Burning His Empire For My Sister

Josephine Cole POV:

My hand shot out, swiping the vase of lilies off the bedside table. It shattered on the floor, water and broken glass spraying across the polished tiles.

"Get out," I rasped, my voice raw.

Jax froze, the new bouquet still in his hands. "Jo…"

"I said, get out!" I screamed, the sound tearing at my throat.

He slowly bent down, his brow furrowed, and began picking up the larger shards of glass. A sharp edge sliced his finger. A drop of red blood welled up on his skin. He stared at it for a moment, as if surprised.

I watched him, my heart a cold, dead stone in my chest. A year ago, I would have rushed to his side, would have cleaned the cut, bandaged his hand, kissed it better. Now, I felt nothing. Less than nothing. A complete and utter void.

His lack of a reaction from me seemed to unnerve him more than my screaming. He looked up, his eyes searching my face for a flicker of the old Josephine, the one who cared. He found nothing.

"Jo, we need to talk," he said, abandoning the broken glass and stepping closer to the bed. "The crash… it wasn' t my fault. The other driver ran a red light."

"I don' t care about the crash," I said, my voice flat.

"I know you' re upset about Brooklyn," he continued, steamrolling over me. "I was going to end it. I swear. It was just… a stupid mistake."

He tried to excuse his actions in the car. "Brooklyn was in the front, the impact was worse for her. She was screaming. I panicked. But I came back for you, Jo. I told them to help you."

He was spinning a new narrative, one where he was just a man who had made a logical choice in a moment of panic. He pulled a small box of macarons from his jacket pocket-my favorite, from the little bakery near our first apartment. He offered them to me, a pathetic peace offering.

"I brought you these," he said, his voice soft, coaxing.

I slapped his hand away. The box flew through the air, scattering the brightly colored pastries across the floor, where they lay like fallen jewels among the broken glass.

"Get. Out." Each word was a shard of ice.

The flicker of guilt in his eyes vanished, replaced by a familiar spark of anger. His patience, always thin, had run out. The performance was over.

"Fine," he snarled. "You want to be this way? Fine. But don' t forget who' s paying for this VIP suite, Josephine. Don' t forget who paid for every single one of Kiera' s medical bills for the last five years."

My blood ran cold. He was using my dead sister, using my grief, to threaten me. To control me.

"Get. Out." My voice didn' t waver.

He stared at me for a long, hard moment, his jaw tight. Then he turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shuddered.

The moment the door closed, the strength I had been feigning deserted me. I collapsed back against the pillows, and the sobs I had been holding back finally broke free. I cried for Kiera. I cried for the woman I used to be. I cried for the love I had thought was real, a love that had turned out to be nothing more than a cruel and elaborate lie.

For the next two weeks, Jax played the part of the devoted husband for the hospital staff. He came every day, bringing flowers I hated and food I wouldn' t eat. And every day, I threw him out.

Our arguments grew more heated, his frustration mounting with each rejection. The nurses and doctors would watch with pitying eyes, whispering about the poor, heroic Mr. Richards and his ungrateful, hysterical wife. They didn' t see the man who threatened me with medical bills in private. They only saw the public performance.

I marked the days off on a mental calendar, counting down the seconds until I could leave. Until I could disappear.

On the day of my discharge, as I was packing my small bag, the door to my room opened. It wasn' t Jax.

It was Brooklyn.

She sauntered in, looking immaculate in a tight-fitting dress, her face perfectly made up. She looked me up and down, a smug smile playing on her lips.

"Wow," she said, her voice dripping with fake pity. "You look terrible. The accident really did a number on you."

She ran a hand through her perfect blonde hair. "But then again, you never were much to look at. I could never understand what Jax saw in you. You' re so… plain."

She walked closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, I can make him do anything I want. Anything. He bought me a penthouse last week. He' s taking me to Paris for my birthday. And the things he does for me in bed… well, you can probably imagine."

She leaned in, her perfume cloying and suffocating. "He loves me, Josephine. He was just with you out of habit. Pity, maybe."

From her designer handbag, she pulled out a small, tarnished silver locket. My blood froze. It was the locket my grandmother had given me, the one Brooklyn had stolen from my gym locker in tenth grade. The one I had cried over for weeks.

"Remember this?" she purred, dangling it in front of my face. "I' ve kept it all these years. A little reminder of how easy it is to take things from you."

My body began to tremble, the old, familiar terror wrapping its icy fingers around my heart. The room felt small, the air thin. The nightmares I thought I had buried were clawing their way back to the surface.

My eyes darted around the room, desperately looking for an escape. They landed on the fruit basket Jax had left, and the small, sharp knife nestled beside a pear.