The silence in the bedroom was deafening.
Angel stood frozen by the bed. His back was rigid. The muscles in his shoulders were bunched so tight they looked like they might snap.
Joy bent down and picked up the silk robe Hillary had thrown on the floor. Her finger brushed against a shard of glass from the broken lamp. A sharp pain bit into her skin. A drop of dark red blood welled up on her index finger.
She didn't wipe it away. She watched the blood drip onto the hardwood floor.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out with her clean hand. It was a video message from an unknown number.
She opened it.
The screen showed her brother, Dustin. He was tied to a metal chair in a dark room. His face was beaten to a bloody pulp. One of his eyes was swollen shut. He was sobbing, begging the camera for help.
A text message followed immediately: Three days. Two million. Or we send him back in pieces.
Joy's stomach violently cramped. The air rushed out of her lungs.
Two million.
The one million Angel had sent her wasn't enough. If she left this apartment, if she signed those divorce papers, Dustin would die. She needed the Wilcox family resources. She needed to stay.
She locked her phone and shoved it back into her pocket.
She looked up. Angel had turned around. He saw the blood on her hand, but his expression didn't change.
"Pack your bags," Angel said. His voice was terrifyingly calm. "You're leaving. Now."
Joy's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She walked over to the small trash can by the vanity. She held up the box of morning-after pills.
Angel watched her, his eyes narrowing. "What are you doing?"
Joy looked him dead in the eye. She opened the box. She popped the blister pack and dumped the pills directly into the trash can.
Angel's pupils dilated. "Pick those up."
Joy dropped the empty box into the trash.
"I'm not taking them," Joy said. Her voice was steady, but her hands were shaking.
Angel let out a dark, humorless laugh. "Stop acting crazy, Joy. Pick them up."
"I'm not acting," Joy said. She took a step toward him. Her eyes were wild, desperate. "Your grandmother wants a great-grandson. I'm going to give her one. I'm going to have an Wilcox heir."
Angel snapped.
He crossed the room in a blur of motion. His large hand clamped around her throat. He slammed her backward against the wall.
The impact knocked the breath out of her.
Angel leaned in, his face inches from hers. His grip was tight, cutting off her air supply.
"You will never have my child," Angel roared, spit flying from his lips. "I will drag you to a clinic myself. Eat the damn pills!"
Joy clawed at his hand. Her lungs burned. Black spots danced in the corners of her vision.
She smiled. It was a ghastly, broken smile.
"Choke me," Joy gasped out, her voice a wet rasp. "Kill me. Let your grandmother... plan my funeral."
Angel's eyes widened. The absolute madness in her eyes terrified him. His fingers began to tremble.
He violently released her, shoving her away as if she were made of fire.
Joy stumbled forward.
The sudden rush of oxygen hit her brain, mixing with the days of extreme stress, the lack of sleep, and the hidden, raging infection in her body.
A wave of intense, freezing cold washed over her. The room spun violently.
"You are insane," Angel was yelling, pointing a finger at her. "You think a baby will keep you here? You think-"
He stopped.
Joy's face had drained of all color. Her lips were blue. She swayed on her feet, her eyes rolling back into her head.
She collapsed.
She didn't try to catch herself. She fell like a stone, crashing hard onto the floor beside the sofa.
"Joy?" Angel's voice cracked.
He rushed forward and dropped to his knees. He grabbed her shoulder and rolled her over.
Her skin was burning hot. She was completely unresponsive.
"Joy!" Angel shouted, panic finally breaking through his rage. He scooped her limp body into his arms and ran for the door.
