The Jilted Wife's Dangerous Revenge

The rain in Manhattan didn't fall; it attacked.

Joy Cooke's heels clicked frantically against the marble floor of the exclusive club's lobby. Her silk dress clung to her damp skin, but she couldn't feel the cold. Her chest was tight. Her breathing was shallow.

The private elevator doors slid open. The heavy bass from the club below vibrated through the soles of her shoes, traveling up her legs and settling in her stomach.

Calvin stood outside the VIP suite at the end of the hallway. Angel's assistant was sweating. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand when he saw her.

"He's been unresponsive for ten minutes," Calvin said. His voice shook. "He locked the door."

Joy didn't wait. She pushed past Calvin. Before she could grab the handle, the heavy oak door was suddenly yanked open from the inside. A woman in a barely-there sequined dress stumbled out. Her makeup was smeared, her eyes wide with frantic panic. She shoved past Joy without a single word, her stiletto heels clicking frantically as she bolted toward the emergency exit. Joy watched her flee for a split second before she shoved the heavy door the rest of the way open.

The music from downstairs was muffled here, replaced by a suffocating silence. The air in the room hit her face like a physical blow. It smelled wrong. Sickly sweet. Spilled liquor and something chemical that burned the back of her throat.

Empty bottles littered the expensive rug.

Angel's suit jacket was thrown over the back of a leather sofa. His white dress shirt lay next to it, three buttons violently torn off.

The bathroom door was cracked open.

A sound came from inside. Heavy, ragged breathing. It didn't sound human. It sounded like an animal in pain.

Joy's pulse hammered against her ribs. She stepped forward. Her wet heels made no sound on the thick carpet. She pushed the bathroom door open.

Angel was slumped over the edge of the massive, unfilled bathtub.

His skin was flushed a dark, angry red. Sweat dripped from his jaw, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. His eyes were open, but they weren't looking at her. The pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris.

"Angel," Joy whispered.

He didn't blink. His chest heaved. The heat radiating off his body warmed the cold tiles.

She knelt beside the tub. Her knees hit the hard floor. She reached out and turned on the faucet. Ice-cold water rushed out, hitting the porcelain. She cupped her hands, catching the freezing water, and splashed it onto his face.

"Angel, wake up."

His hand shot out.

His fingers wrapped around her wrist. The grip was bone-crushing. Joy gasped, pain shooting up her arm.

Before she could pull away, he yanked her forward.

Joy lost her balance. She pitched over the edge of the tub. She hit the porcelain hard, her shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. The cold water from the faucet sprayed over her, soaking her instantly.

She scrambled to sit up, but a heavy weight crashed down on top of her.

Angel pinned her to the bottom of the tub. The water pooled around their legs, freezing against her skin. But Angel was burning. His body felt like a furnace pressing into her.

"Angel, stop!" Joy pushed her hands against his chest. It was like pushing against a concrete wall.

He didn't hear her. The drug had completely consumed his mind. He was operating on pure, blind instinct. He needed an outlet for the fire burning in his veins.

He grabbed the collar of her silk dress. He didn't pull it; he tore it. The fabric ripped down the middle, exposing her chest to the cold air.

Joy screamed.

Angel's mouth crashed down on her collarbone. His teeth scraped against her skin. It wasn't a kiss. It was an attack.

"No!" Joy thrashed beneath him. She kicked her legs, splashing the freezing water into his face.

He didn't flinch. He grabbed both of her wrists in one massive hand and pinned them above her head against the cold porcelain. His other hand tangled in her wet hair, forcing her head back.

She opened her mouth to scream for Calvin.

Angel's mouth covered hers. He swallowed her scream. His lips were scalding. His tongue forced its way past her teeth, tasting of whiskey and blood.

Joy's phone slipped from her pocket. It hit the bottom of the tub with a dull thud. The screen lit up under the rising water, then flickered and died.

The water was freezing. His body was boiling. The contrast made her skin crawl.

She fought him. She twisted her hips, she bit his lip, she scratched at his shoulders. But the drug gave him a terrifying, relentless strength. Every time she moved, he just pressed down harder, crushing the breath out of her lungs.

Three years.

Three years of a quiet, sexless marriage on paper. Three years of hiding her feelings, of playing the perfect, invisible wife.

It was all being torn apart in a cold bathtub.

His hands were rough. He shoved her torn dress down her hips. The cold porcelain bit into her bare back.

He didn't look at her face. He didn't say her name. He just took what he needed.

When he finally pushed inside her, Joy stopped fighting.

The pain was a sharp, tearing sensation that stole the air from her lungs. She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears leaked out, mixing with the bathwater pooling around her head.

The heavy bass from the club downstairs thumped in time with the violent thrusts of his body. The music masked the sound of her crying.

She went completely still. She let her mind detach from her body. She stared at the fogged-up mirror on the ceiling, watching the blurred, twisted shapes of their bodies.

It felt like an eternity.

Finally, Angel let out a guttural groan. His body shuddered violently.

All the strength left his muscles at once. He collapsed on top of her, his dead weight pressing her deeper into the cold water. His head dropped into the crook of her neck. His breathing slowed, evening out into a deep, drug-induced sleep.

Joy didn't move.

She lay there, crushed beneath him, staring at the ceiling. The water in the tub was freezing now. Her teeth began to chatter. A sharp, throbbing ache radiated between her thighs.

It was done.

She shoved at his shoulders. He didn't stir. She pushed harder, her muscles screaming in protest, until she managed to roll his heavy body off her. He slumped against the side of the tub, his face pale, completely unconscious.

Joy crawled out of the tub. Her legs shook so violently she almost fell.

She stood in front of the mirror. Her wet hair was plastered to her skull. Her lips were swollen and bleeding. Dark purple bruises were already forming on her wrists and collarbone. Her eyes looked dead.

She bent down and picked up the torn pieces of her dress. She wrapped the ruined silk around her shivering body.

She looked back at Angel. He looked peaceful.

The prenuptial agreement they signed three years ago explicitly stated that the marriage was to remain unconsummated.

That piece of paper was worthless now.

Joy walked out of the bathroom on bare feet. She sat on the leather sofa in the silent VIP room. She pulled her knees to her chest and waited for the sun to come up. She waited for the executioner to wake.

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.

Joy pushed through the revolving glass doors of the Wilcox building. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her chest heaved with every breath.

The receptionist stood up. "Mrs. Wilcox, you can't go up there without an appointment-"

Joy walked right past her. She stepped into the private executive elevator and hit the button for the top floor.

The doors opened to the penthouse office. She marched down the hallway like a woman walking to the gallows. She didn't knock. She shoved the heavy glass doors to Angel's office open.

Angel was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, signing a stack of documents. He wore his suit jacket. He looked up. His jaw instantly tightened.

"Get out," Angel said to his secretary, who was standing beside him.

The secretary scurried out, pulling the doors shut behind her.

The office fell dead silent. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioning.

Joy walked to the desk. She slammed a piece of paper down on the polished wood. It was the printed receipt of the wire transfer.

"Is this what I'm worth to you?" Joy's voice was hoarse. Her throat burned. "One million dollars for three years of my life and a rape in a bathtub?"

Angel slowly put his pen down. He leaned back in his leather chair. His face was a mask of absolute indifference.

"That's the market rate for an inconvenience," Angel said. "Don't get greedy, Joy."

The word 'inconvenience' felt like a physical slap to her face. Her skin burned.

"Why are you doing this?" Joy demanded. Her hands gripped the edge of his desk. Her knuckles turned white. "Why the sudden rush to throw me out?"

Angel stood up. He walked around the desk and went to the floor-to-ceiling window. He looked out over the Manhattan skyline, his hands in his pockets.

"Hillary Warner," Angel said.

The name sucked the oxygen out of the room.

Joy's lungs seized. She couldn't breathe. Hillary Warner. The woman Angel had loved before the trust fund forced him to marry a nobody. The woman who had broken his heart and moved to Paris.

"She's back," Angel said. He didn't turn around. "I need to give her the position she deserves."

Joy's vision blurred. The edges of the room turned black.

"And what about our marriage?" Joy whispered. "What was I?"

Angel finally turned to face her. His eyes were merciless.

"You were a transaction," Angel said. "My grandmother's trust required me to be married by thirty to inherit the voting shares. You needed money for your brother. We made a deal. I don't need the camouflage anymore."

Joy bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. The physical pain grounded her.

She took a deep breath. She straightened her spine.

"Your grandmother loves me," Joy said. Her voice was steady now. Cold.

Angel's eyes darkened. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

"Don't drag the old woman into this," Angel warned. His voice dropped an octave.

"She won't let you divorce me," Joy said. She stepped away from the desk, lifting her chin. "Unless she looks me in the eye and tells me to leave, I am not signing those papers."

Angel crossed the room in three massive strides.

He grabbed her chin. His fingers dug into her jawbone, bruising the skin. He forced her to look up into his furious eyes. The coldness radiating off him made her shiver.

"If you go near my grandmother," Angel sneered, his breath hitting her face, "I will make sure you and your pathetic brother never find a job in this city again. I will ruin you."

Joy's jaw throbbed in his grip. She didn't blink. She stared right back into the eyes of the man she loved.

Suddenly, a phone rang.

It wasn't the office line. It was Angel's personal cell phone in his breast pocket. A custom ringtone.

Angel froze. His grip on her jaw loosened. He pulled the phone out and looked at the screen.

His entire demeanor shifted in a fraction of a second. The rage melted away. His shoulders relaxed.

He answered the call.

"Hillary," Angel said. His voice was soft. Gentle. A voice he had never, not once, used with Joy.

The sound of that gentle tone ripped through Joy's chest like a serrated blade.

Angel turned his back on her. He walked toward the coat rack, listening to the woman on the other end of the line. He grabbed his overcoat.

He didn't even look at Joy as he walked toward the door.

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

"My lawyers will see you tomorrow," Angel said over his shoulder, his voice cold again. "Don't make this ugly, Joy."

He walked out.

Joy stood alone in the massive office. Her legs gave out. She sank to the floor, her back against his mahogany desk, and stared at the empty doorway.