April snapped her head down.

Her long hair fell forward, shielding her pale, bloodless cheeks. She dug her fingernails into the leather edge of the sofa, trying to anchor herself as her heart hammered violently against her ribs.

Constance noticed her sudden rigidity. She leaned over, shouting over the bass.

"Are you okay? Do you need to throw up?"

April didn't dare look up. She couldn't point to the second floor. She bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

"I'm fine," she lied, her voice shaking. "Just swallowed the cheap champagne wrong. It burns."

The blonde model immediately grabbed a glass, filled it with soda water and ice, and pushed it toward her, eager to redeem himself.

April took the glass with trembling hands. As she brought it to her lips, she used the motion to peek through her eyelashes toward the second floor.

The dark silhouette was gone.

A wave of dizzying relief washed over her. Her tense shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. It was just a hallucination. The strobe lights and her own anxiety playing tricks on her. He was still in Europe. He had to be.

Constance, trying to bring the energy back up, slammed her hand on the table.

"To April's useless husband!" Constance yelled, making the models chuckle. "May the bastard who ghosted you never come back from Europe, so our April can live her best single life!"

April needed to cover up her panic. She forced a laugh, leaning into Constance's joke.

"Yeah," April said loudly, her voice dripping with alcohol-fueled bitterness. "I pray every single night that I get to wear a black dress to his funeral soon."

She held up her fingers, pretending to do math.

"If he drops dead tomorrow, I get to cash out that miserable prenuptial trust fund. I'll be a very rich, very happy widow."

The booth erupted in cheers. The models raised their glasses, toasting to her future billions.

Right as the glasses clinked together, the heavy velvet curtain behind their booth-the one blocking the private staircase from the second floor-was violently ripped open.

Bartholomew stepped out of the shadows.

He brought with him the cold scent of expensive cigars and an aura so suffocating it sucked the oxygen out of the space.

Constance was facing the curtain. The smile on her face died instantly. Her pupils dilated in pure, unadulterated terror.

As the niece who had snuck out to a club she wasn't supposed to be at, Constance's hands spasmed. She crushed the plastic dice she was holding. She stopped breathing.

April was facing away from the curtain. She was still talking, her voice carrying over the music.

"He probably doesn't even have the stamina to walk up a flight of stairs," April mocked, taking another sip of her drink.

Constance shot up from the sofa like she had been electrocuted.

"My stomach hurts! Bathroom! Now!" Constance stuttered, her voice cracking.

Before April could even reach out to stop her, Constance grabbed her Birkin bag and bolted toward the club's back exit, running like the devil himself was chasing her.

April stared at the empty space where her best friend had just been. Confusion knitted her brows. She turned to the models to ask what just happened, but her phone buzzed on the table.

The screen lit up. A text from an unknown, encrypted number. One sentence.

The payout process for the trust fund might take longer than you think, Mrs. Reynolds.

The blood drained from April's face. The phone slipped, almost tumbling out of her sweaty palm.

She whipped her head around in a panic, searching the crowd. The models, thinking she wanted more attention, started sliding closer to her.

A large, masculine hand wearing a Patek Philippe watch reached over her shoulder.

The hand smoothly plucked the half-empty champagne glass right out of her grip.

"The vintage of this garbage doesn't match your net worth," a low, magnetic voice vibrated directly against her ear.

The models froze. The sheer dominance radiating from the man standing behind the sofa made them instinctively scramble backward, leaving a massive empty space around April.

April's neck cracked as she turned her head. Her eyes traveled from the impossibly expensive watch, up the tailored black suit, until she collided with Bartholomew's dead, freezing eyes.

He looked down at her. A cruel, sharp smile played on his lips.

"Have you picked out the black dress for the funeral yet?" he asked softly.

April's throat closed up completely. She opened her mouth to speak, to defend herself, to apologize, but not a single sound came out. She was drowning in pure terror.

Bartholomew didn't break eye contact. He slowly tilted her champagne glass over the ice bucket in front of the models. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he dropped the entire crystal flute into the bucket.

It shattered with a violent, piercing crack.

Bartholomew didn't say another word.

He shot her one final, freezing look out of the corner of his eye, turned his back to her, and started walking toward the private spiral staircase leading to the VIP section.

That single glance held a warning so potent, April's legs felt like they were filled with wet cement. But her body moved on autopilot. She forced herself to stand up, her knees trembling, and followed him.

The male models exchanged confused looks and took a step forward to help her. Instantly, two massive bodyguards in black suits stepped out of the shadows, pinning the models to the floor with murderous glares.

April dragged her stilettos up the dark red carpet of the stairs. Every step felt like a march toward a guillotine.

She stared at the broad, rigid line of Bartholomew's shoulders. Her mind raced, flashing with every terrifying rumor she had heard about his ruthless, bloodthirsty tactics in the corporate world. He destroyed people for fun.

They walked single file down a soundproofed corridor. The heavy bass of the club faded into a suffocating, dead silence.

Bartholomew pushed open the double doors at the end of the hall. The doors were trimmed with gold leaf. The heavy scent of Cuban cigars and aged whiskey hit April's face.

She stopped at the threshold. Her terror was a live thing, clawing at her throat, but years of Poole family training kicked in. Panic was a weakness. She took a deep, jagged breath, locking the fear behind a mask of polite indifference. She would not let him see her break. She stepped inside.

Pierce and Julian were lounging on the leather sofas. When they saw April trailing behind Bartholomew, their conversation died instantly.

Julian pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose. His eyes dragged up and down April's sequined, slightly revealing dress with undisguised disdain.

Pierce let out a low, mocking whistle. "First night back in the States, and you have to go downstairs to wrangle your runaway bride, Barty?"

Bartholomew ignored them. He walked straight to the main armchair, sat down, and crossed his long legs. He pointed a single finger at the empty single sofa across from him.

April's chest burned with humiliation. The way they looked at her like she was a stray dog he had dragged in infuriated her, but she had no power here. She swallowed her pride, walked over, and sat down stiffly.

She needed to break the silence before it crushed her.

"You look... much better than before you left for Europe," April said, her voice sickeningly sweet and entirely fake.

Bartholomew pulled a cigar from a silver case. A waiter materialized instantly to light it. Bartholomew took a slow drag, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. His expression didn't change.

"Does my good health mean your trust fund payout is indefinitely postponed?" he asked, his voice flat.

The temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees. Julian let out a sharp, cruel laugh. April shifted on the leather seat, feeling the prickle of sweat on her back.

"It was just a stupid joke," April pushed out, her voice tight. "The alcohol was talking."

Bartholomew suddenly leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his knees, bringing his face terrifyingly close to hers.

"What is the name of the friend who ran away?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

April's heart stuttered. She bit the inside of her cheek. She couldn't sell Constance out.

"I don't know her well. Just a girl I met tonight," April lied smoothly, keeping her chin up.

A dark, mocking amusement flickered in Bartholomew's eyes. He knew exactly who had run away. His own cowardly niece.

He didn't call out her lie. Instead, he turned his head slightly toward Pierce.

"Go downstairs. Pay the tab for that table of models," Bartholomew ordered.

Pierce raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the show. "Should I leave them a little extra for emotional distress?"

Bartholomew shot him a look so cold it could freeze boiling water. "Reynolds money isn't used to feed trash."

The casual, dismissive way he handled the situation-handling her mess like she was an incompetent child-snapped the last thread of April's patience.

She shot up from the sofa, grabbing her clutch.

"Since the bill is paid, I have no reason to sit here and be insulted," she said, her voice shaking with rage.

She spun on her heels and marched toward the heavy double doors, desperate to escape the suffocating testosterone in the room.

Her fingers brushed the cold metal of the door handle.

"Lock it," Bartholomew's voice rang out behind her, deep and absolute.

The two bodyguards standing outside pulled the doors shut. A heavy, metallic click echoed through the room. The deadbolt slid into place.

April spun around, her chest heaving. She stared into Bartholomew's dark eyes, seeing nothing but pure, unyielding possession. She was trapped in a cage, and he held the only key.

Bartholomew pressed the half-smoked cigar into the crystal ashtray, crushing the cherry until it died.

He stood up. His massive frame seemed to swallow the dim light in the room.

He walked toward April. The soft thud of his leather shoes against the Persian rug sounded like a countdown to her execution.

April shrank back instinctively. Her shoulder blades hit the solid wood of the locked door. She tilted her chin up, glaring at him with wild, defiant eyes.

Bartholomew stopped inches away from her. He looked down at her chest, watching it rise and fall rapidly with her panicked breaths. His eyes darkened.

He didn't yell. He didn't curse. He simply reached into his own pocket and pulled out a set of sleek car keys. He tossed them in his palm once, the metal clicking softly. April's eyes widened—she didn't recognize them. They weren't hers.

"Hey!" April gasped, confused. "Those aren't mine!"

Bartholomew ignored her protest. "They are now," he said flatly. "And I'm keeping them. Your blood alcohol level prohibits you from driving tonight."

He turned his head, giving Pierce and Julian a brief nod of dismissal. Then, he wrapped his large hand around April's waist, his fingers pressing firmly into her side, and physically guided her out of the room as the bodyguards unlocked the doors.

The guards formed a human wall, clearing a path down the hallway. April, completely overpowered, stumbled slightly, forced to match his long strides.

They stepped into the VIP elevator. The doors slid shut, sealing them in a descending metal box. The faint, bitter scent of medicine mixed with his expensive cedarwood cologne filled her lungs.

The elevator pinged open in the underground garage. A jet-black, bulletproof Maybach was idling in the VIP spot. The driver rushed out, pulling the rear door open.

Just as Bartholomew put his hand on April's head to guide her into the car, a voice echoed from the stairwell.

"Hey! Let her go!"

The blonde model from the club came stumbling out of the fire exit, his shirt torn at the collar, his face pale with terror. One of his hands clutched his ribs as if he had been shoved hard. He pointed a trembling, hesitant finger at Bartholomew, his voice shaking. "You... you can't force a woman into a car! I'll... I'll call the cops!"

April squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted the concrete floor to open up and swallow her. The sheer stupidity of this boy was physically painful—but she also noticed how terrified he looked.

Bartholomew stopped. He pulled April behind his back, shielding her completely. He looked at the model the way a man looks at a cockroach.

He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a sleek checkbook. He uncapped a fountain pen, scribbled a string of numbers, ripped the check out, and threw it directly at the model's face.

The paper fluttered to the ground.

"This is enough money to buy that face of yours," Bartholomew said, his voice lethal. "Get out of Manhattan."

The model looked down at the check. He saw the amount. He saw the signature. All the blood drained from his face. His knees buckled. He didn't even pick up the check—he turned and scrambled back into the stairwell, tripping over his own feet, disappearing into the darkness.

April watched, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Part of her was relieved the ridiculous confrontation was over, but a larger, more terrified part saw the casual, brutal way he wielded his wealth. To him, people were just numbers on a check, to be dismissed or destroyed at will. And she was now entirely in his possession.

With the garbage disposed of, Bartholomew turned around. He didn't use a gentle touch this time. He practically shoved April into the spacious backseat of the Maybach and climbed in after her.

The heavy door slammed shut. The driver immediately pressed a button, and the thick, soundproof partition rolled up, sealing the back seat into absolute privacy.

April rubbed her wrist, sliding as far left as the leather seat would allow. She pressed herself against the door, staring warily at the man who had already closed his eyes, resting his head back.

The Maybach glided smoothly out of the garage, merging into the glowing neon arteries of Manhattan. The silence in the car was so thick it felt like water filling her lungs.

After five agonizing minutes, April couldn't take it anymore.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded. "Are we going back to that cold museum you call a house?"

Bartholomew didn't open his eyes. He pressed the intercom button.

"Change the route. Take us to the diner in Hell's Kitchen."

April froze. Her breath hitched. That old, run-down diner was where she used to go at 3 AM during her brutal medical residency rotations. How the hell did he know about that place?

The Maybach pulled up to the curb. The flickering, buzzing neon sign of the diner reflected off the bulletproof glass, looking completely absurd next to a million-dollar car.

Bartholomew stepped out first. He popped open a large black umbrella. He walked around the back of the car and opened her door, the rain drumming heavily against the umbrella fabric.

He held out his large, scarred hand, waiting for her. It was a domineering gesture, yet laced with a strange, eerie chivalry.

April stared at his hand through the curtain of rain. A tiny crack formed in the impenetrable wall of hatred she had built against him.

She took a shaky breath, placed her cold fingers into his warm palm, and let him lead her into the diner that smelled of burnt sugar and cheap coffee.