He Broke Me, Another Man Fixed Me
My husband, the ruthless Don of the Parks family, made his choice.
When his mistress burst in screaming that her son was sick, Jackson didn't hesitate. He left me—his wife who had just been poisoned—pinned against the wall to die, rushing to comfort a child who wasn't even his blood.
That night, "Elena Parks" died in a fiery car crash.
I spent years rebuilding myself in France, hidden by Hamilton Nixon, a man who loved me in the shadows. I finally found peace. I finally felt free.
But Jackson found out the truth. He discovered the boy was another man's son and that his mistress had been drugging him. Instead of letting me go, his grief turned into a terrifying obsession.
He hunted me down, kidnapped me, and dragged me back to the estate that had been my prison.
I woke up tied to our marriage bed with silk ribbons.
"I'm building a garden," he whispered maniacally, stroking my hair as I struggled against the bonds. "Just like you wanted. We're going to be happy."
He thought kidnapping was a grand romantic gesture. He thought he could erase the abuse with a fresh coat of paint and forced proximity.
But he underestimated me. And he underestimated Hamilton.
After a violent rescue, I rose from the ashes not as his wife, but as a titan of industry.
Six months later, Jackson stormed the stage at my global summit. He knelt before me on live television, holding a ten-carat pink diamond, thinking he could buy my forgiveness.
"I'm ready to take you back," he announced to the world.
I looked at the man who had destroyed me, then at Hamilton, the man who had saved me.
I grabbed Hamilton's lapels and kissed him in front of millions.
"There is no 'us', Jackson," I told him into the microphone, watching his world shatter. "You are just haunting a graveyard."
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Chapter 2
Elena POV
I spent the next morning erasing myself.
It wasn't just about packing; it was a ritualistic cleansing. I took the photo albums—the ones from our honeymoon in Capri, the glossy spreads from Christmas two years ago—and fed them to the fireplace in my sitting room.
I watched the paper curl and blister. Jackson’s smiling face bubbled, melting into a distorted, black grimace before crumbling into gray ash.
I kept nothing. No jewelry, no clothes, no mementos.
All I had left was a small, waterproof bag containing the encrypted satellite phone Hamilton had smuggled to me, along with a change of nondescript clothes hidden beneath the loose floorboards of my closet.
The door clicked open.
Jackson walked in. He stopped immediately, sniffing the air. The acrid scent of burning paper and gloss still hung heavy in the room.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his eyes scanning the stark emptiness of the space.
"Cleaning," I said, refusing to look at him. "The clutter was giving me a migraine."
He crossed the distance in two strides, grabbing my arm and spinning me around. "You're planning something. I can feel it."
"I'm planning to survive, Jackson. Is that allowed?"
He glared at me, his grip tightening to a bruise. "You are my wife. You are my property. You don't get to plan anything without my permission. Do you understand? You belong to me."
In his twisted mind, the words were likely meant to be romantic—a declaration of absolute devotion. To me, they sounded like the closing of a cell door.
"I won't love you anymore," I said softly.
His eyes widened.
"Not today. Not tomorrow. Never again."
His face contorted, a dangerous cocktail of rage and rising panic. He shoved me back against the wall, his forearm pressing against my throat, pinning me in place.
"You don't have a choice! I own you! I bought you with blood!"
"Don!"
The shout tore from the hallway.
Candida burst in, her face flushed, theatrical tears streaming down her cheeks.
"It's Joey! He's burning up! He's having a seizure!"
Jackson froze. The rage in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by pure, unadulterated fear. He pulled away from me as if I were the one on fire.
"Joey?"
"Yes! Come now!" Candida grabbed his hand, frantic.
He didn't even look back at me. He didn't hesitate.
He ran. He bolted toward the son who wasn't even his blood, toward the woman who was actively destroying him.
He left me pinned against the wall, gasping for air.
I slid down to the floor, a laugh bubbling up in my throat. It was a hysterical, broken sound.
*He chose.*
That evening, a maid brought me dinner. She wouldn't meet my eyes as she set the tray down and hurried out.
It was a simple stew. I was starving, my body weak from the adrenaline crash. I lifted the spoon and took a mouthful.
It tasted wrong.
Underneath the savory mask of rosemary and thyme, there was a metallic bitterness. Sharp. Chemical.
I spat it out into the napkin, my heart hammering a violent rhythm against my ribs.
I stared at the bowl. Then, I remembered Candida’s smile in the hallway.
*She’s trying to kill me.*
It made perfect sense. Jackson was wavering. As long as I was alive, I was a threat to her position. If I died of "natural causes" or "suicide" in my grief, she won everything.
My vision blurred. The room tilted on its axis.
Even the small amount I had tasted—absorbed through my tongue—was already affecting me. My lips went numb.
I crawled toward the closet. My limbs felt heavy, like they were filled with lead. I clawed at the loose floorboard, my nails breaking against the wood as I dragged out the satellite phone.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hit the buttons.
*SOS.*
*Send.*
Darkness crept in from the edges of my vision, tunneling my sight. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.
I collapsed onto the rug, the phone slipping from my numb fingers.
The last thing I saw was the fire dying in the hearth, the embers fading into cold, gray ash.
Just like us.