Don't Cry Now, My Heartless Ex-Husband

Alexia POV

The doctor pronounced the death of my career with clinical detachment.

He weaponized words like *nerve damage* and *crushed metacarpals*, laying them out between us like surgical tools. He pointed to the light box, showing me X-rays where the delicate architecture of my bones looked like nothing more than crushed gravel.

I didn't cry. Tears were a luxury I couldn't afford. I simply sat on the edge of the hospital bed and stared at the sterile white wall, listening to the silence where the music used to be.

Jacob arrived later.

He swept into the room smelling of expensive cologne, crisp linen, and the cloying sweetness of Cassandra's perfume.

"It's for the best," he said.

He didn't ask how I was. He stood by the window, checking his watch as if my trauma were merely a scheduling conflict.

"The family needs stability right now. Cassandra was... shaken. She has important connections with the suppliers. It was a strategic decision."

"Strategic," I repeated. My voice sounded rusty, like a hinge that hadn't been oiled in years.

"You understand," he said. It wasn't a question; it was a verdict. "You are the Don's wife. You make sacrifices."

Sacrifices.

I looked down at my right hand. It was encased in a heavy cast—a useless, plaster lump.

"We are going home," he said.

Home.

The fortress. The cage.

Weeks blurred into a gray haze. When the cast finally came off, it revealed a scarred, twisted claw where my hand used to be. I practiced with my left hand in the dead of night, the music coming out clumsy and angry. It was the only way I could breathe.

Tonight was the gala. A celebration of a new smuggling route disguised as high society.

I wore black—mourning clothes for a life not yet dead. I ghosted through the periphery of the ballroom, holding a glass of water I had no intention of drinking.

Jacob commanded the center of the room. Cassandra was draped on his arm, wearing a red dress that looked like spilled blood. She was laughing, her head thrown back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat.

She was wearing a diamond necklace that cost more than my mother's entire estate.

"She looks radiant, doesn't she?"

I turned. A cousin of the Bell family—my own blood—stood there. He didn't look at me with pity. He looked at me with the embarrassment one feels for a failed investment, a broken tool.

"Yes," I said, my voice hollow.

Jacob waved me over. The summons was subtle—a slight tilt of the head—but absolute. I walked towards them, and the crowd parted. They looked at my twisted hand. They looked at Cassandra's flawless diamonds.

"Alexia," Jacob said. He smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes; it stopped at his teeth. "Cassandra was just telling us about her ordeal during the ambush."

"It was terrifying," Cassandra said, clinging to Jacob's bicep as if she were fragile. "I thought we were going to die. Thank god Jacob was there."

She looked at me then. Her eyes were bright with a predatory gleam.

"Oh, Alexia," she cooed. "I've been meaning to ask. That brooch you always wear. The old silver one."

My hand flew to my chest instinctively. It was pinned there, hidden under a fold of my dress.

"What about it?" I asked.

"I think it would go perfectly with this dress," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Jacob promised me a gift for... surviving. I want that."

The room went quiet. The air grew thin. This wasn't about jewelry. This was a public execution.

Jacob looked at me. "Give it to her, Alexia."

He said it casually. Like he was asking for the salt.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. This brooch was the last thing my mother gave me before she died—before the Bell family sold me to the Cummings to settle a debt.

"No," I said.

The silence stretched. It became heavy, suffocating.

"Excuse me?" Cassandra laughed, a nervous, tinkling sound that shattered the tension.

"It belonged to my mother," I said, my voice frighteningly steady. "It is not family property. It is mine."

Cassandra's lip trembled. She looked up at Jacob, playing the victim perfectly. She whispered something in Italian—a dialect I wasn't supposed to understand.

*"She is useless now, Jacob. Why do you let her insult me?"*

Jacob's jaw tightened. He looked at me with cold, profound disappointment.

"We will discuss this later," he announced to the room. "Alexia is tired. She is still recovering."

He was dismissing me. Sending the child to her room.

"I am tired," I said, holding his gaze. "I'm going to the monastery tomorrow. For a retreat."

Jacob didn't even look at me. He was already pouring champagne for Cassandra.

"Go," he said, turning his back. "Pray for the family."

I walked away. I felt their eyes on my back. I felt the searing heat of their judgment.

I went to my room and packed a small bag. I took the brooch off my dress and pinned it to the inside of my coat, close to my heart.

I looked at the calendar on the wall.

Today was our anniversary.

Ten years.

And he hadn't even remembered.