Chapter 4

Scarlett POV:

The wound in my arm required two dozen stitches, but the wound in my heart was far deeper. Jax's choice, made in front of the entire Texas elite, was a public declaration. I wasn't his priority. I was a duty; she was his heart.

A few weeks later, the humiliation was compounded at the Texas Oil Baron's Annual Charity Ball. It was the social event of the year, a glittering affair where fortunes were pledged and reputations were made. The highlight of the evening was the auction for the naming rights to a new wing of the Houston Children's Hospital. For my family, this wasn't about vanity; it was about legacy. My mother had been a patron of that hospital. Winning was non-negotiable.

I was seated at the head table, my arm in an elegant silk sling, ready to represent the O'Connell name. Just as the auction was about to begin, Daisy-Mae, looking angelic in a pale blue gown, leaned over.

"Oh, Scarlett, you have something on your dress," she whispered, then, with a clumsy "oops," she tipped her glass of red wine directly onto the bodice of my white couture gown.

A collective gasp went through our table. The stain was enormous, a bloody Rorschach test on pristine silk. "I'm so, so sorry!" she cried, dabbing at it uselessly with a napkin.

"I have to go change," I hissed, my face burning. I knew it was deliberate. I stood up and hurried towards the powder room, my exit a walk of shame.

I was gone for less than ten minutes. When I returned, the entire atmosphere of the ballroom had shifted. Daisy-Mae was on the stage, tears streaming down her face as she finished a heart-wrenching story about her tragic, orphaned childhood.

"...and that's why," she sobbed into the microphone, "I want to pledge everything I have, my entire life's savings, to help those children." She announced a modest sum, but her performance earned a wave of sympathetic applause.

Before I could even process what was happening, Jax was striding onto the stage. He took the microphone, his hand resting gently on Daisy-Mae's back.

"Daisy-Mae's generosity is an inspiration," he said, his voice ringing with emotion. "And I want to support that spirit."

He turned to the auctioneer. "On behalf of myself, I pledge one hundred million dollars."

The room exploded. It was a bid that crushed all competition. But it was his next words that stopped my heart.

"And I ask," he continued, looking at Daisy-Mae with a devotion that was a knife in my gut, "that the new wing be named in honor of a true survivor. I want it to be called the Daisy-Mae Braxton Wing."