Healed By Another: Rejecting The Ruthless Don

Alina Phillips POV

The humiliation hadn't killed me; it had merely hollowed me out, leaving a cold numbness in its wake.

I was back in my apartment-the safehouse Jaxon had purchased for me years ago.

Once a sanctuary, the walls now pressed in like the bars of a gilded cage.

Jaxon stood in the center of my living room.

He had let himself in, of course. He owned the building, just as he owned everything else in my life.

"It was an oversight," he said, casually pouring himself a drink from my crystal decanter. "Krystal found the sheet music in the piano bench. She didn't know it was yours."

"She put her name on it," I replied, my voice flat. I sat on the floor, methodically packing a suitcase. "She copyrighted it, Jaxon."

"It's done, Alina," Jaxon said, taking a measured sip. "We can't retract it now. It would project weakness. The Gomez family would take offense to the scandal."

"So my life's work is the price of your peace?" I asked.

"I'll pay you for it," he countered. He reached into his jacket, withdrawing a checkbook with insulting ease. "Name your price. I'll double it. But you have to stop this music nonsense. It's causing scenes."

I looked up at him.

Something audible snapped behind my ribs.

It wasn't the fragile fracture of heartbreak. It was the calcification of hatred. Pure, distilled, and venomous.

"Get out," I said.

Jaxon frowned, the checkbook pausing in his hand. "Excuse me?"

"Get out of my house," I repeated, my voice steady. "I don't want your money. I don't want your protection. I'm leaving."

"You aren't going anywhere," he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave to that dangerous, vibrating low. "Tomorrow marks the anniversary of your father's death. You will visit the grave, and then you will return to the clinic."

"I'd rather die," I spat.

He slammed the glass down on the table with enough force to shatter the crystal.

"You are walking a fine line, Alina. You are testing my patience."

His phone rang, cutting through the tension.

He answered it with a sharp jerk of his head.

His face drained of color.

"What?" he barked. "When?"

He listened for a moment, his gaze locking onto mine.

His eyes changed.

The annoyance evaporated, replaced instantly by a lethal, glacial fury.

He ended the call.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"Who?"

"Krystal!" he roared. He kicked the suitcase I had been packing, sending my clothes scattering across the room. "She's gone. Her car was found abandoned. There was a note."

He stalked over to me, grabbing my face and squeezing my jaw until I felt the bruise forming.

"Did you hire someone?" he hissed, his fingers digging into my skin. "Did you use the hush money my mother gave you to put a hit on my wife?"

I tried to wrench away. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Don't lie to me!" he bellowed. "You were the only one who threatened her. You are the only one with a motive."

"I didn't touch her!"

He released me with a violent shove, and my shoulder collided hard with the wall.

"If she has a single scratch on her," he said, leveling a trembling finger at me, "I will forget who your father was."

He stormed out, leaving the air vibrating with his rage.

Two hours later, my door was kicked off its hinges.

Jaxon returned.

He wasn't alone. Two of his enforcers flanked him like shadows.

"We found her," Jaxon said. His voice was devoid of humanity, stripped bare. "Bound in a warehouse in Queens. She said you paid the guards to let you in. She said you laughed at her."

"I've been here!" I screamed, backing away. "Check the cameras!"

"The cameras in the hallway were disabled," he replied coldly. "Convenient."

He nodded to his men.

"Grab her."

I struggled. I fought, clawing at their suits.

But I was a painter, not a soldier.

As they dragged me toward the broken door, a violent cough seized my chest.

A warm, metallic fluid surged up my throat, filling my mouth.

I spat it onto the hardwood.

Blood. Crimson and bright.

My body was failing.

"Jaxon, please," I choked out, the taste of iron heavy on my tongue. "I'm sick."

He looked at the blood splattered on the floor, his expression unmoving.

"You are the rot," he sneered, looking at me with absolute revulsion. "And I am cutting you out."