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.