Hailey Hogan POV:
Jackson didn't even bother to put on slippers. He charged down the grand spiral staircase barefoot, his silk robe flapping open like a crazed animal breaking out of a cage.
I heard his heavy, frantic footfalls slapping against the marble before I saw him.
He sprinted straight past me and out the front doors, lunging toward the driveway. He reached out into the empty air, trying to grab the back of the garbage truck as it rolled out of the heavy iron gates. He missed completely, his hands grasping nothing but diesel exhaust.
Jackson spun around. His chest heaved, and his eyes were completely bloodshot.
He locked onto me. I was standing calmly in the foyer, adjusting the collar of my trench coat with slow, deliberate movements.
He charged up the steps, his face contorted in absolute rage. He raised his right hand high, his palm open, aiming a strike directly at my face to put the "crazy" woman back in her place.
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch.
Before his hand could even begin its descent, my right arm snapped out.
*Smack.*
The sound of my palm colliding with his cheekbone cracked through the cavernous foyer like a gunshot.
The force of the blow snapped Jackson's head violently to the side. He stumbled back, his bare feet slipping on the polished marble. A thin line of dark blood instantly welled up at the corner of his split lip.
He brought a trembling hand to his face, his eyes wide with utter shock. In five years of marriage, I had never raised my voice, let alone struck him.
I calmly reached into my coat pocket and pulled out an individually wrapped antibacterial wet wipe. I tore the foil open, pulled out the cloth, and began slowly, methodically cleaning my right hand.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" Jackson roared, spitting a drop of blood onto the floor. "That was our entire luggage! Everything for St. Barts!"
I finished wiping my fingers. I balled up the wet wipe and flicked it with pinpoint accuracy. It hit him squarely in the chest.
I looked at him with pure, unadulterated disgust.
"I bought those clothes, Jackson," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register. "I bought the bags. I bought the jewelry. They were bought with my money. Which means I have the absolute right to treat them exactly as what they are. Trash."
Rapid footsteps echoed from the second-floor landing. Amber appeared at the top of the stairs, clutching her sheer silk robe around her waist. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes darted wildly around the empty foyer.
"Where are the bags?" Amber shrieked, her voice pitching into a hysterical whine. "Where are my limited-edition resort dresses?!"
I slowly shifted my gaze to her. I looked at her the way one looks at a rat crawling out of a sewer drain.
"You mean the dresses you charged to Jackson's supplementary card?" I asked, my tone dripping with ice. "The card that draws directly from my personal checking account?"
Amber's face drained of all color. She froze on the bottom step, her eyes darting to Jackson. She quickly scrambled behind his broad back, clutching his arm and putting on a pathetic, trembling act.
Jackson immediately puffed out his chest, wrapping a protective arm around Amber.
"You are acting like an insane, jealous shrew, Hailey!" Jackson yelled, trying to regain his dominant footing.
I let out a short, breathy laugh. The sound was completely hollow, echoing off the high ceilings and wrapping around the two of them like a noose.
Through the open front doors, tires crunched softly against the gravel.
A custom, armored black Maybach glided silently to a halt right at the base of the portico steps.
A man in a sharp black suit stepped out of the driver's seat. He walked around the hood and pulled open the heavy rear door, standing at rigid attention.
Jackson stared at the car. His mouth opened slightly. He had never seen that vehicle in his life. He had no idea I possessed the resources to summon a private driver in the middle of the night.
I reached down and picked up my minimalist black carry-on. I didn't look back at the staircase. I walked straight toward the open doors.
Panic suddenly flashed in Jackson's eyes. The reality of my departure finally pierced his thick skull. He lunged forward, reaching out to grab my forearm. "Hailey, wait—"
A shadow moved.
The bodyguard who had opened the car door stepped forward with terrifying speed. He planted himself directly between Jackson and me. He was built like a brick wall, his cold, dead eyes staring down at Jackson's bare feet and silk robe.
Jackson hit the invisible wall of the bodyguard's aura and stopped dead in his tracks, his hand falling limply to his side.
I paused at the open door of the Maybach. I turned my head slightly, looking over my shoulder. I let my eyes sweep over Jackson and Amber one last time. They looked small. Insignificant. Like ants scurrying on a sidewalk.
I stepped into the spacious, leather-scented rear of the Maybach.
The bodyguard slammed the heavy door shut. The sound was deep, final, and absolute.
The Maybach's engine purred. The car pulled away from the estate, its sleek red taillights slicing through the dark Beverly Hills night like a bleeding wound.
Jackson bolted out the front door, stopping at the edge of the steps. He choked on a lungful of exhaust fumes. With a feral scream, he kicked a priceless Ming dynasty replica vase sitting by the door. It shattered into a thousand pieces.
Amber crept out behind him. She slipped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her eyes gleamed with a hidden, victorious thrill.
"Darling, with her gone, we don't even have a change of clothes for tomorrow's flight."
