The Betrayed Wife's Spectacular Sweet Revenge

The windshield wipers thrashed back and forth on the highest speed setting. They barely cleared the sheets of water pouring over the glass. Alia gripped the steering wheel. Her knuckles ached from the pressure. The leather was slippery under her damp palms. The car radio was playing a Bloomberg financial update. The anchor's voice droned on about market fluctuations. Alia slammed her hand against the dashboard, turning the radio off. The silence in the car was worse. It left room for the thoughts. Jerel's hand on Tiffany's stomach. Christy's screaming face. Dangelo Abbott's cold, dead eyes in the photograph. Her chest heaved. She felt like she was suffocating inside the small cabin of the car. She drove down a dark stretch of Park Avenue. The streetlights blurred into long streaks of yellow in the rain. Up ahead, a massive black Lincoln SUV was driving in the center lane. Alia rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. A sharp pain stabbed behind her left eye. Her vision swam for a fraction of a second. She blinked hard to clear it. When her eyes focused, the red brake lights of the Lincoln SUV were glaring directly in her face. The SUV had slammed on its brakes in the middle of the empty avenue. Alia gasped. She stomped her right foot down on the brake pedal with all her strength. The anti-lock brakes engaged. The pedal shuddered violently against her foot. The tires screamed against the wet asphalt, losing traction. The car slid forward. Bang. The impact threw Alia forward. The seatbelt locked, biting hard into her collarbone and snapping her violently back into the seat. Her teeth clicked together. A dull ringing filled her ears. She sat there for three seconds, her hands still gripping the wheel, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow jerks. She checked her arms. No blood. The airbags hadn't deployed. She looked through the rain-streaked windshield. The Lincoln SUV had its hazard lights blinking. Alia unbuckled her seatbelt. She grabbed her insurance card from the glove compartment and her broken umbrella from the passenger seat. She pushed the door open and stepped into the storm. The rain instantly soaked through her pants. She walked toward the front of her car. Her hood was crumpled, pressed hard against the heavy steel bumper of the Lincoln. The driver's side door of the SUV opened. A massive man in a black suit stepped out. He didn't bother with an umbrella. The rain hit his shaved head. He walked toward Alia, his face twisted in anger. "Are you blind?" the man yelled over the sound of the rain. "Do you have any idea what this bumper costs? Your insurance won't cover the paint job." Alia did not flinch. She stood up straight, ignoring the water running down her neck. "New York State traffic law dictates rear-end collisions are the fault of the trailing driver," Alia said loudly, her voice perfectly steady. "I am at fault. Here is my insurance. Take a picture and let me leave." The driver stopped. He looked surprised by her lack of fear. He opened his mouth to yell again. Then, he froze. Alia watched his eyes shift. He looked past her shoulder, staring at the rear passenger window of the Lincoln. Alia turned her head. The heavily tinted, bulletproof glass of the rear window was slowly rolling down. The interior of the car was dark. Alia could only see the faint glow of the dashboard lights. A man was sitting in the back seat. He was entirely in shadow. He held an unlit cigar between his fingers. The air around Alia seemed to drop ten degrees. The hairs on her arms stood up. Her stomach contracted violently. She gripped her insurance card so hard the plastic bent.