Drugged, Jilted, Now A Billionaire's Wife

Estella Holloway POV:

"It's just a picture?" I whispered, my voice a raw, broken thing.

Jasper finally looked at me, really looked at me, kneeling amidst the wreckage of my most precious memory. A flicker of something-guilt, perhaps-crossed his face.

"She didn't do it on purpose, Estella," he said, his tone defensive.

"Didn't she?" I shot back, my gaze locking onto Kimberley. Her eyes, for a split second, held a triumphant gleam before she dissolved into pathetic sobs again.

That was it. The last thread of my control snapped.

I surged to my feet. My hand flew up, the impulse to strike white-hot and immediate. But it stopped, trembling, an inch from her skin. The unspent force of my rage hung in the air between us, more potent than any sound.

"Estella!" Jasper roared, moving instantly to shield her. He grabbed my shoulders, his grip like iron. "Have you lost your mind?"

He shoved me backward. Hard. The same careless, dismissive push from our wedding day. I stumbled, my ankle twisting, and fell heavily, my elbow cracking against the hardwood floor. A searing pain shot up my arm.

"Oh, Jasper, she's hurt!" Kimberley cried, her voice dripping with fake concern. "We should help her."

Jasper hesitated, his eyes fixed on my pained expression. For a moment, I saw the old Jasper, the protector. But it was just a ghost.

Kimberley tugged on his sleeve. "Let me clean her cut," she said softly. "It's the least I can do."

"No," I hissed, trying to scramble away from her. "Don't you touch me."

Kimberley's face crumpled. "I was only trying to help," she whimpered, turning her tear-filled eyes to Jasper.

That was all it took. His face hardened. "'Keep her still,' he commanded the two housemaids who had rushed in at the commotion.

"Sir?" one of them stammered, looking shocked.

"'Just keep her still,' he repeated, his voice leaving no room for argument.

The two women, their faces a mixture of pity and fear, took my arms, their grip firm but hesitant. I struggled, but I was weak, emotionally and physically drained.

"You're being hysterical, Estella," Jasper said, his voice cold. "Kimberley is being kind. You should be grateful."

Kimberley approached me, a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball in her hand. She knelt down, her face close to mine, her sweet perfume making me gag. "This might sting a little," she whispered, a cruel smile playing on her lips that only I could see.

She didn't use the cotton ball. She simply pressed the alcohol-soaked cloth directly and firmly onto the raw scrape on my elbow.

A sharp, searing pain shot up my arm, a fire that stole my breath. It was a calculated, deliberate act of cruelty disguised as care. A scream was trapped in my throat, silent and agonizing. My vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges.

Through a haze of agony, I looked up at Jasper, my eyes begging him for help, for a sliver of the compassion he once had for me.

He just stood there. Watching. His face was a remote, impassive mask.

I saw his jaw clench. He was wavering.

Kimberley saw it too. "Jasper," she choked out, her voice trembling. "It hurts... my chest... I can't breathe..."

Instantly, his attention snapped back to her. "Kimberley," he said, his voice thick with alarm. He scooped her up into his arms as if she were made of glass.

"I'm taking you upstairs," he murmured, carrying her from the room without a single backward glance at me, the woman he had just allowed to be tortured on his study floor.

The maids let go of my arms and scurried away, leaving me alone, collapsed in a heap. The sharp, sterile smell of alcohol filled my lungs, a scent I would now associate with the absolute death of my love for Jasper Sullivan.

My hand, the one with the old scar, lay on the floor near my mother's destroyed photograph. He had gotten that scar protecting me. Now, he stood by and watched as another woman inflicted a new one.

A laugh bubbled up in my throat, a hysterical, broken sound.

I had loved a monster. Or worse, I had loved a weak man who let a monster dictate his actions.

I carefully gathered the pieces of my mother's picture, my fingers still bleeding. "I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered to the smiling, shattered face. "I'm so sorry I chose him over everything."

A few days later, the Sullivan family's annual gala was held. It was a command performance; my attendance was not optional. Jasper insisted Kimberley come along, claiming she was too frightened to be left alone.

The moment we walked in, I felt the whispers start, the pitying and judgmental stares. I was yesterday's news, the jilted bride. Kimberley, clinging to Jasper's arm like a delicate vine, was the tragic, romantic heroine of the hour.

He was disgustingly attentive to her, fetching her champagne, adjusting her shawl, laughing at her vapid jokes. I was left to stand alone in a corner, an awkward ghost at a party that was once supposed to celebrate my place in this family.

A cousin of Jasper's, a woman who had always been jealous of me, sauntered over. "Well, well, Estella," she sneered, looking me up and down. "You're looking a little... discarded. I guess talent and brains aren't enough to keep a man like Jasper, are they?"

I gripped my wine glass, my knuckles white.

Jasper must have overheard. "That's enough, Clara," he said, his voice sharp. But then he immediately turned back to Kimberley. "Are you feeling alright, darling? You look a little pale."

His defense of me was a hollow gesture, immediately negated by his far greater concern for her.

Kimberley gave me a triumphant little smirk over Jasper's shoulder. Then, as she turned to walk towards the grand champagne tower, she took a deliberate, theatrical stumble.

It all happened in slow motion.

Her body arced backward, not away from the tower, but directly into it. Hundreds of crystal flutes, filled with golden champagne, cascaded down in a glittering, deadly waterfall.

Jasper didn't hesitate. He lunged, not towards me, but towards Kimberley, wrapping his body around hers to shield her from the falling glass.

I was left standing directly in the path of destruction.

The wave of champagne hit me first, cold and shocking, soaking my designer gown in an instant. Then came the glass. Shards pattered against me, and I felt the sharp sting of tiny cuts on my bare arms and shoulders. One of the heavier flute stems glanced off my temple, and the world dissolved into a cacophony of shattering glass and the shocked gasps of the crowd.

I stood there, frozen, dripping with champagne and blood, a spectacle of public humiliation. Jasper, having ensured Kimberley was perfectly unharmed, finally turned to look at me. His eyes widened in momentary shock at the pathetic, broken figure I had become.