I thought I would spend my life with, looked back at me with nothing but cold, empty ice.

The last ember of hope inside my chest flickered and died, leaving behind nothing but cold ash.

They began to drag me away. The heels of my shoes scraped against the polished marble floor, a shrill, protesting sound that echoed in the dead silence. The guests parted like the Red Sea, their faces a mixture of pity, disgust, and morbid curiosity.

As they pulled me past him, I felt Jaxon move. He leaned in close, his scent-sandalwood and power-filling my senses for the last time. His lips brushed against my ear, his voice a low, venomous whisper meant only for me.

"Alina, stop making a scene."