The Betrayed Wife's Spectacular Sweet Revenge

The heavy scent of cedar wood and expensive, dark tobacco rolled out of the open window, cutting straight through the smell of the wet asphalt.

The driver stepped back immediately. He lowered his head, his aggressive posture vanishing into complete submission.

Alia stood in the rain, staring into the dark opening of the window.

"Mitch. Get back in the car," a voice said.

The voice was low. It was gravelly, vibrating with a deep, physical resonance that Alia felt in the center of her chest. It wasn't a request. It was an absolute command.

Mitch turned around and walked back to the driver's seat without a single word.

Alia stepped closer to the window.

A hand reached out of the darkness. The fingers were long and thick. A platinum Patek Philippe watch caught the faint light from the streetlamp.

"Your business card," the man said.

Alia frowned. The rain was dripping into her eyes.

"My insurance card has all my contact information," Alia said, holding up the plastic card. "Your driver can take a photo."

"Your business card," the man repeated. The tone did not change, but the pressure in the air increased, heavy and suffocating.

Alia hesitated. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She reached into her wet coat pocket and pulled out her silver cardholder. She slid a card out.

She reached forward and placed the card into his open palm.

Her cold, wet fingers brushed against his skin.

His skin was burning hot. The contrast was so sharp Alia gasped, jerking her hand back as if she had touched a hot stove.

The man pulled his hand back into the shadows.

"Alia Garner," he read. He spoke her name slowly. He let the syllables roll off his tongue, tasting them.

A shiver violently shook Alia's spine.

"I need your card," Alia demanded, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "For the police report."

A short, dark laugh came from the back seat.

"I don't carry cards," he said. "My lawyers will find you."

The window began to roll up.

At that exact second, a massive fork of lightning ripped across the sky. The flash of white light illuminated the interior of the car for a fraction of a second.

Alia saw his face.

The sharp jawline. The high cheekbones. The eyes that looked like black ice.

It was the face from the photograph.

Dangelo Abbott.

The window sealed shut with a soft click.

Alia stopped breathing. Her lungs paralyzed. The blood drained completely from her face, leaving her skin freezing cold.

The Lincoln's engine roared. The SUV pulled away smoothly, its tires kicking up a spray of dirty water that splashed against Alia's leather boots.

She didn't move. She stood in the middle of the road, staring at the red taillights disappearing into the rain.

He had her card. He knew exactly who she was.

Panic, pure and primal, exploded in her chest. She spun around and ran to her car. She threw herself into the driver's seat and slammed the door. She hit the lock button.

Her hands were shaking so violently she couldn't get the car into gear.

She had just crashed into the man who destroyed her project. And he had taken her name.