One Weekend with the Billionaire novel Chapter 89

Glass grinds into my knees as I am tugged against the windowsill. Jeff is doing his best to pull himself back up into the apartment, but my grip on him is slipping. My knees are on fire as the glass slices deeper and deeper. I grab the windowsill with my free hand in an attempt to keep myself from flying out into the night air, but the broken glass cuts deep into my palm. Blood coats the window ledge and begins to drip down, red raindrops flying toward Jeff’s face.

He is terrified. No longer drunk, the reality of what is happening has him sobered. He has my wrist and is trying to pull himself back up, but he is too heavy for me to lift. I hear Stringer coming to my aid, but Jeff reaches up with his other hand and grabs hold of me, and I am pulled further out the window. Glass digs into my chest, scraping down my stomach. I see the street below, and terror grabs hold of me even more strongly than my husband. With my last effort, I grab ahold of the window with my other hand as my legs and feet flip out into the night air. I am holding on for dear life as Stringer’s hand comes down on top of mine.

"Julia!" Stringer shouts, wrapping his fingers around my wrist as the broken glass digs in even deeper. I feel the muscles in my hand splitting, being severed by the sharp edges of the glass. "Let go of him!" Stringer shouts at me.

"I can’t!" I yell back. "He won’t let go of me!"

"No!" Jeff shrieks, his voice that of a small child afraid of a monster beneath his bed. "Julia! Save me!"

"I’m trying!" I yell back, but I don’t know what I can do. Beneath Jeff, I see a crowd gathering on the sidewalk. Ant sized people are pointing up at us. My grip on the window fails, and I would fall if Stringer didn’t keep his hands on me. But the blood from my wounds is making his grip slippery. If he lets go, we will both plummet to our deaths.

"Thompson!" Stringer shouts. "Let her go! If you don't let her go, you’ll both die! Do you really want your wife to fall to her death?"

Jeff’s response sends a shiver down my spine. "Yes!" he shouts back. "If I die, she dies! It’s how it is supposed to be, goddamnit! She’s my wife. Pull us both up, Stringer!"

I can’t believe that my own husband wants me dead so badly. If there was anything I could do to free myself from him, I would, but he is tugging on my arm, trying to climb me, and I feel Stringer’s grip continuing to slide on the blood that is now dripping down, red splatters landing on Jeff’s face.

My eyes travel past him to a car parked directly beneath us. It’s so small, it looks like a toy. I am reminded of a photograph I once saw of a woman who had jumped from a tall building and landed on a car, flat on her back, her arms and legs crossed. She looked beautiful. But she was dead, as dead as could be. And that’s what will happen to us if Jeff doesn’t let go.

I need to find a way to get him to safety so that he doesn’t take me down with him. As much as I would like to kick him off of me and watch him plummet to his death for what he’s just said, I can’t do that, not on purpose anyway. If I had both hands, I would be able to hold onto the window. Maybe then, Stringer could pull me in. "Take my leg!" I shout at Jeff. "Grab my leg so I can use both hands!" I dangle my leg closer to him so that he will take it.