The Wife He Left To Drown

I took a bullet for my husband, Christian. As his loyal shield, it was my duty, but his only concern as I bled out was for his fragile "sister," Gisselle.

Days later, we were both kidnapped and trapped on a yacht rigged with a bomb. The captors gave Christian a choice: he could only save one of us.

He didn't hesitate.

"Save Gisselle first!" he screamed across the water.

With her safe, he had the audacity to order me, the wife he'd just condemned to die, to save us all.

"Alexandra, the bomb! Disarm it! Now!"

After years of taking blows for him, after secretly losing our child while protecting his interests, this was my value? A disposable tool to be used and discarded.

I stared at the blinking red light, the seconds ticking away. This time, I wouldn't save him. I would let the world believe I was dead, and finally start living for myself.

Chapter 1

Alexandra Manning POV:

The world went silent around me, the kind of ringing silence that happens right after a gunshot. A strange, heavy quiet swallowed the charity gala, thick and suffocating. My body felt like a torn rag doll, warm blood soaking through the silk of my gown, painting the expensive fabric a grotesque crimson. Pressure built in my chest, a dull, insistent ache.

Christian was there, his hands reaching for me. Not gently, not with the tender concern I craved, but with a frantic, almost rough urgency. He didn't lift me; he hefted me, my arm slung over his broad shoulder. His movements were too sharp, too quick. It was less a rescue and more an extraction, as if I were a piece of damaged property he needed to secure. My head lolled against him, the scent of his expensive cologne and my own blood filling my nostrils.

"Get her to the car, now!" he barked, his voice a tight wire.

As he shifted my weight, my eyes flickered to the chaos around us. Crystal chandeliers still sparkled, reflecting the panic in the faces of the socialites. Just before Christian completely obscured my view, my gaze snagged on a familiar figure being ushered away by another guard. Gisselle. Fragile, pale Gisselle, looking utterly terrified. My stomach clenched, not from pain, but from a sickening premonition.

Adrenaline, a loyal companion through countless security threats, pulsed through my veins. It kept me from blacking out completely. Christian' s grip tightened, his focus entirely on moving me, getting me out of sight. He wasn' t looking at my face. He wasn' t checking my pulse. He was just moving.

In the brief moment he paused to shout orders at a bewildered attendant, his hand still clamped around my waist, I wrestled my phone from my clutch. My fingers, surprisingly steady despite the tremors racking my body, flew across the screen. One name. Drew. I pressed call. I didn' t have time for a full conversation. Just a quick, desperate message.

"Yacht. Hanson. Need backup. Now." My voice was a harsh whisper, barely audible even to myself.

The line clicked. A familiar, calm voice, a voice that had always been my anchor, responded instantly. "On my way. Stay strong, Alex."

A tiny, almost imperceptible tremor ran through me. Relief, pure and potent. Drew. Always Drew.

Just as a stretcher appeared, Christian reappeared, his face a mask of grim efficiency. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, swept over me with a detached assessment. He didn't notice the phone I'd just slipped back into my hand. The medical team, a blur of white coats, surrounded me, their questions a muffled drone.

"O-negative," one of them said, a note of alarm in her voice. "She' s O-negative. That' s rare."

A quiet murmur rippled through the small group. I could feel Christian' s gaze on me now, a flicker of something unreadable. Concern? Annoyance? It was always hard to tell with Christian.

"Thank God Mr. Hanson always keeps a supply on hand," another medic piped up, her voice laced with admiration. "So proactive."

A strange, hollow laugh bubbled in my throat. It wasn't a real laugh, more like air escaping from a punctured lung. Christian kept a supply. For me. The thought, a tiny, fragile spark of hope, ignited in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, he did care. Deep down.

My gaze drifted to where Gisselle had been. She was gone now, whisked away, presumably to safety. Christian' s eyes, I noticed, weren't on me. They were scanning the space Gisselle had occupied, a tightness around his mouth that spoke of worry.

Then he spoke, his voice unusually soft, a stark contrast to the clipped commands he usually gave. "It' s for Gisselle. Her blood type."

The words hit me harder than the bullet. The frail spark of hope in my chest sputtered and died, leaving behind only an icy, desolate void. It wasn't for me. It was never for me. My body stiffened, a full-body rigor mortis of emotion. I strained my neck, excruciating pain lancing through my shoulder, to catch a glimpse of where Gisselle had disappeared. Probably wrapped in cashmere, sipping warm tea, Christian' s arms around her. Protected. Always protected.

The memory of Christian' s voice, sharp and demanding, echoed in my mind. "Alexandra, you need to be stronger. More resilient. Gisselle, she's delicate. You understand." And I always had. I was the shield, the one who took the blows. Gisselle was the prized, fragile antique.

A nurse, her face concerned, started an IV drip. The cold liquid snaked its way into my veins, a chilling echo of the coldness that had just settled in my heart. Despair, thick and suffocating, wrapped around me.

Christian, to his credit, stayed by my side for a while. A rare occurrence, a concession. He even held my hand, though his touch was distant, professional. He looked at his watch every few minutes, his jaw tight.

"You need rest, Alexandra," the doctor advised, her voice gentle but firm. "Complete bed rest for at least a week. That bullet grazed a major artery. You're lucky to be alive."

Christian ignored her. He leaned closer, his breath a cool whisper against my ear. "Gisselle is... distressed. She needs to feel secure. Your presence, at the penthouse, at dinner tonight, it will show solidarity. Reassure the press."

My gaze, which had been fixed on the ceiling, slowly drifted to his face. "Solidarity?" My voice was a hoarse croak. "After everything?"

His eyes, cold and unwavering, met mine. "Her reputation is paramount. More important than your... temporary discomfort."

A bitter laugh escaped me. "My temporary discomfort? Christian, I just took a bullet for you. And for her." The words were acid on my tongue. "Is my life less important than Gisselle's public image?"

He didn' t flinch. "You know your role, Alexandra."

My heart, already a frozen lump, shattered into a million icy fragments. "I want a divorce." The words, whispered, held the weight of years of unspoken pain.

His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "Don' t be ridiculous. This isn' t the time for dramatics." His voice was low, laced with a dangerous warning. "Gisselle needs you. Now. I expect you to be ready."

I watched him, my vision blurring. He was still the same Christian. Just as ruthless, just as cold. Just as oblivious to the depth of my pain.

A nurse approached with a small cup of water and a pill. "Just something to help with the pain, Ms. Manning. And please, no alcohol."

I pushed her hand away, my eyes still locked on Christian' s. "It' s fine," I rasped, my voice sounding impossibly tired. I took a deep, shuddering breath. "I'll be ready."

A ghost of a smile, cold and mocking, touched my lips. I reached up, my hand trembling slightly, and adjusted the lapel of his impeccably tailored tuxedo. My touch lingered for a moment, a silent promise. "But Christian," I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet sharp enough to cut, "you really shouldn' t trust anyone who claims to be so fragile."

With that, I pushed myself off the bed, ignoring the fresh wave of pain that ripped through my shoulder. The room spun for a moment, but I forced myself to stand tall. I swayed, but didn' t fall. I would not fall. Not in front of him. I turned my back to Christian, my silk gown sticking uncomfortably to my wound, and walked out of the room, leaving him standing there amidst the sterile white. The gala, the shooting, the hospital room – it was all a blur. My only focus now was the storm brewing inside me, a storm I was about to unleash.

Christian Hanson POV:

A primal fear, cold and sharp, seized my gut the moment Alexandra walked out. Her words, her eyes, her chillingly calm demeanor – they were all wrong. I thought I knew her, knew how she would react. This wasn't it. She was too quiet, too composed. Too dangerous.

"Alexandra!" I called out, pushing past the stunned medical staff. "Wait!"

I caught up to her just as she reached the main entrance of the hospital. Her back was ramrod straight, her head held high. She moved with a strange, unnatural grace, like a porcelain doll wound too tight. She was heading straight for Gisselle, who was being wheeled out by a nurse, her face pale and tear-streaked. Gisselle saw Alexandra, and a whimper escaped her lips.

My blood ran cold. Protect Gisselle. That was the only thought in my head.

"Alexandra, don' t you dare," I growled, my voice raw with warning. My hand shot out, grabbing her arm, but she shrugged it off with surprising force, flinching only slightly at the contact with her injured shoulder.

"Get back inside!" I commanded, my tone brooking no argument.

My personal security detail, sensing the shift in my demeanor, immediately moved to surround Gisselle, forming a protective barrier. Their training kicked in, a silent, efficient machine. But Alexandra wasn' t a threat they understood. She was one of us. Or she had been.

I watched, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, as Alexandra, instead of lunging or shouting, simply reached out and plucked the champagne flute from Gisselle' s trembling hand. She didn' t even glance at Gisselle. Her eyes, devoid of any emotion I could decipher, were on me. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on her lips.

A wave of impotent fury washed over me. She was mocking me. She was playing a game I didn' t understand. I had underestimated her. Again.

She saw it, the flicker of raw, protective instinct in my eyes. The protective instinct that was always reserved for Gisselle. Alexandra laughed then, a low, guttural sound that sent shivers down my spine. It wasn' t a laugh of amusement, but of pure, unadulterated contempt.

She gets it, a voice in my head whispered. She knows you' ll always choose Gisselle. Always.

I watched her, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach. She was a different woman now. The woman who had always been my rock, my shadow, my loyal protector... she was gone. In her place was something sharp, unknown, and terrifying. She had finally seen through my facade, perhaps even through my own self-deception. When pushed to the brink, I would always drop the mask. My true priorities, my true allegiances, were laid bare.

She took a long, slow sip of the champagne, her gaze still locked on mine. The bubbly liquid seemed to burn her throat. She coughed, a small, choked sound, but she didn' t break eye contact.

Then, she turned to the assembled crowd of paparazzi and socialites. Her voice, though still a little hoarse, was clear and cutting. "Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, a wide, unsettling smile splitting her face. "Allow me to introduce Gisselle. My dear... sister." The word hung in the air, dripping with sarcasm. "Christian's little gift to me, for all my hard work."

A ripple of shock went through the crowd. Murmurs erupted, whispers of scandal and speculation. People exchanged uncomfortable glances, their eyes darting from me to Gisselle, then back to Alexandra. I could feel the heat rising in my face. The whispers grew louder, bolder.

"Remember when she saved him from that kidnapping attempt in Monaco?" I heard one socialite whisper. "And the car accident in Aspen? She was always there for Christian."

"It's a family matter," another quickly interjected, pulling her friend away. "Best not to get involved."

But it was too late. The damage was done. Alexandra, seemingly oblivious to the swirling rumors, walked slowly towards Gisselle. Gisselle, her face a mask of confusion and fear, clutched at the nurse's arm. Alexandra reached into her own pocket, pulling out a small, velvet box.

"Here, Gisselle, dear," Alexandra said, her voice cloyingly sweet. She opened the box, revealing the large, emerald-cut diamond ring I had given her on our "engagement" – the one she had thought symbolized our future. A Hanson family heirloom. "A little something to remember this day by. A symbol of... your place here."

Gisselle's eyes widened, a flicker of greedy desire replacing her fear. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she took the ring. She gaped at it, mesmerized.

"Alexandra! What are you doing?!" My voice was a roar, filled with a mixture of anger and humiliation. That ring... it was mine. It was meant to solidify my position.

She turned to me, her eyes flashing. "Why, Christian, shouldn't you be proud? I'm sharing! Aren't I being a good little wife?" She batted her eyelashes, a grotesque parody of Gisselle' s innocent charm. Then, her eyes narrowed. "Or perhaps you don't like it when I decide what to give away?"

The pain in my shoulder, intensified by the unexpected movement, sent a fresh wave of nausea through me. My vision swam. I stumbled backward, clutching at the wall for support.

Christian's hand shot out, grasping my arm again. His grip was firm, almost desperate. "Alexandra, let's go. You need to eat." A flicker of genuine concern, or perhaps just a desire to control the narrative, crossed his face.

I pulled my arm free. "Are you still playing this charade, Christian?" My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "It's exhausting."

Just then, a sharp gasp from Gisselle broke the tense silence. "Christian! My hand! It's bleeding!"

My head snapped towards Gisselle. She was pointing at a tiny scratch on her finger, her face contorted in exaggerated pain. All concern for Alexandra, for the scene she was creating, vanished. "Gisselle! What happened?" I rushed to her side, examining the minuscule wound as if it were a mortal injury.

I gently took her hand, my thumb rubbing soothing circles over her palm. "It's just a scratch, darling. Don't worry." Then, I noticed the elaborate shrimp cocktail on the tray beside her. "You haven't eaten, have you? Here, let me peel this for you." I carefully began to peel a shrimp, my focus entirely on her.

A memory, sharp and unwelcome, pierced through my concentration. Years ago, after I' d been discharged from the hospital with a broken arm after a failed assassination attempt, Alexandra had asked me to peel a shrimp for her. "Christian, my hand is still a little weak," she' d said, a rare plea for tenderness. I' d looked at her, then at the shrimp, then back at her. "You're a security specialist, Alexandra. You can handle a shrimp." The words, cold and dismissive, echoed in my mind.

Now, a knot formed in my throat. My shoulder throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that mirrored the emptiness inside me.

Later that evening, the penthouse was suffocatingly quiet. I sat in the darkened study, a cigarette clutched between my fingers, the cherry a tiny, fierce beacon in the gloom. The smoke, acrid and biting, filled my lungs, a perverse comfort. I heard the door click open.

"Alexandra." Christian's voice, startlingly close, cut through the quiet. He strode in, his eyes narrowed at the smoke curling around me. "What are you doing?" He snatched the cigarette from my hand, crushing it in a crystal ashtray.

I simply raised an eyebrow. "Smoking, Christian. It's what people do when they're... contemplating."

He held out a plate, piled high with food. "You need to eat."

My eyes widened slightly. This was unexpected. A flicker of something, curiosity perhaps, ignited within me. "For me?"

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Gisselle couldn't finish it. Too much for her delicate stomach." He tossed the half-eaten shrimp cocktail onto the table with a thud.

My stomach, which had rumbled with hunger moments before, clenched. The food, once a potential peace offering, now felt like an insult. My appetite vanished.

He then grabbed my pack of cigarettes from the table, along with my lighter. "We're going to quit together," he declared, his voice firm. He strode to the window, opened it, and tossed both out into the Manhattan night without a second thought.

"Quit?" I asked, a bitter smile playing on my lips. "Why the sudden concern for my health, Christian?"

He turned back to me, his eyes softening almost imperceptibly. "It's for Gisselle. She's sensitive to smoke. It affects her breathing."

A fresh wave of pain, sharper than any wound, tore through me. My eyes burned, but I refused to let the tears fall. I remembered years ago, after a particularly brutal mission, I' d started smoking heavily. Christian had noticed. "Alexandra, stop that," he' d ordered. "It's a bad habit." He hadn't cared for my health then. He'd simply disliked the smell. There was no gentle concern, no "we'll quit together." Just an order.

My phone, lying on the desk, vibrated. A new message. A flight confirmation. My escape.

I quickly reached for it, intending to hide the screen. Too late. Christian's eyes had already darted to the phone. "What's that?" he asked, his voice laced with suspicion. His hand reached out.

Alexandra Manning POV:

I quickly pulled my phone away, my heart hammering in my chest. Christian's gaze, sharp and questioning, bore into me. He took a step closer, his hand still outstretched.

"It's nothing," I said, my voice carefully neutral. I needed to distract him, fast. I glanced towards the study door. "Listen," I murmured, a hint of something in my voice that made him turn his head towards the hallway, "Gisselle."

His attention snapped from my phone to the doorway, his posture instantly shifting, all senses on alert. Just then, Gisselle appeared, wrapped in a silken robe, her hair a carefully disheveled mess. Her eyes were wide, brimming with unshed tears.

"Christian," she whimpered, her voice barely a whisper. "My head hurts. And my leg... it's aching so badly." She leaned heavily against the doorframe, feigning a wobble.

Christian was instantly by her side, his earlier suspicion of me completely forgotten. "What's wrong, darling? Are you okay?" His voice, so often cold and commanding, was now laced with tender concern. He wrapped an arm around her, supporting her fragile frame.

I watched, a bitter taste in my mouth. So this was why he'd often been "unavailable," why he'd sometimes vanished for days without a word. He was playing the ever-protective knight to Gisselle's damsel in distress. The realization was a dull thud in my chest. He spent his nights soothing her imagined pains, while I...

My mind drifted back to a night, years ago. A torrential downpour. I had called him, my voice trembling. "Christian, I need you. I'm hurt." I was bleeding, alone, in a ditch by the side of the road after a botched security operation. His voice had been curt. "Alexandra, I'm busy. Handle it. You're strong." I lay there for hours, soaked and in pain, until one of my own men found me.

Even further back, to the worst night of my life. The night I lost our child. I had been rushing to a location, a fake kidnapping designed to trap one of his rivals. I was pregnant then, a secret joy I hadn't yet shared with him. The pain had hit me like a physical blow, searing and sudden. I'd called him, gasping for breath. "Christian, I... something' s wrong. I need to go to the hospital." He had been with Gisselle then, comforting her after some minor social slight. "Alexandra, you know how important this operation is. Don't be dramatic. I need you to focus." The next day, I woke up in a sterile white room, our child gone. He hadn't even noticed my absence until much later. And I, battered and heartbroken, never told him. What was the point? He wouldn't have cared then, and he certainly wouldn't now.

A perverse sense of relief washed over me. Thank God I never told him about the baby. It would only have been another weapon for him to disregard, another piece of my vulnerability he could exploit.

The sight of Christian's gentle touch on Gisselle, his whispered reassurances, was more than I could bear. My stomach churned. I needed to get out. I turned to leave, but before I could take a step, Gisselle let out a theatrical gasp.

"Oh, no!" she cried, her voice laced with panic. She stumbled, her legs buckling beneath her. With a dramatic flourish, she collapsed to the floor right in front of me, clutching her knee. "My leg! Christian, my leg!"

Christian, his face a mask of primal fury, shoved me aside with brutal force. My injured shoulder screamed in protest, a fresh, searing pain ripping through the stitches. I gasped, falling to my knees as the wound tore open, warm blood soaking through my gown again.

"Alexandra!" Christian roared, his eyes blazing with a dangerous light. "What have you done?! How dare you touch her?!" He didn't even spare me a glance, his entire focus on Gisselle, who was now weeping dramatically.

"I didn't touch her," I choked out, my voice raw with pain and indignation. "She fell on purpose! Check the security cameras, Christian!"

Gisselle, still on the floor, managed a weak, saccharine smile through her tears. "Oh, Christian, it's alright. Alexandra probably didn't mean to. She's just... upset." Her words, dripping with false magnanimity, twisted the knife deeper.

"Upset?!" Christian's voice was sharp. "You think kicking her in the leg is being 'upset,' Gisselle?\" He turned his blazing gaze back to me. \"I saw what you did, Alexandra. Don't deny it."

My shoulders slumped. The exhaustion was overwhelming. What was the point? He would never believe me. He had already made up his mind. I looked at the dark stain blooming on my gown, a stark reminder of his indifference.

He then scooped Gisselle into his arms, carrying her as if she were made of spun glass. As he passed me, still kneeling on the floor, his eyes met mine. They were cold, hard, and utterly devoid of anything resembling the man I had once loved.

"Don't even think about leaving this house, Alexandra," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Not until I say so. I'm not finished with you."

The sound of their footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving me alone in the opulent, empty study. The pain in my shoulder was a dull roar now, but the ache in my chest was far worse.

"Ms. Manning!" Mrs. Gable, the kind housekeeper, rushed in, her face etched with concern. "Your shoulder! You're bleeding again! We need to get you to the hospital!"

Just then, my phone rang. I fumbled for it, my fingers clumsy with pain. It was a restricted number. I answered, my heart sinking even further.

"Ms. Manning, it' s about your father. The doctors say his condition is... unstable. He' s asking for you." The clinical voice on the other end delivered the news with chilling detachment.

My father. The man who had sold me, metaphorically and almost literally, to Christian. The man who was the source of so much of my childhood trauma. Just when I thought things couldn' t get worse. "I' ll be there," I said, my voice flat. My plans for escape, for Drew, would have to wait.

The journey to the sanatorium was a blur of pain and simmering rage. The sterile white walls of his room mirrored the coldness of my heart. He lay there, a pale, withered shadow of the man who had once terrified me.

"Alexandra," he wheezed, his eyes flickering open. "You came." A manipulative tear rolled down his cheek. "My daughter. My only family."

"Don't," I snapped, my voice devoid of warmth. "Don't pretend, Father. You never cared."

"But I did! I always did!" he insisted, reaching out a trembling hand. "Your mother... she would have wanted us to be a family."

"Don't you dare mention her name," I hissed, my body trembling with a sudden, violent anger. "You don't deserve to speak of her."

He looked startled, then his eyes narrowed. "You're just like her. Stubborn. Ungrateful." He lunged, a surprising burst of strength in his frail frame. My eyes widened in shock as a glint of metal flashed in his hand. A small, ornate letter opener. He swung it wildly, a desperate, pathetic attack.

I reacted on instinct, years of training kicking in. I deflected his arm, but the sharp blade still sliced across my wrist, a fresh line of pain joining the throbbing ache in my shoulder.

"Get him!" I yelled, as the orderlies rushed in, subduing him with practiced efficiency. A nurse quickly administered a sedative, and he slumped back onto the bed, his eyes rolling back in his head.

My hand dripped blood onto the pristine white floor. The cut was shallow, but the shock of his betrayal, of his desperate attempt to harm me, rattled me to my core. The orderly, seeing my trembling hand, mistook it for fear. "Are you alright, Ms. Manning? He didn't hurt you too badly, did he?"

My gaze fell to the floor, where the letter opener lay. It was silver, intricately carved. I had seen it before. On Christian's desk. It was a gift from me, years ago, a token of my foolish affection. A gift I had given him.

A hollow laugh escaped me. The people closest to you. They always know how to hurt you the most.