Chapter 4

Joy walked into the lobby of their apartment building. Her entire body felt heavy, like she was walking underwater.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

A limited-edition Aston Martin was parked right outside the glass doors.

Angel stepped out of the driver's side. He walked around the hood and opened the passenger door.

A woman stepped out.

She was wearing a blood-red designer dress that clung to her perfect curves. Her blonde hair was blown out flawlessly. Hillary Warner. Time hadn't touched her; it had only made her more expensive.

Angel grabbed a leather weekender bag from the trunk. Hillary slipped her arm through his. She leaned into him, laughing at something he said. They looked like a king and queen returning to their castle.

Joy's stomach twisted into a violent knot. Bile rose in her throat.

The three of them met in the center of the marble lobby.

The air turned to ice.

Hillary stopped laughing. She looked Joy up and down. Her eyes lingered on Joy's cheap sweater. A slow, mocking smile spread across Hillary's red lips.

"So this is the surrogate wife," Hillary said. Her voice was like honey poured over glass. "She's... plain. I suppose that was the point."

Joy's hands balled into fists at her sides. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She wanted to slap the smug smile off Hillary's face.

Angel didn't even acknowledge the insult. He pulled a thick manila envelope from his jacket pocket and shoved it against Joy's chest.

"The divorce papers," Angel said. His voice echoed in the cavernous lobby. "Sign them. Now."

He held out a heavy gold fountain pen.

Joy looked at the pen. It gleamed under the chandelier light. It looked like a weapon.

She slowly raised her eyes to meet Angel's.

"No," Joy said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried.

Angel's face hardened. He dropped his arm. He stepped closer to her, invading her space. The scent of his cologne mixed with Hillary's heavy perfume made Joy nauseous.

"Don't play games with me," Angel hissed. He grabbed her shoulder. His fingers clamped down hard, digging into her collarbone. "I told you not to make this ugly."

Joy winced, but she didn't step back. She jerked her shoulder, trying to break his grip.

"A legal wife has the right to stay in her husband's home," Joy said, glaring at Hillary.

Hillary rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Have some dignity. He doesn't want you."

"Sign the damn papers!" Angel roared. He grabbed her right wrist, trying to force the pen into her hand.

Joy fought back. She planted her feet and yanked her arm away.

The sudden movement sent them both off balance. Angel lost his temper completely. He didn't just push her; he shoved her away with all his frustrated force.

Joy stumbled backward. Her heels slipped on the polished marble floor. She lost her balance completely and flew backward.

Her right shoulder and the right side of her head slammed violently into the massive marble pillar behind her.

A dull, heavy thud echoed in the lobby.

Pain exploded in Joy's skull. White spots danced in her vision.

She slid down the pillar and collapsed onto the floor. She curled into a tight ball, a sharp, breathless cry escaping her lips as her hands flew up to cradle the throbbing point of impact on her head.

Angel froze.

The anger vanished from his face, replaced instantly by absolute horror. His eyes locked onto the side of her head pressed against the cold marble. He saw the faint, pale line of a scar disappearing into her hairline-a scar he knew intimately. A scar he had put there.

Three years ago. The car crash. The shattered windshield. The glass slicing through the side of her head. The blood soaking his hands.

*Nerve damage,* the doctor had said. *She may never hear out of that ear again.*

Angel's hand, still outstretched from the push, began to tremble. He took a half-step toward her.

"Angel?" Hillary tugged on his sleeve. She looked annoyed. "Come on, she's faking it. Let's go upstairs."

Angel didn't move. He stared at Joy, watching her shoulders shake as she gasped for air on the floor. His Adam's apple bobbed violently.

He looked at his own hand. He looked sick.

Without a word, Angel turned around. He didn't look at Hillary. He walked straight to the elevator and hit the button.

Hillary huffed in frustration and followed him.

The elevator doors closed.

Joy stayed on the floor. The cold marble seeped through her clothes. Her head throbbed from the impact. The sharp pain was real, but through it, a cold, clear thought began to form. She watched him flee not in anger, but in sheer terror.

She could hear the quiet hum of the elevator carrying him away. She could hear the gentle patter of the rain hitting the glass doors outside. Her hearing was perfectly fine.

She slowly lowered her hands. She touched the faint, barely visible scar behind her right ear.

It wasn't just a mark of the past. It was a map of his guilt. And it was her only weapon.