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.