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.

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.