The Unwanted Wife's Ultimate Escape

Three days later.

The evening sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Tribeca penthouse. It painted the white walls a violent shade of red.

The front door opened.

Blackburn walked in. He smelled like Florida sunshine and expensive cologne.

He tossed his car keys onto the console table. He pulled at his tie, loosening it. He looked tired.

Blair sat perfectly still on the white sofa.

On the marble coffee table in front of her sat a thin manila folder.

Blackburn walked toward the kitchen. He stopped when he saw her. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. His eyes dropped to the table.

Blair leaned forward. She placed her fingers on the folder. She pushed it across the smooth marble until it stopped at the edge, right in front of him.

Blackburn looked down.

The title was printed in bold, black ink. Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

He stared at the words.

Then, he laughed.

It was a cold, harsh sound. It held zero amusement.

He thought she was playing a game. He thought she was throwing a tantrum because he didn't give her the money to save her bankrupt family.

He reached down and picked up the papers.

He gripped the top of the stack. He pulled his hands apart.

The sound of thick paper tearing echoed in the quiet room.

He ripped the contract in half. Then he ripped it again.

He tossed the shredded pieces into the metal trash can next to the desk.

He placed both hands flat on the marble table. He leaned over it. He looked down at her.

"Stop this," he warned. His voice was dangerously low. "My patience is gone. I don't have time for your pathetic games."

Blair didn't flinch.

She stood up. She was shorter than him, but she didn't back away. She looked straight into his dark, angry eyes.

"I am not playing a game," she said. She enunciated every word. "I want a divorce."

Blackburn's jaw clenched. The muscle in his cheek ticked.

A flash of shock crossed his eyes, instantly replaced by a raging fire.

His ego was bleeding. His absolute authority was being challenged by the woman he owned.

He stepped around the table. He moved too fast for her to react.

His large hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around her right wrist like an iron vice.

He yanked her forward.

Blair stumbled. Her chest crashed against his hard torso.

"You crawled into my bed for money," he spat. His breath was hot against her face. "And now that your family is ruined, you think you can threaten me for a bigger payout?"

Blair twisted her arm. "Let me go!"

He tightened his grip. He wrapped his other arm around her waist, trapping her against him.

He pushed her backward. The back of her knees hit the sofa. She fell onto the cushions, and he followed her down, pinning her in place.

He lowered his head. He aimed for her mouth. It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was a violent assertion of ownership.

Blair turned her face away. His lips scraped hard against her cheek.

She panicked. She thrashed her arms wildly.

Her left hand swept across the coffee table.

Her elbow slammed into the heavy crystal vase.

The vase tipped over. It rolled off the edge of the marble.

It hit the hardwood floor and exploded.

The crash was deafening.

A large, jagged shard of crystal bounced up. It sliced straight across the fleshy part of Blair's left forearm, narrowly missing the crucial tendons of her wrist.

The pain was sharp and immediate.

Bright red blood welled up instantly. It dripped down her pale skin.

It fell onto the pristine white Persian rug.

Drip. Drip.

The red stains bloomed like dark roses on the white wool.