Chapter 4 No.4

Alina Phillips POV:

Krystal cried in Jaxon's arms, her sobs delicate and theatrical. "I'm so sorry, Jaxon. I wanted to give you a child so badly."

"It's not your fault," he soothed, his voice a low murmur. "We're a team. We're husband and wife. We'll get through this together."

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. A gesture of such gentle intimacy that it felt like a physical blow. I stumbled back, my crutches clattering against the polished floor.

I didn't need to hear any more.

The nurses at the station were whispering as I passed.

"Did you see Mr. Francis? He's so devoted to his wife."

"I know, right? He rushed here in the middle of a board meeting when she called. And the way he looks at her... she's the luckiest woman in the world."

"I heard he threw a lavish party for her birthday last month. Flew in a Michelin-star chef from Paris. And when some reporter tried to ask an invasive question, Jaxon had his press credentials revoked permanently. He's so protective."

I limped back to my room, their words echoing in my ears. This was the man who claimed he didn't love his wife. This was the "temporary contract."

I didn't see Jaxon for the rest of my hospital stay. I only heard about him. I heard how he stayed by Krystal's side day and night. How he patiently massaged her feet when they swelled. How he had her favorite foods from every top restaurant in the city delivered to her room.

The day I was discharged, he was the one who came to pick me up. Krystal was in the passenger seat of his Bentley, a bright, triumphant smile on her face.

"Alina! You're all better!" she chirped, as if she hadn't been the one to put me here. "I'm so glad. You have to come to our anniversary party tonight. It's our three-year! Can you believe it?"

I should have said no. I should have walked away and never looked back. But a dark, self-destructive part of me needed to see it. I needed to witness the full extent of the lie.

"I'd love to," I said, my voice flat.

The party was at their mansion, a sprawling estate that overlooked the city. I stood in a corner, a glass of untouched champagne in my hand, feeling like an intruder.

Then the lights dimmed. A giant screen descended from the ceiling, and a video began to play. A montage of Jaxon and Krystal's life together over the past three years.

There they were, laughing on a yacht in the Mediterranean. Kissing under the Eiffel Tower. Building a snowman in Aspen. All the places he and I had dreamed of going. He was doing it all with her, while I was locked away, fighting for my sanity, believing he was waiting for me.

The room spun. My head felt light. The video ended with a close-up shot of them on their wedding day. He was looking at her, his eyes shining with an emotion I couldn't deny. It was love. Real, undeniable love.

My own love story was their romantic backdrop.

I stumbled out to the garden, gasping for air. The manicured flowerbeds were filled with white roses, Krystal's favorite. My favorite, the wild, purple irises that used to grow here, were gone. Dug up and discarded, just like me.

Suddenly, a low growl came from the shadows. A massive Doberman, its teeth bared, launched itself out of the rose bushes. I screamed and stumbled backward, tripping over the hem of my dress.

Krystal shrieked from the patio. Jaxon was by her side in an instant, pulling her behind him, his body a shield. His first instinct was to protect her.

The dog, seeing its primary target protected, turned its attention to me. It lunged, its jaws clamping down on my arm. Pain, sharp and blinding, shot through me. Blood bloomed on the sleeve of my dress, a grotesque flower against the pale fabric.

The pain in my heart was so much worse.

I remembered telling Jaxon once, years ago, that I was terrified of big dogs after a childhood incident. He had held me and promised he'd never let one near me.

Now, he was watching as his wife's dog tore me apart. His choice was made. It wasn't me.