The radiator in Paige's small Brooklyn apartment clanked loudly. It was twelve-thirty in the morning. Casey sat cross-legged on the lumpy fabric sofa. She had her laptop balanced on her knees. She was aggressively typing out the revised character arcs for the new script.

Her phone suddenly vibrated against the cheap glass coffee table. The screen lit up the dark room. A custom ringtone started playing. It was the ringtone she had assigned to Bartholomew's aunt, Genevieve Hendricks.

Casey stopped typing. Her eyebrows pulled together. Genevieve hated her and never called her. Something was wrong.

Casey picked up the phone and swiped the green button.

"Hello?" Casey said.

"Where is he?!" Genevieve shrieked into the phone. The sound was so loud and sharp that Casey had to pull the phone away from her ear. "Where are you hiding Bartholomew? We have been calling him for two hours!"

Casey kept her voice completely level. "I am not with him. What happened?"

"Preston collapsed!" Genevieve sobbed loudly, her voice cracking with panic. "He had a massive heart attack. He is in the emergency room. Find Bartholomew right now!"

Casey's stomach dropped. The blood drained from her face. Preston Hendricks was Bartholomew's grandfather. He was the only person in that entire snake pit of a family who had ever spoken to her with respect.

"I will find him," Casey said firmly. She hung up the phone before Genevieve could scream again.

Casey immediately opened her blocked list. She unblocked Bartholomew's number and dialed it. The phone rang once and went straight to a dead tone. He had blocked her back.

She cursed under her breath. She opened her contacts and found Cash Bass's private number. She pressed call.

The phone rang six times. Finally, Cash answered. His voice was thick with sleep and heavy irritation.

"Mrs. Hendricks, it is the middle of the night," Cash groaned.

"Cash, listen to me very carefully," Casey said, her voice dropping into a desperate, intense plea that left no room for corporate protocol. "Preston is dying in the hospital. This is his only grandfather, the absolute foundation of the Hendricks family. If you do not give me that address, and Bartholomew misses his grandfather's final moments because you wanted to play the loyal secretary, he will live with that regret for the rest of his life. And when he realizes you kept it from him, the responsibility will fall entirely on your shoulders. Please, Cash. Tell me where he is, I am begging you."

The line went dead silent. Cash sucked in a sharp breath. The corporate loyalty completely shattered under the threat of life and death.

"Upper East Side," Cash said quickly. He rattled off an address on 73rd Street.

Casey ended the call. She knew that address. Bartholomew had used his private trust fund to buy that luxury townhouse for Halie Haynes.

Casey grabbed her gray trench coat off the back of the chair. She shoved her arms into the sleeves and pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail.

Paige walked out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. "What is going on?"

"Family emergency," Casey said quickly as she shoved her feet into her boots. "I have to go."

"Let me drive you," Paige offered, reaching for her keys.

"No," Casey said. "Stay out of this mess. Go back to sleep."

Casey ran out of the apartment and sprinted down the narrow stairs. She pushed the front door open and stepped out into the freezing Brooklyn night. The wind hit her face like a physical slap.

She stood on the curb and waved frantically at the empty street. It took her ten minutes to find an Uber willing to cross the bridge into Manhattan at this hour. She had to pay triple the normal rate.

She climbed into the back seat of the sedan. "Upper East Side. Drive as fast as you legally can," she told the driver.

The car sped across the bridge. Casey stared out the window. She tried to call Bartholomew's number one more time. It was still blocked. A bitter, acidic taste rose in the back of her throat. She was racing across the city to save his relationship with his dying grandfather, while he was hiding in his mistress's bed, ignoring the world.

The car pulled onto the quiet, tree-lined street of the Upper East Side. The driver stopped in front of a massive, three-story brick townhouse.

Casey pushed the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The cold wind whipped her hair around her face.

She looked at the curb. A sleek, black Maybach was parked directly in front of the iron gates. The license plate was Bartholomew's. Cash had told the truth.

Casey looked up. The second-floor window was glowing with warm yellow light. Through the sheer curtains, she could see two shadows moving close together.

Casey stood under the streetlamp. She stared at the window. Her chest felt tight, but she forced herself to take a deep breath of the freezing air. She pushed the nausea down into her stomach.

She walked forward. Her boots clicked loudly against the pavement. She marched up the marble steps of the townhouse, lifted her hand, and pressed her finger hard against the doorbell.

The doorbell echoed inside the townhouse. Casey waited. Three seconds later, the heavy mahogany door was pulled open. A wave of expensive central heating and sweet vanilla perfume rushed out into the cold air.

Halie stood in the doorway. She was wearing a massive white button-down shirt that clearly belonged to a man. The collar was unbuttoned, exposing the skin of her chest. There were faint red marks on her collarbone.

Halie's eyes widened in shock when she saw Casey. Then, a slow, arrogant smirk spread across her lips.

Halie reached up and deliberately pulled the collar of the shirt wider. "Casey? What are you doing here in the middle of the night? Are you stalking us?"

Casey did not blink. She did not look at the shirt or the marks on Halie's neck. She looked straight past Halie's shoulder into the brightly lit living room.

"Tell Bartholomew to get out here right now," Casey said. Her voice was completely flat.

Halie shifted her weight and blocked the doorway with her body. She pouted her lips and adopted a fake, sympathetic tone. "He is asleep, Casey. He is exhausted. I am not going to wake him up just because you are having a breakdown."

Heavy footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs inside. Bartholomew walked into view. He was wearing his dark suit trousers. He was aggressively buttoning his white shirt as he walked toward the door.

He saw Casey standing on the porch. The muscles in his jaw instantly clenched. A flash of panic crossed his eyes, quickly replaced by intense, defensive anger.

Bartholomew stepped up behind Halie and put his hand on her shoulder, physically shielding her from Casey.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" Bartholomew shouted. His voice echoed down the quiet street. "You tracked me here? This is pathetic, even for you."

Casey looked at his hand resting on Halie's shoulder. She felt absolutely nothing. It was almost funny how predictable he was.

"Preston had a heart attack," Casey said. She spoke fast, delivering the information like a machine. "He is at Mount Sinai Hospital. He is in the emergency room."

Bartholomew's hand dropped from Halie's shoulder. His body went completely rigid. He stared at Casey, his eyes searching her face. Then, he let out a harsh, mocking scoff.

"You are lying," Bartholomew sneered. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I saw him last week. His doctors said his heart was perfectly fine. You are using my grandfather's health to trick me into talking to you?"

Halie leaned her head against Bartholomew's arm. "Casey, that is really sick. You shouldn't curse an old man just because you are jealous."

Casey's patience snapped. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. She opened the text message Genevieve had sent her. It was a photo of the hospital admission form.

She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. She shoved the phone directly into Bartholomew's chest, hitting his breastbone hard.

"Look at it," Casey ordered. Her voice was ice. "Look at the red stamp. Then get in your car and go, before he dies thinking you abandoned him."

Bartholomew grabbed the phone. He looked down at the screen. He saw the official Mount Sinai logo. He saw the red 'CRITICAL' stamp. He saw the signature of the chief cardiologist.

All the color drained from Bartholomew's face. His skin turned ash white. His hands started to shake violently. The phone rattled against his fingers. The arrogant wall he had built completely collapsed.

He shoved the phone back at Casey. He turned and violently pushed past Halie. Halie stumbled backward and hit the wall.

"Hey!" Halie cried out, reaching for his arm.

Bartholomew completely ignored her. He sprinted down the marble steps and ran toward the Maybach. He slammed his fist against the driver's window. "Start the car!" he roared at the sleeping driver.

He ripped the back door open. He turned around and glared at Casey, who was still standing on the porch.

"Get in!" Bartholomew commanded.

Casey looked at him. She wanted to walk away, but she needed to know if Preston was going to survive. She walked down the steps. She walked right past Halie, treating the other woman like a piece of invisible trash on the sidewalk.

Casey slid into the back seat of the Maybach. Bartholomew jumped in after her and slammed the heavy door shut. Halie was left standing alone on the porch, shivering in the cold.

The driver slammed his foot on the gas. The heavy car tore away from the curb, the tires screeching against the asphalt.

The inside of the car was suffocatingly silent. Bartholomew sat rigidly in his seat. He pressed his elbows into his knees and buried his face in his hands. His breathing was loud and ragged.

Casey slid all the way to the opposite side of the leather seat. She pressed her shoulder hard against the cold glass of the window. She kept as much physical distance between them as possible, treating him like a diseased animal she refused to touch.

The Maybach swerved sharply into the emergency drop-off lane at Mount Sinai Hospital. The driver slammed on the brakes. The heavy tires shrieked against the concrete.

Bartholomew shoved his door open before the car completely stopped. He sprinted toward the sliding glass doors. Casey pushed her door open and followed him.

The harsh, fluorescent white lights of the hospital lobby hit Casey's eyes, making her blink rapidly. The air smelled strongly of bleach and sterile alcohol.

They ran down the main corridor and turned the corner toward the intensive care waiting area. The entire Hendricks family was gathered there. Men in expensive suits and women in designer coats stood in tight, anxious clusters.

Genevieve Hendricks was pacing near the double doors. Her eyes were red and swollen. She looked up and saw Bartholomew approaching.

Genevieve let out a sharp cry and rushed forward. Her high heels clicked violently against the linoleum floor. She reached Bartholomew, but she did not hug him. Her eyes darted behind him and locked onto Casey.

Genevieve's face twisted into a mask of pure hatred. She lunged past Bartholomew.

She raised her right hand high in the air and swung it down with all her strength. Her palm cracked against Casey's left cheek.

The sound of the slap echoed like a gunshot down the quiet hospital corridor. Everyone stopped talking. Every head turned to stare.

The physical force of the blow snapped Casey's head to the side. A sharp, burning pain exploded across her skin. Five bright red finger marks instantly swelled on her pale cheek. She tasted the warm, metallic tang of blood pooling in the corner of her mouth. Her teeth had cut into her inner lip.

"You vicious little rat!" Genevieve screamed, pointing her shaking finger at Casey's face. "You caused this! Ever since you married into this family, we have had nothing but absolute misery! You must have done something behind our backs to upset him! You drove his blood pressure up! You did this to him!"

Casey stood perfectly still. Her ear was ringing loudly. She pressed her tongue against the cut inside her mouth. She did not raise her hand to touch her face. She did not shed a single tear.

She slowly turned her head and looked at Bartholomew. He was standing less than two feet away from her. He was her husband. He was supposed to protect her.

Bartholomew was staring at her red cheek. His eyebrows were pulled together in a tight frown. But he did not step between them. He did not yell at his aunt. He did not check to see if Casey was bleeding.

He looked around at the staring family members. Before Genevieve could raise her hand to strike again, Bartholomew stepped forward and grabbed his aunt's wrist. His grip was rough, forcefully pulling her away from his wife. He turned his head, his dark eyes briefly sweeping over the bright, swollen handprint blooming on Casey's pale cheek. A muscle in his jaw ticked violently, a fleeting flash of complex, unfamiliar conflict tightening his chest. He leaned close to Genevieve. "Stop it," Bartholomew hissed under his breath. "We are in a public hospital. Do you want the tabloids to write about us acting like animals?"

The words hit Casey harder than the physical slap. He did not care that she was hurt. He only cared about the family reputation. The last microscopic thread connecting her to him snapped completely.

Leland Hendricks, Bartholomew's uncle, stepped forward and grabbed Genevieve's arm, pulling her back. Leland glared at Bartholomew. "Where were you? You are the heir to this family, and you were unreachable when he was dying."

Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair, looking stressed and defensive as he argued with his uncle. He completely forgot Casey was standing there.

The red light above the surgical doors suddenly clicked off. The heavy doors pushed open. A surgeon in green scrubs walked out and pulled down his mask.

"He is stabilized," the surgeon announced. "The blockage was cleared. He needs absolute rest, but he will survive."

A collective sigh of relief swept through the hallway. Shoulders dropped. People hugged each other. Bartholomew closed his eyes and let out a long breath, the tension leaving his body.

The family started moving toward the recovery room doors.

Casey did not move with them. She reached up and wiped the drop of blood from the corner of her mouth with her thumb. She swung her backpack off her shoulder and unzipped the main compartment.

She pulled out a thick stack of papers secured in a brown folder.

She walked directly up to Bartholomew. He turned to look at her, a warning glare already forming in his eyes.

Casey slammed the heavy folder directly into the center of his chest.

Bartholomew grunted from the impact and instinctively brought his hands up to catch the folder. He looked down at the cover page. The bold black letters read: DIVORCE SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT.

His pupils dilated. He snapped his head up and glared at her.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Bartholomew whisper-shouted, his face turning red. "You are doing this right now? Here?"

Casey looked at him with dead, empty eyes. "I already signed it. It stipulates a net-zero split. I am walking away with nothing. I do not want a single penny of your family's money."

The family members standing nearby heard the words 'net-zero'. They froze. Genevieve stopped walking and stared at Casey with her mouth wide open. A gold digger never walked away with nothing.

Bartholomew gripped the edges of the folder. His knuckles turned white. He felt completely humiliated. He felt like she was stripping him naked in front of his entire family. He raised his hands, preparing to rip the document in half.

"Tear it up," Casey said, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "If you do not sign it by tomorrow morning, I will send a digital copy to the front page of the Wall Street Journal. Let the world know I gave up billions just to get away from you."

Bartholomew froze. His hands shook with rage, but he did not tear the paper.

Casey turned her back on him. She walked away from the crowd and pressed the button for the elevator. The metal doors slid open. She stepped inside and turned around.

The doors slowly closed, cutting off the sight of Bartholomew's furious, panicked face. Casey looked at her reflection in the metal doors. Her cheek was swollen and bruised. Her lip was bleeding. But she smiled. It was a broken, beautiful smile of absolute freedom.