Chapter 5

Josephine Cole POV:

The world returned in a violent, jarring crash. Metal shrieked against metal. Glass shattered. My body was thrown forward, then slammed back against the seat. My head, already injured, hit something hard-the side window, I think. A supernova of white-hot pain exploded behind my eyes.

For a moment, there was only a ringing in my ears and the smell of deployed airbags and something burning.

My first coherent thought, a stupid, ingrained instinct, was for him.

"Jax?" I croaked, my voice a ragged whisper. "Are you okay?"

From the front seat, I heard a groan. Not his.

"Jax! Baby! My face! Is my face okay?" Brooklyn' s voice, high and panicked.

Then Jax' s voice, thick with terror, but not for me. "Brooklyn! Brooklyn, are you hurt? Talk to me!"

He was unbuckling his seatbelt, scrambling over the center console to get to her. He cradled her face in his hands, his thumbs frantically wiping away a tiny trickle of blood from a small cut on her forehead.

"It' s just a scratch, baby, it' s just a scratch," he murmured, his voice frantic with relief. "You' re okay. You' re beautiful. You' re perfect."

Brooklyn let out a theatrical sob, leaning into his embrace. "I was so scared, Jax."

Pain, sharp and blinding, lanced through my head. I reached up to touch the back of my skull and my fingers came away wet and sticky with blood. A lot of blood. The side of my head had been laid open by the impact. Unlike Brooklyn, I hadn' t been protected by a doting lover. I had been thrown around the backseat like a rag doll.

Jax finally seemed to remember I was there. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second as he took in the blood matting my hair and staining the pristine leather seats. A flicker of something-guilt, maybe-crossed his face.

But it was gone as quickly as it came.

Brooklyn whimpered again, a pathetic little sound, and his attention snapped back to her instantly. His face softened, his entire being focused on her minor injury.

The world outside the shattered windows was a cacophony of sirens and shouting. People were gathering, their faces pale and horrified in the flashing red and blue lights.

Jax fumbled with the mangled passenger door, kicking it open. "Someone help!" he roared to the gathering crowd. "Get her out! She' s hurt!"

He was pointing at Brooklyn.

My vision was starting to blur at the edges. A cold numbness was spreading through my limbs. I tried to call his name again, but my tongue felt thick and heavy in my mouth. My lips formed his name, a silent plea.

Look at me. Please. Help me.

He didn' t.

He carefully, tenderly, gathered Brooklyn into his arms. As he lifted her from the car, his eyes met mine through the space where the windshield used to be. For a single, horrifying moment, I saw his choice in his eyes. He saw me. He saw the blood. He saw that I was seriously injured.

And he turned away.

He carried Brooklyn toward the arriving paramedics, his back to me, leaving me alone in the wreckage.

The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was his broad back, a solid wall between me and any hope of salvation. The last thing I heard was his voice, yelling for help.

For her.

My mind, in its final moments of clarity, dredged up a memory. Years ago, after he' d won a particularly brutal underground fight, I' d been stitching up a cut over his eye. He' d winced, and I' d kissed the wound gently. He' d caught my face in his hands and looked at me with an intensity that stole my breath. "I' ll never let anything happen to you, Jo," he' d vowed. "I' d die before I let anyone hurt you."

The bitter irony was the last thing I tasted before the darkness swallowed me whole.

I woke up to the smell of bleach and the soft, rhythmic beep of a machine. My head was swathed in bandages, and a dull, throbbing ache had settled deep in my skull.

A cheerful-looking nurse was checking my IV drip. "Oh, you' re awake!" she chirped. "You gave us all quite a scare."

She beamed at me. "Your husband is a true hero, you know. The way he rescued that other young lady from the car, and then insisted we take care of you first. He wouldn' t leave your side all night. He must love you very much."

My stomach turned. He' d constructed a narrative, a public performance of the loving, heroic husband.

"He just stepped out to get you some fresh flowers," the nurse continued, gesturing to a vase on the bedside table. It was filled with white lilies.

He knew I hated lilies. They were funereal. Kiera had been allergic to them.

"He' s a hero, alright," I said, my voice dripping with a sarcasm that was lost on the nurse.

"Oh, you have to see this!" she said, pulling out her phone. "It' s all over the news."

She showed me a video clip from a local news station. It showed Jax, his face smudged with dirt, his shirt torn, looking every bit the valiant survivor. The footage, shot by a bystander, showed him kicking open the car door and pulling Brooklyn out. The camera angle was strategic, making it look like he was braving flames to save her. Then, it cut to him directing paramedics toward the backseat, a look of anguish on his face. The voiceover praised the real estate mogul Jax Richards for his bravery in the aftermath of a horrific accident.

There was no mention of the fact that he had left me bleeding in the car. No mention of the fact that his "anguish" was a performance for the cameras that had arrived after he' d already secured his own safety and that of his mistress.

"He even paid to have you moved to our best VIP suite," the nurse gushed, oblivious to the storm raging inside me. "He said nothing was too good for his wife."

I laughed, a dry, brittle sound that turned into a cough. The laugh was for me, for my own stupidity. For ever believing that his grand gestures were a substitute for genuine love.

The love he was showing the world was a lie. A beautifully crafted, expensive lie.

The nurse, finally sensing the charged atmosphere, gave me a nervous smile and quickly excused herself.

The door opened moments later. It was Jax, holding a new, even larger bouquet of lilies. His face was a mask of weary concern. He looked like the worried husband he was pretending to be.

He didn't get the chance to speak.