Healed By Another: Rejecting The Ruthless Don

I spent a year in a Swiss asylum, swallowing pills to cure a madness that didn't exist.

It turned out the medication was just sugar.

My insanity was a script written by Jaxon Francis, the Don of New York, just so he could marry a Cartel princess without his ward getting in the way.

When I finally escaped and tried to leave him, his new wife staged her own kidnapping and framed me.

Jaxon didn't ask for proof. He didn't look at the evidence.

Instead, he tied a rope around my ankles and dragged me behind a helicopter across the jagged rocks of the Wastelands.

He held his wife close and watched as my skin was flayed and my bones shattered, believing he was executing a traitor.

He left me for dead in the dirt, convinced he had cleansed his empire.

I took the hush money his mother threw at me and vanished, letting Alina Phillips die in that field.

Three years later, I returned to New York as "Echo," the elusive artist the world was obsessing over.

At a charity auction, Jaxon bid one hundred million dollars for a painting of a woman's scarred back, desperate to buy redemption for the ghost he thought he killed.

He chased me into the rain, begging for a second chance, swearing he had destroyed his wife for me.

I looked at the man who once held my heart and simply smiled.

Then I turned to the man standing beside me.

"Jaxon, meet Darwin," I said, linking my arm through his.

"My husband."

Chapter 1

Alina Phillips POV

I stood at the wrought-iron gates of the Swiss asylum, my fingers turning white as I clutched the discharge papers.

I had been ready to fly home. I had been ready to surprise the Don who had promised to protect me.

Instead, the bitter alpine wind slapped my face with the truth: the medication I had swallowed dutifully for a year was nothing but sugar.

My insanity had been a script. And the author was the man I worshipped.

The receptionist had looked at me with a professional sort of pity before slipping the real medical file into my hand.

"You've been sane since the day you arrived, Miss," she had whispered, as if fearing the walls were listening.

My hands trembled as I boarded the plane to New York.

I wasn't shaking from the cold.

I was shaking because the man who swore on my father's fresh grave to keep me safe had locked me away to steal a year of my existence.

Jaxon Francis.

The Don of the Francis Crime Family.

The King of New York.

He was the man who had held me while my father bled out on Italian marble, taking a bullet meant for the King. He was the man who had wiped the splatter from my cheeks and told me I was his responsibility now.

God help me, I had believed him.

I landed at JFK and went straight to The Sanctum.

It was Jaxon's private fortress of glass and steel, a place where the city's darkest deals were sealed over scotch that cost more than an average man's life.

The bouncers knew my face. They looked shocked to see the ghost of the Don's ward, but they didn't dare stop me.

I was the broken canary he was nursing back to health.

Or so everyone thought.

I bypassed the main floor, slipping like a shadow into the service elevator that led to the VIP balcony.

The thrum of heavy bass vibrated through the soles of my shoes, masking the sound of my approach.

Then, I saw him.

Jaxon sat on a crushed velvet sofa, looking like a god of war resting between conquests.

His dark suit was cut sharp against broad shoulders. He held a glass of amber liquid, his eyes scanning the room with that predator's gaze I used to find comforting.

Now, it just looked cold.

His Capos surrounded him, laughing amidst the smoke.

"The merger is solid, Boss," one of them said, leaning in. "The Gomez territory is fully integrated."

Jaxon took a slow sip of his drink.

"It cost enough," he said. His voice was a low rumble that used to make my stomach flip.

"Stashing the girl in the Alps wasn't cheap," the Capo chuckled. "But it bought you a quiet year to settle the marriage."

I froze.

My breath hitched, trapped in a throat suddenly too tight to swallow.

Marriage.

"Krystal is demanding," Jaxon said, swirling the ice in his glass, looking bored. "But her father's distribution routes are worth the headache. Alina would have been a distraction."

Distraction.

I wasn't a person to him. I wasn't the daughter of his most loyal soldier.

I was a loose end.

"Does she know yet?" the Capo asked. "About Mrs. Francis?"

"Alina thinks she's sick," Jaxon drawled, his tone devoid of emotion. "She thinks she needs the clinic. As long as she takes her vitamins, she'll stay right where I put her."

Vitamins.

The bottle in my purse felt heavy as lead.

He knew. He had orchestrated every moment of my terror. He made me question my own mind, made me believe I was broken, just so he could marry a Cartel princess without his ward getting in the way.

I backed away slowly.

My spine hit something solid.

I spun around.

Mrs. Francis stood there.

The Matriarch.

Jaxon's mother looked at me with eyes like polished river stones. She didn't look surprised; she looked prepared.

She reached into her quilted Chanel bag and pulled out a thick envelope.

She held it out to me, a peace offering that felt like a blade.

"You were never meant for this life, Alina," she said, her voice barely a whisper over the pounding music. "You are civilian collateral."

I stared at the envelope.

"What is this?" I asked. My voice sounded foreign, brittle to my own ears.

"Five million dollars," she said clinically. "Consider it severance pay. Go back to Europe. Paint your pictures. Forget the name Francis."

I looked down at the balcony below.

Jaxon was still drinking, completely unaware that his canary had flown the cage.

I took the envelope.

Not because I wanted their blood money.

But because I needed a weapon.

"I will leave," I said, gripping the paper until it crinkled in my fist. "But first, I have a grave to visit."

Alina Phillips POV

I returned to the Estate like a ghost haunting her own life.

The Fortress loomed atop the cliffs overlooking the Hudson, a sprawling expanse of grey stone and imposing iron gates.

It had once been my sanctuary. Now, it was just stone.

I punched the access code into the keypad at the side gate.

The light blinked green. It still worked.

The ease of it felt like a trap.

I moved through the gardens, my eyes instinctively seeking the soft purple of my irises by the fountain.

They were gone.

Rows of pristine white roses stood in their place, stiff, thorny, and flawlessly sterile.

They looked like funeral flowers waiting for a casket.

I entered the main house through the kitchen entrance.

The chatter of the staff died instantly. Silverware clattered against porcelain as they froze.

Their eyes went wide, tracking me as if I were a corpse that had clawed its way out of the grave.

I ignored the heavy silence and ascended the grand staircase, heading straight for the east wing.

My room.

Or what used to be my room.

I pushed the door open and halted.

The walls were no longer a soft, welcoming blue. They had been painted a stark, clinical white.

My easel was gone. My canvases, my paints, the charcoal sketches of my father-everything had been purged.

In their place stood abstract sculptures of twisted, jagged metal.

Cold. Sharp. Soulless.

A polished brass plaque beneath one piece read: Works by Krystal Gomez-Francis.

She hadn't just moved in.

She had erased me.

Bile rose in my throat, hot and acidic. I turned on my heel, needing air, needing to scream until my lungs burned.

I stumbled out the front door, my vision blurring as I ran down the driveway.

The aggressive roar of an engine cut through the air before I saw the car.

A cherry-red sports car careened around the curve of the driveway, tires squealing.

It was moving far too fast.

I froze.

The driver saw me. Through the windshield, our eyes locked.

Dark eyes, lined with heavy makeup, widened with instant recognition.

She didn't brake.

The engine revved. She accelerated.

I threw myself to the side, but the fender clipped my hip with the force of a sledgehammer.

The impact spun me around, slamming me onto the pavement.

My leg twisted beneath me with a sickening, wet crunch.

Pain exploded up my thigh-blinding, white-hot, and absolute.

I screamed.

The car screeched to a halt only a few yards away.

The driver's door flew open.

A woman stepped out. She was beautiful in a terrifying way, vibrant and deadly like a poisonous flower.

Krystal.

She stared at me writhing on the ground, clutching my shattered leg.

She didn't look scared.

She looked annoyed.

Then, the front door of the mansion burst open. Jaxon came running out.

"Alina?" he shouted, his voice rough.

He looked at me, broken on the asphalt, and then at Krystal.

He didn't run to me.

He ran to her.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, grabbing Krystal's shoulders, scanning her for injuries that didn't exist. "Did the brakes fail?"

I gasped for air, the agony making black spots dance across my vision.

"She hit me," I choked out, the words tasting like copper. "Jaxon, she hit me on purpose."

Jaxon turned his gaze to me then.

His eyes were hard, devoid of the warmth I remembered.

"Don't be dramatic, Alina," he said coldly. "It was an accident. Krystal isn't used to the handling of the car yet."

Krystal immediately buried her face in his chest, her shoulders shaking.

"I didn't see her!" she sobbed, the sound shrill and performative. "She just jumped out! Is she crazy? Oh god, Jaxon, you said she was sick."

"I'm not sick," I gritted out through clenched teeth. "Call the police."

The air around us went still.

Jaxon released Krystal and walked over to me.

He crouched down, close enough for me to smell his cologne, but he didn't touch me.

"We do not call the police, Alina," he stated, his voice dropping to the low, dangerous timbre of the Don. "We handle things in the Family."

"She tried to kill me," I whispered, tears leaking from my eyes.

"She is my wife," he said.

The word hung in the air like a guillotine blade, severing the last thread of my hope.

Wife.

He stood up, dusting off his pants, and signaled to his guards waiting by the entrance.

"Take her to the private wing," he ordered, his tone bored. "Get the leg set. And keep her quiet."

He turned his back on me, wrapping a protective arm around Krystal's waist.

"Come inside, tesoro," he cooed softly. "You're shaking."

He guided her toward the house.

He didn't look back.

As the guards lifted me onto the stretcher, ignoring my gasp of pain, I watched the heavy oak door close.

He left me bleeding on the asphalt to comfort the woman who had put me there.

Alina Phillips POV

The private suite reeked of antiseptic and old money.

It was a facility owned by the Family, designed to stitch up bullet holes and keep secrets buried.

My leg was encased in a cast.

My hip was mottled with deep purple bruises.

But the real damage was invisible.

A nurse bustled in, clutching a tablet like a shield.

"Mr. Francis sent clothes," she said, resolutely avoiding my eyes. "He expects you to be ready in an hour."

"Ready for what?" I asked, my voice rasping.

"The Anniversary Gala," she said.

I laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound.

He ran me over, and now he wanted me to attend his party.

It was a power move.

He wanted to show the world that his little ward was back and everything was fine.

He intended to parade his broken toy.

I put on the dress.

It was black.

Fitting.

Jaxon and Krystal picked me up in a limousine that stretched longer than a hearse.

Krystal wore red.

Not just red-a violent, arterial shade. She looked like she had just bathed in blood and reveled in the warmth.

"I'm so glad you could make it, sweetie," she said, patting my hand. Her nails were sharp enough to draw blood.

"Jaxon told me everything about your... condition. We're going to take such good care of you."

I pulled my hand away.

"I'm sure you will," I said.

Jaxon kept his gaze fixed on the passing city. He wouldn't look at me.

The Gala was held in the sprawling gardens of the Estate.

The same gardens where my father used to teach me how to identify birds.

Now it was infested with politicians, judges, and mobsters.

They sipped champagne and toasted to the happy couple.

A giant screen was set up near the fountain.

It started playing a montage.

Jaxon and Krystal in Paris.

Jaxon and Krystal in Milan.

Jaxon and Krystal on their wedding day, three years ago.

While I was locked in a white room in Switzerland, thinking he was working to keep me safe, he was cutting cake with her.

I felt like I couldn't breathe.

I grabbed a glass of water and retreated toward the edge of the garden, near the kennels.

I needed silence.

I needed to not see his smile on that screen.

I heard a low, guttural growl.

I turned.

A Doberman stood there.

It wasn't one of the old guard dogs. I knew those dogs. I raised them.

This one was new.

It wore a diamond-studded collar.

Krystal's dog.

The gate to the kennel was unlatched.

"Easy," I whispered, holding out a trembling hand.

The dog's ears flattened.

It lunged.

I screamed and threw my arm up instinctively.

Teeth sank into my forearm.

\ The pain was sharp and immediate, tearing through muscle and sinew.

I fell back, the dog's weight crushing me into the earth.

"Jaxon!" I screamed.

He was there in seconds.

He ran from the crowd, Krystal right behind him.

He saw the dog on top of me.

He saw the blood.

He pulled his gun.

"No!" Krystal shrieked. "Don't hurt him! He's protecting me!"

Jaxon hesitated.

He had a clear shot at the dog.

But Krystal grabbed his arm.

"He smells her fear," she cried. "She provoked him!"

Jaxon lowered the gun.

He didn't shoot the dog.

He grabbed Krystal and pulled her behind him, shielding her body with his.

He shielded her from the dog that was currently mauling me.

"Get the handler!" Jaxon roared at a guard.

He waited for the handler.

He let the dog chew on my arm for ten more agonizing seconds because he wouldn't risk a ricochet hitting his wife.

The handler finally dragged the beast off me.

My arm was a ruin.

Blood soaked the black dress.

I looked up at Jaxon from the grass.

He was checking Krystal for scratches.

She hadn't even been touched.

He looked at me, his eyes full of panic, but his hands were still gripping her waist.

That was the moment the last piece of my heart shattered.

He didn't just choose her.

He chose her safety over my life.