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