April stomped down the hallway, her chest tight with a suffocating mix of anger and jealousy.

She reached the guest room at the end of the hall. She grabbed the handle and pushed. It didn't budge.

Frowning, she noticed the electronic keypad on the door. She punched in the standard default codes-0000, 1234. The screen flashed a harsh red light, beeping loudly. Access Denied.

She gripped the handle with both hands, rattling it in frustration.

Just as she was about to march back to the study and scream at him, the heavy oak door of the master bedroom down the hall clicked open.

Bartholomew stepped out.

He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose, black silk pajama pants. He held a glass of water in one hand. Damp hair fell across his forehead, and droplets of water still clung to his broad chest.

April's eyes inevitably landed on his bare torso. She froze. The breath was knocked out of her lungs.

Running directly down the center of his muscular left chest, right over his heart, was a massive, jagged surgical scar. It was a violent, angry red line, at least six inches long, looking like a grotesque centipede crawling over a marble statue.

It was a brutal, physical testament to a body that had been ripped open.

April's jealousy vanished instantly, replaced by the sharp, clinical instincts of an internal medicine doctor. Her eyes darted over the scar tissue.

She knew exactly what that was. That was the entry point for a major open-heart surgery. And based on the healing of the tissue, it was fresh. Less than a year old.

One year ago. The exact time he abandoned her the day after their wedding and flew to Europe.

April's hands flew to cover her mouth. Her eyes widened in pure horror.

"What... what happened to you?" she whispered, her voice trembling violently.

Bartholomew didn't try to cover himself. He took a sip of his water, his face completely impassive. He grabbed a towel draped over his shoulder and casually dried his hair.

"A genetic heart condition," he said, the words cold and detached. "The doctors in Switzerland fixed it."

The words hit April like a freight train.

He wasn't partying in Europe. He wasn't running away from her because she disgusted him. He was lying on an operating table, his chest sawed open, fighting for his life.

A wave of nausea and crushing guilt washed over her. Just a few hours ago at the club, she had been laughing, praying for his death so she could collect his money. She felt like a monster.

Bartholomew walked slowly toward her. He stopped right in front of her, looking down at her pale, stricken face. A dark, self-mocking smile touched his lips.

He reached out. His damp fingers gently tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

"Are you disappointed?" he murmured, his thumb brushing against her jawline. "I didn't die. I came back with a brand new heart."

April shook her head frantically. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Her medical empathy overpowered every defense she had.

Bartholomew dropped his hand. He pointed toward the open door of the master bedroom.

"The security system on the guest room is malfunctioning," he lied smoothly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You're sleeping in the master bedroom tonight."

If he had said this ten minutes ago, April would have fought him tooth and nail. But looking at the angry red scar over his heart, all the fight drained out of her.

She lowered her head like a reprimanded child and silently followed him into the massive master suite.

The room was dominated by a colossal King Size bed. The dark grey sheets smelled of his cedarwood cologne.

Bartholomew walked to the left side of the bed, pulled back the covers, and lay down, turning his back to her. He left more than half the bed empty.

April stood awkwardly near the door. She bit her lip, then slowly crept toward the right side of the bed. She climbed in, moving with agonizing slowness to avoid making a sound.

They were miles apart on the mattress, but this was the first time in their entire marriage they were sharing a bed.

The lights automatically dimmed to pitch black. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic sound of their breathing.

April lay flat on her back, stiff as a board. Her mind was a chaotic mess, bouncing between the paper airplane and the brutal scar on his chest.

She shifted slightly, the sheets rustling.

"If you toss and turn one more time," Bartholomew's gravelly voice drifted through the darkness, "I can't guarantee we'll just be sleeping."

April gasped softly, instantly freezing her body. She didn't dare move a single muscle.

In the dark, Bartholomew slowly opened his eyes. Listening to her breathing finally steady out, a triumphant, predatory smirk spread across his face.

The late afternoon sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse walk-in closet.

April stood in front of the full-length mirror, her fingers trembling slightly as she tried to fasten a heavy, blindingly bright diamond earring. She was using the jewelry as armor, trying to mask the knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach. Tonight was the Poole family dinner.

Bartholomew walked into the closet. He was wearing a bespoke, midnight-black suit that fit his broad shoulders flawlessly.

He saw her struggling with the clasp of her diamond necklace. Without a word, he stepped behind her and took the cold metal from her hands.

He lowered his head. His warm breath fanned across the sensitive skin of her nape. His large, calloused fingers deftly secured the clasp, intentionally letting his knuckles drag against her bare skin.

April flinched as if she had been burned. She met his dark gaze in the mirror, her heart doing a violent flip. She quickly looked away. "Thank you," she muttered.

They rode the elevator down to the garage. The bulletproof Maybach was waiting.

The moment they slid into the backseat and the privacy partition rolled up, the tense, quiet atmosphere vanished. It was a war room now.

Bartholomew opened an iPad resting on his lap. He pulled up a detailed dossier.

"Gregory will use the excuse of celebrating my recovery to force the port tariff reduction proposal at the dinner table," Bartholomew said, his voice cold and analytical.

April let out a bitter laugh. "And my stepmother, Lorraine, will put on her 'loving mother' act to guilt-trip me into agreeing."

Bartholomew turned his head, his eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity. "How far do you want to go tonight?"

April didn't hesitate. "I want to rip their fake masks off. I don't want them getting a single cent from Reynolds Group."

Bartholomew's lips curved into a dangerous smile. He closed the iPad.

"Good. But just in case things get out of hand, we need a safe word." He looked down at her legs. "If they back you into a corner you can't handle, kick my left shin twice under the table. I will physically remove you from the house."

A strange, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in April's chest. No one had ever offered to protect her like this. But her pride made her lift her chin. "I can handle them."

The Maybach cruised down the tree-lined avenues of the Upper East Side, surrounded by century-old townhouses.

Suddenly, Bartholomew reached across the center console. His large hand clamped down over April's cold, nervous fingers.

April gasped, trying to yank her hand back, but he intertwined their fingers, locking her in a grip that was firm but not painful.

"We are playing a happily married couple," he said, staring straight ahead. "Start getting used to the physical contact."

April gave up struggling. She let her hand rest in his, feeling the rough calluses on his palm and the steady, grounding heat radiating from his skin.

The car pulled up to the extravagant French-style townhouse of the Poole family. The butler was already waiting by the door.

Bartholomew stepped out first. He turned and offered his hand to April, playing the role of the devoted husband to perfection.

From the corner of his eye, Bartholomew spotted the flash of a paparazzi camera hidden in the bushes. He didn't flinch. He wanted the world to see that April belonged to him.

April took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and looped her arm through his.

The heavy front doors swung open. Lorraine, dripping in gaudy jewelry, rushed forward with a sickeningly sweet smile.

Lorraine opened her arms to hug April, but Bartholomew smoothly shifted his body, blocking Lorraine completely. He offered a stiff, formal handshake instead.

Lorraine's smile cracked for a second before she awkwardly shook his hand and ushered them inside.

In the living room, April's stepsister, Sloane, was lounging on the sofa, posing with a limited-edition Birkin. When she saw Bartholomew, her eyes lit up like a predator seeing meat.

Sloane pushed her chest out, lowering her voice to a breathy purr. "Hi, brother-in-law." Her eyes raked over his body shamelessly.

Acid clawed up April's throat. She clenched her jaw, ready to snap.

But Bartholomew didn't even blink. He looked right through Sloane as if she were a piece of ugly furniture. He completely ignored her existence.

He leaned down, his lips brushing April's ear. "Looks like the prey is eager to jump into the slaughterhouse," he whispered, a dark amusement lacing his tone.

The butler pulled out the heavy mahogany chairs in the formal dining room.

Before the staff could touch April's chair, Bartholomew placed his hand on the back of it, pulled it out for her, and waited until she sat down before taking the seat right next to her.

Gregory Poole, sitting at the head of the table, cleared his throat loudly. He raised his crystal wine glass, launching into a long, nauseatingly fake speech about how blessed the family was to have Bartholomew back in good health.

Bartholomew didn't touch his glass. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes cold and dead, watching Gregory perform like a dancing monkey.

Gregory awkwardly lowered his glass, his face flushing. He snapped his fingers at the staff to serve the first course.

A maid placed an exquisite porcelain plate in front of April. It was a rare, imported Brittany blue lobster topped with caviar.

The moment April saw the shell, her stomach violently contracted. The blood drained from her face, and her hands gripped her napkin so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Lorraine smiled sweetly from across the table. "I had this flown in specially, April. I know hospital cafeteria food is dreadful. Eat up, darling."

April let out a cold, sharp laugh. She opened her mouth to scream at them for forgetting that their own daughter was deathly allergic to shellfish.

Before she could make a sound, a massive hand shot across the table.

Bartholomew grabbed the edge of April's porcelain plate and shoved it violently away. The ceramic scraped against the polished wood with a loud, ear-piercing screech.

His face was a mask of pure, murderous rage. He glared at Lorraine.

"Are you attempting to assassinate my wife at the dinner table, Mrs. Poole?" his voice cracked through the room like a whip.

Dead silence fell over the dining room. Lorraine turned pale, her eyes darting nervously. "I... I was just trying to be nice!"

"April has a fatal allergy to shellfish," Bartholomew snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "If she even touches it, her throat closes up."

Gregory stared at April, his face flushing. "It was just a childhood thing! I thought she grew out of it. Don't be so dramatic." But under Bartholomew's murderous glare, he swallowed hard. Panicking, Gregory ordered the maids to clear the table immediately and bring out the steaks.

Sloane, seeing her parents humiliated, decided to change the subject. She tapped her fork against her glass to get Bartholomew's attention.

She batted her eyelashes, putting on a pathetic, helpless look. "Barty, my current PR firm is so toxic. Since we're family, could you give me a Director position at Reynolds Group? I could help April secure her status in your company."

April's jaw dropped at the sheer audacity. She was about to tear Sloane apart, but under the table, she felt a gentle tap against her left shin.

She looked at Bartholomew. He wasn't angry anymore. He was smiling. A cruel, blood-chilling smile. He was taking over the execution.

Bartholomew placed his knife and fork down. He wiped his mouth slowly.

"Do you have an MBA from an Ivy League institution?" he asked calmly.

Sloane's smile faltered. "Well, no. I have an Art History degree from-"

"Do you have experience managing hundred-million-dollar corporate mergers?" he cut her off.

Sloane turned red. "I'm really good at networking and hosting galas!"

Bartholomew let out a short, brutal laugh. He leaned forward, looking at Sloane like she was a stain on his shoe.

"The entry-level positions at Reynolds Group require a degree from a target school," Bartholomew announced, his voice carrying clearly across the room. "Your qualifications... wouldn't get your resume past our spam filter. Perhaps you should aim for a career more suited to your... talents."

The words hit Sloane like a physical slap to the face. She let out a high-pitched sob, covered her face with her hands, and ran out of the dining room crying.

Lorraine jumped up, furious. "How dare you speak to her like that!"

Gregory grabbed his wife's arm and yanked her back down. He swallowed his pride, desperate for the tariff money.

April sat frozen. A massive wave of pure, unadulterated adrenaline and satisfaction rushed through her veins.

She looked at Bartholomew. He turned his head and gave her a look that clearly said: Your turn.