He Broke Me, Another Man Fixed Me

Jackson POV

The funeral was a closed-casket affair.

They told me there wasn't enough left of her to show. Just ash and twisted metal. They handed me a plastic bag containing her wedding ring, scorched black, and the diamond necklace I had bought her to shut her up.

I stood by the grave as the dirt hit the mahogany box. The hollow thud sounded like thunder.

"Don," my Consigliere whispered. "It's time to go."

I didn't move. I couldn't feel my legs. I felt nothing. It was as if the explosion that killed her had hollowed me out, leaving only a shell that looked like Jackson Parks.

Candida was there, of course. She was draped in black, clinging to my arm, dabbing at dry eyes with a lace handkerchief.

"It's a tragedy," she murmured, her voice thick with fake sympathy. "But maybe... maybe it's for the best. She was so unhappy, Jackson. She was unstable."

I yanked my arm away from her. The touch of her skin felt like oil.

"Get in the car," I said. My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else.

"Jackson, honey—"

"Get. In. The. Car."

She flinched at the venom in my tone and hurried away.

The ride back was a blur. I went back to the manor. It was silent. The silence was heavy, oppressive. It screamed her name.

I walked up the stairs, my feet heavy as lead. I went to our bedroom. I threw open her closet doors.

Empty.

Not just the clothes I knew she had burned. Everything. The smell of her was gone. The shelves were bare. It was like she had never existed.

Panic flared in my chest, hot and sudden.

"Elena?" I called out. It was a stupid, desperate sound.

I went to her bedside table. There was a single envelope. No name. Just a blank white envelope.

I tore it open.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. Blank. And a hairpin. A cheap, plastic hairpin with a little pearl on the end. I remembered it. She had worn it on our first date, years ago, before I became the Don, before the blood and the money. She had kept it all this time.

And she had left it behind.

It wasn't a suicide note. It was a rejection letter. She didn't want to take even a memory of me into the afterlife.

"No," I growled. I grabbed a vase from the dresser and hurled it against the wall. It shattered, shards of crystal raining down. "You don't get to leave! You are mine!"

I pulled out my phone. I dialed her number.

*The subscriber you are calling is not available.*

I dialed again. And again. And again.

"Answer me!" I screamed at the device. "Stop hiding! This isn't funny, Elena! Come back!"

I sank to the floor, clutching the hairpin until it dug into my palm. She was just hiding. She had to be. She was punishing me. She wanted me to suffer. Fine. I was suffering.

"I'll find you," I whispered. "I'll drag you back from hell if I have to."

My private line rang. The encrypted one. Only three people had that number.

I answered it, my hand shaking. "What?"

"She's gone, Jackson."

The voice was cool, robotic, synthesized. But I knew the cadence.

"Who is this?"

"She is free," the voice said. "And you... you are just a man standing in a graveyard of his own making."

"Hamilton?" I hissed. "Is that you, you bookworm piece of shit? Where is she?"

"She's out of your reach. Forever."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone. My blood ran cold, then hot, boiling with a rage so pure it nearly blinded me.

She wasn't dead.

She ran.