Shattered Symphony: The Genius Lady Shines Again

Jacob's voice was terrifyingly calm at the scene of the crash. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the gurney being rushed past us.

He was holding her hand. Not mine.

My right hand was a mangled, swelling mess of flesh, throbbing with blinding agony. Blood soaked my white blouse, turning it a heavy crimson. I tried to show him, whispering that I thought my bones were crushed.

He didn't even blink. He just kept pace with the doctors swarming around Cassandra.

"She has a head injury, Alexia," he said, his voice tight with a panic he never felt for me. "We have to prioritize. You know how fragile she is. We need you to be strong right now."

Because of his "priority," I missed the critical window for surgery.

My fingers, once capable of spanning octaves and dancing through concertos, healed into stiff, alien claws. The grand piano in our living room became a coffin for my dreams.

For three months, I lived as a ghost in my own home.

I watched Jacob comfort Cassandra through her minor headaches while ignoring my ruined nerves. I watched him let her take credit for my music, steal my son's affection, and finally, crush my late mother's locket under her heel with a smile.

When I confronted him, he only checked to see if she had twisted her ankle.

That was the moment the silence broke. I realized I wasn't his partner; I was just collateral damage.

So, when the Vienna Conservatory called offering a position, I didn't ask for his permission.

On the night of their engagement party, while fireworks exploded for them outside, I packed a single suitcase.

I left the signed divorce papers next to his medical negligence report on the counter, unlocked the door, and walked into the night.

I was done waiting for him to choose me.

Chapter 1

Alexia POV

"We need you to understand, Alexia."

Jacob's voice was calm. Terrifyingly, clinically calm.

He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the gurney being rushed past us, the wheels screeching against the linoleum as they headed into the trauma unit.

He was holding her hand. Not mine.

My right hand was throbbing with a pulse of its own, a sick, blinding rhythm of absolute agony. I tried to lift it. I tried to shove the mangled, swelling mess of flesh into his line of sight.

Blood was soaking through the sleeve of my white blouse, turning the silk a heavy, wet crimson.

"Jacob," I whispered. My throat felt like it was full of shattered glass. "My hand. I think it's crushed."

He didn't turn. He didn't blink. He just kept pace with the doctors swarming around Cassandra.

"She has a head injury, Alexia," he said, his voice tight with a panic I had never seen him feel for me. "We have to prioritize. You know how fragile she is. We need you to be strong right now."

Strong.

That word was a trap.