Chapter 2

Josephine Cole POV:

It wasn' t a one-time thing. The realization settled in my bones like a permanent chill. Jax prioritizing Brooklyn had become his new normal.

I remembered the charity auction two months ago. He' d dropped a million dollars on a diamond necklace for her, a bauble she flaunted on social media the next day. Meanwhile, the experimental treatment Kiera' s doctors had recommended, a treatment not fully covered by insurance, was a cost Jax had dismissed as "too risky an investment."

I remembered the land deal in Napa Valley. He' d walked away from a multi-million dollar profit because Brooklyn had casually mentioned she thought the rolling hills would be a perfect place for a vineyard one day, and she didn' t want it spoiled by a commercial development. He' d sacrificed his own company' s bottom line for her whim.

All the little cuts and slights I had ignored, explained away, now lined up like soldiers, pointing their bayonets directly at my heart.

I held a small, private service for Kiera. Just me and a few of her art school friends. We spread her ashes in the rose garden of the local conservatory, her favorite place. The air was sweet with the scent of blooming flowers, a sickening contrast to the bitter taste of grief in my mouth. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from a number I didn't recognize.

It was Jax.

"Jo, I' m so sorry. I just heard. My assistant didn' t tell me. I' m flying back now. We need to talk."

Just heard? My sister had been dead for a week. The news had been a small, tragic footnote in the local paper. He hadn' t heard because he hadn' t been looking. He hadn' t cared enough to check. The apology was a hollow, meaningless gesture, as empty as the promises he' d once made.

He called moments later. I let it ring, but he was persistent. Finally, I answered, my voice devoid of any emotion.

"What do you want, Jax?"

"Jo, baby, I' m so, so sorry about Kiera," he began, his voice thick with a performance of grief. "I can' t imagine what you' re going through."

"You can' t?" I asked, a cold, sharp laugh escaping my lips. "You were the one who diverted the helicopter, Jax. You made your choice."

"It wasn' t like that," he said, his voice instantly defensive. "Brooklyn' s dog, he... he was really sick. It was an emergency."

"He ate chocolate, Jax. My sister was dying." My voice was flat, each word a piece of sharpened ice. "Tell me, in what world is a dog' s stomachache a bigger emergency than a human heart failing?"

He stammered. "It... I didn' t think... Brooklyn was hysterical, she..."

And there it was again. That soft, cloying voice in the background, cooing his name. "Jax, honey, who are you talking to? Is everything okay?"

The sound of her was like gasoline on the embers of my rage.

"I have to go," I said, my voice shaking with fury.

"Jo, wait-"

I hung up. I wouldn' t listen to another second of his lies, not with her voice poisoning the air between us.

My hand went to the drawer in my desk. I pulled out a thick manila envelope. Inside were the divorce papers my lawyer had drawn up months ago, during a fleeting moment of clarity after I' d first suspected his affair. I' d never found the courage to sign them. I' d still loved him then. I' d still had hope.

Hope was a fool' s luxury.

I remembered sitting in his sleek office, the city lights twinkling below, when he' d first presented me with our "marriage license" years ago. He' d said it was a private ceremony, just for us, to keep things simple and out of the public eye while his business was in a delicate phase. I, stupid and trusting, had believed him. I' d signed where he told me to sign, my heart overflowing with love.

Now, my hand was steady as I uncapped a pen. The signature was sharp, angry. A definitive end.

I scanned the signed document and emailed it to my lawyer with a simple message: "File it. Immediately."

A few days later, I drove to the house. The castle he' d built for me. It wasn' t my home anymore. It was just a building filled with ghosts and broken promises. I only went back for one reason: Kiera' s paintings. She had stored her early work in the attic, and I couldn' t bear the thought of it being lost or thrown away.

I parked down the street, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm against my ribs. As I approached on foot, I saw his car, a low-slung, obscenely expensive sports car, parked in the driveway. My stomach twisted.

I slipped in through the back gate, using the key I still had. I just wanted to get Kiera' s things and leave without a confrontation. I crept around the side of the house, my footsteps silent on the manicured lawn.

Through the large glass doors of the living room, I saw them.

Jax had Brooklyn pressed against the wall, his hands tangled in her hair, his mouth devouring hers. It wasn' t a gentle kiss. It was hungry, possessive, brutal. The same way he used to kiss me.

A wave of bile rose in my throat. I ducked behind a large terracotta planter, my body trembling. The sight of them, in my home, in the space where I had mourned my sister, was a violation that went deeper than infidelity.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the image.

When I opened them again, they were walking outside, toward the rose garden Kiera had helped me plant. Jax had his arm around Brooklyn, his posture protective, proprietary.

"It' s a beautiful property," Brooklyn said, her voice carrying on the still air. "But the house is a little dated, don' t you think?"

Jax chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "I was thinking the same thing. We' ll tear it down. Build something new, just for you."

Just for you. The same words he' d once said to me.

Brooklyn giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. "Oh, Jax. You spoil me."

He was going to tear down our home. The home Kiera had loved, where her laughter still echoed in the hallways if I listened hard enough. He was going to erase every last trace of me, of us, of her.

My breath hitched. My only thought was of the paintings in the attic. Kiera' s soul, captured on canvas. I had to get them before he destroyed everything.

In my haste to push myself up from behind the planter, my knee scraped against the rough terracotta. The sound, a soft grating noise, was barely audible.

But it was enough.

A floorboard creaked under my foot. Both their heads snapped in my direction.