The Wife He Left To Drown

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.