She never imagined he would take her ambition and her pride and weaponize them—a gift to appease another woman, a blade turned against herself.
Jocelyn's fists twisted into the bedsheets until her knuckles went white. Her voice trembled. "I will never sign that over to you."
Ivor, hearing this, grew eerily calm. A faint smile even tugged at the corner of his mouth—as though her fury were nothing more than a pet baring its teeth.
"You won't sign? That's fine. I was only informing you as a courtesy."
"While you were lying unconscious in this bed, I already lifted your fingerprints. The transfer paperwork for the gallery should be going into effect any minute now."
He leaned in close. A vein pulsed at his temple. "You knew this the day you married me, Jocelyn. When I want something, I get it. Always."
Something detonated inside her skull. Without thinking, she grabbed the glass from the bedside table and hurled it at his face.
Glass shattered with a bright, clean crack. Blood traced a slow line down from Ivor's brow. He didn't flinch. Didn't step back. He let the blood smear across half his vision and advanced on the bed, step by deliberate step.