The Jilted Wife's Dangerous Revenge

The morning sun sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the VIP suite, hitting Angel's face like a physical strike.

He jolted awake.

His head pounded. A vicious, throbbing ache hammered behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut, pressing his palms against his temples.

He inhaled. The air in the room was thick. It smelled like sweat, spilled liquor, and sex.

Angel opened his eyes.

He was on the leather sofa. He pushed himself up on his elbows. The expensive rug was littered with empty bottles and his discarded suit jacket.

His pupils contracted. His stomach dropped.

He turned his head.

Joy sat in the armchair by the window. She was wrapped in a thick, dark cashmere throw blanket that must have belonged to the club, her own ruined silk dress in a heap on the floor beside her. Her hair was dry, pulled back into a tight knot. She sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on him. They were empty.

Angel's Adam's apple bobbed.

Flashes of the night before hit him like a physical assault. The club. The sweet taste of the drink. The burning in his veins. The cold water of the bathtub. Tearing fabric. Pale skin. A woman crying beneath him.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

He threw the blanket off and stood up. He didn't look at Joy. He couldn't look at her.

He walked straight into the suite's bathroom and slammed the door. The faucet in the tub was still dripping slowly, and the marble floor was slick with water.

He turned the shower on as hot as it would go. He stepped under the spray, letting the scalding water beat down on his shoulders. He grabbed a bar of soap and scrubbed his skin until it turned red. He wanted to wash the memory off his body. He wanted to wash away the loss of control.

Control was everything. And he had lost it completely.

In the suite, Joy listened to the water running.

Her fingernails dug into her palms, breaking the skin. She didn't feel it. She just stared at the closed bathroom door, waiting.

Twenty minutes later, the water stopped.

Angel walked out. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit. His tie was knotted perfectly at his throat. His hair was slicked back. The monster from the bathtub was gone. The ruthless CEO of Wilcox Group was back.

He walked to the table and picked up his watch. He strapped it to his wrist.

"I was drugged last night," Angel said. His voice was flat. Devoid of any emotion.

He finally looked at her. His eyes were like chipped ice. There was no apology in them. There was only the irritation of a man whose schedule had been disrupted.

"I know," Joy said. Her voice was barely a whisper.

Angel pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen a few times.

"Calvin is on his way up," Angel said, his voice clipped. "He will handle the arrangements."

A few minutes later, a quiet knock sounded at the door. Calvin entered, his face pale. He avoided looking at Joy. He carried a small, branded shopping bag.

"Transfer one million to her personal account," Angel ordered, not looking at either of them. "And get her a new phone. Hers is... damaged."

Calvin nodded silently. He opened the bag and placed a new, boxed smartphone on the table next to Joy. He unwrapped it, powered it on, and quickly navigated through the setup. A moment later, he handed it to her. The screen was lit up with a notification from her banking app.

Incoming wire transfer from Wilcox Trust: $1,000,000.00.

Joy stared at the zeroes. They blurred together. A wave of nausea hit her so hard she had to swallow down the bile rising in her throat.

"That's a settlement," Angel said. He pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and lit a cigarette. He took a drag, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. "For the incident."

An incident.

He was calling what happened in that bathtub an incident. He was paying her off like a damaged piece of property.

Joy's chest physically ached. It felt like someone had cracked her ribs open and poured acid on her heart.

"I don't want your money," Joy said. Her voice shook.

Angel ignored her. He walked to the closet near the entrance. She heard the sound of a zipper. He was packing the few things he kept here.

He walked back out, carrying a black leather duffel bag.

"My lawyers will have the divorce papers drawn up," Angel said. He didn't look at her. He set the bag by the door.

The words hit her like a sledgehammer to the skull. The room spun.

"What?" Joy stood up. Her legs were weak. "You can't do that."

Angel stopped. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. He looked at her like she was a stranger trying to pick his pocket.

"Sign them," Angel said. "Pack your things. Be out of the penthouse by tonight."

Joy clutched the new phone. Her thumbs hovered over the screen. She wanted to wire the million dollars back to him. She wanted to throw the phone at his face.

But her thumb froze.

Dustin. Her brother. The gambling debts. The threats.

If she sent the money back, Dustin was dead. Angel knew exactly what he was doing. He knew she was trapped.

She bit down on her lower lip. She tasted copper. She dropped the phone onto the armchair. It bounced off the cushion.

Angel picked up his duffel bag. He opened the suite door. He didn't look back.

"Have a good life, Joy."

The door clicked shut.

The sound echoed in the massive, empty room.

Joy's knees buckled. She collapsed onto the expensive rug. She crawled over to the discarded, ruined dress, her only physical proof of the night's horror. She buried her face in the tattered silk, and opened her mouth and screamed, her body shaking with violent, uncontrollable sobs.