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.

The next afternoon, Casey walked into the service elevator of the Manhattan penthouse building. She wore a pair of oversized black sunglasses that covered half her face, hiding the dark purple bruise on her cheek. Paige stood next to her, tapping her foot impatiently against the metal floor.

They rode up to the top floor. Casey bypassed the main biometric lock at the front door. She pulled out a physical brass key and unlocked the heavy steel door that led directly into the kitchen.

She had returned for one reason. She needed to pack the rare, first-edition thriller novels she kept in the study. They were the core inspiration for her writing as 'Bedlam'. She refused to leave them behind.

Casey pushed the door open and stepped onto the marble floor of the kitchen. Paige followed closely behind.

Instantly, a low, guttural groan echoed through the large room.

Casey stopped walking. She looked past the massive marble kitchen island. Bartholomew was standing there. He was hunched over, his forearms pressed hard against the cold stone counter. Both of his hands were buried deep into his stomach, clutching his abdomen as if he had been stabbed.

His face was the color of chalk. Thick beads of cold sweat rolled down his forehead and dripped onto the marble. His expensive custom dress shirt was completely soaked through with sweat, clinging to his back.

He heard their footsteps. He slowly lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot and filled with raw pain. When he saw Casey standing there, his gaze instantly turned into solid ice. He looked like a wounded, cornered beast, furious that she was witnessing him in such a pathetic, vulnerable state. He gritted his teeth, visibly fighting the urge to double over again, and fiercely rejected her presence. Bartholomew refused to ask for help. He stubbornly turned his back to her, his shaking right hand blindly grasping at the edge of the counter as he tried to propel himself toward the medicine cabinet. "Get out," he rasped. His voice was weak but laced with venom. He expected her to turn around and flee from his anger.

Casey stood completely still. She looked at his trembling hand. She looked at the sweat dripping from his chin. Her heart did not speed up. She felt absolutely zero pity.

Paige stood behind Casey and let out a loud, mocking scoff. "Serves you right," Paige muttered.

Casey raised her hand and signaled Paige to stay quiet. Casey lifted her arm and pointed her index finger toward the dark walnut cabinets on the left side of the kitchen.

"The Omeprazole is in the second cabinet on the left," Casey said. Her voice was completely monotone, devoid of any human emotion. "The hot water is in the thermos on the counter. Get it yourself."

She dropped her arm. She did not look at him again. She walked straight past the kitchen island and headed toward the study.

Bartholomew's outstretched hand froze in the air. The physical pain in his stomach was suddenly overwhelmed by a violent, crushing sensation in his chest. He stared at her back as she walked away.

He tried to speak, to demand she come back, but all that came out of his mouth was a harsh, wet cough.

From the study, the loud, sharp sound of packing tape ripping off a roll echoed through the apartment. Riiip. The sound cut into Bartholomew's brain. She was really packing. She was really ignoring him.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand up straight. He stumbled toward the cabinet. His hands were shaking so violently he could barely grip the plastic medicine bottle. He tried to push the child-proof cap down and twist, but his fingers slipped.

The bottle flew out of his hands and hit the floor. Dozens of white pills scattered across the marble tiles.

Bartholomew cursed loudly. He dropped to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He picked up two pills from the dirty floor and shoved them into his mouth, swallowing them dry. He leaned his back against the cabinets and closed his eyes, waiting for the medicine to work.

Twenty minutes later, Casey walked out of the study. She was carrying a heavy cardboard box sealed with thick tape. She walked straight toward the back door.

Bartholomew opened his eyes. The sharpest edge of the pain had dulled, replaced by a burning anger.

"Do you have any humanity left in you?" Bartholomew spat, his voice shaking with rage. "I am sick, and you just walk past me like I am a piece of furniture?"

Casey stopped at the door. She slowly turned her head. She reached up and pulled her dark sunglasses down the bridge of her nose.

The harsh kitchen lights illuminated the massive, ugly purple bruise covering her left cheek.

"Mr. Hendricks," Casey said, her voice dripping with venom. "My humanity was beaten out of me in the emergency room last night while you stood there and watched."

Bartholomew stared at the bruise. The air rushed out of his lungs. He opened his mouth, but his throat seized up. A sudden, sickening wave of guilt hit him.

Casey pushed her sunglasses back up and walked out the door.

Paige followed her into the elevator. The doors slid shut.

"That was incredible," Paige cheered, throwing her hands in the air. "You completely destroyed him."

Paige pulled her phone out of her pocket. She opened the Instagram app and tapped the screen. She shoved the phone in front of Casey's face.

"Look at this," Paige said.

It was a photo Halie Haynes had posted late last night. The picture showed a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon champagne and a massive, incredibly rich dark chocolate cake.

The caption read: Thank you to my hero for drinking the whole bottle with me to calm my nerves.

Casey stared at the screen. A cold, cynical smile spread across her lips. Champagne and heavy chocolate were the exact triggers for his stomach ulcers. He was in agony today because he had spent last night drinking with his mistress.

"Pathetic," Casey whispered.

The heavy metal music pounded against the concrete walls of the underground boxing club in Manhattan. The bass was so loud it made the floor vibrate.

Bartholomew stood in the center of the ring. He was shirtless. His chest was covered in a thick layer of sweat. He had thick black tape wrapped tightly around his knuckles. He threw a vicious right hook into the heavy leather punching bag.

Smack.

The bag swung violently on its heavy iron chain. The metal groaned under the force. Bartholomew's stomach still burned from the ulcer, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the rage boiling in his brain.

He could not stop seeing Casey's eyes. He could not stop seeing the way she looked at him in the kitchen-like he was completely worthless.

He threw another combination. Left, right, left. Sweat flew off his hair and hit the canvas mat.

Alistair Thorne-Belmont leaned against the ropes of the ring. He was wearing a gray cashmere tracksuit. He watched Bartholomew destroy the bag with a look of utter boredom.

Alistair reached out and threw a white towel directly at Bartholomew's face. The towel hit him and broke his rhythm.

"Are you done throwing your tantrum?" Alistair asked loudly over the music. "Did your quiet little wife finally kick you out of your own house?"

Bartholomew snatched the towel off the floor. He glared at Alistair. His chest heaved up and down as he gasped for air.

"I am teaching her a lesson," Bartholomew growled. He ducked through the ropes and stepped out of the ring. He grabbed a plastic water bottle from the bench and squeezed it. "She thinks she can embarrass me. She will be crawling back in three days."

Alistair laughed. It was a sharp, mocking sound. He picked up his iPad from the bench and tapped the screen. He held it out to Bartholomew.

"Really?" Alistair said. "Because my contacts at the Wall Street Journal just forwarded me this."

Bartholomew grabbed the iPad. It was an email from Casey's lawyer. It was the official filing for a net-zero divorce. No alimony. No assets. Just a clean, immediate break.

Bartholomew's fingers clamped down on the plastic water bottle in his other hand. The plastic crushed inward with a loud crack. Water spilled over his knuckles and dripped onto the floor.

Alistair took the iPad back. "You look like a man who is completely losing his mind, Bart. You do not look like a man in control."

"I hate variables," Bartholomew snapped, throwing the crushed bottle into the trash. "She is breaking the contract. That is all I care about."

Alistair shook his head. He picked up a pair of red boxing gloves and strapped them on. He stepped through the ropes and into the ring. He tapped his gloves together and gestured for Bartholomew to join him.

Bartholomew grabbed his own gloves. He needed to hit something that hit back. He climbed into the ring.

They circled each other. Bartholomew lunged forward, throwing a wild, angry punch. Alistair easily slipped to the side and deflected the blow.

Bartholomew was fighting on pure emotion. His footwork was sloppy. His guard was too low.

Alistair saw the opening. He stepped in and threw a lightning-fast left hook. The padded leather crashed into the side of Bartholomew's jaw. The impact snapped Bartholomew's head back and sent him stumbling into the corner ropes.

Alistair did not back up. He stepped right into Bartholomew's space.

"You treat your wife like a piece of furniture," Alistair said, his voice low and brutal. "But you treat your mistress like a queen. Why?"

Bartholomew pushed off the ropes and swung blindly. "Halie saved my life thirteen years ago!" he roared. "I owe her!"

Alistair ducked the punch. "There are ten thousand ways to pay off a debt," Alistair shot back. "You chose the one way that completely destroyed your marriage. You are not paying a debt, Bart. You just like having a weak woman who worships you to feed your ego."

The words hit Bartholomew harder than the punch. He froze. His arms dropped to his sides. His brain short-circuited as the ugly truth of Alistair's words sank into his skin.

Alistair did not hesitate. He lifted his leg and planted a hard front kick directly into Bartholomew's chest.

Bartholomew flew backward and crashed hard onto the canvas mat. The breath was knocked out of his lungs. He lay flat on his back, staring up at the blinding stadium lights on the ceiling.

Alistair stood over him, looking down with cold pity.

"You have no idea what you actually want," Alistair said. He unstrapped his gloves and threw them onto Bartholomew's chest. "When she is completely gone, do not come crying to me like a beaten dog."

Alistair turned and walked out of the ring, heading for the showers.

Bartholomew lay on the mat. His chest heaved. The blood pounded in his ears. Alistair's words felt like poison burning through his veins.

He rolled over and pushed himself up. He was furious. He refused to accept that he was losing. He needed to prove he still had absolute power.

He climbed out of the ring and grabbed his phone from his gym bag. His hands were shaking, leaving smears of blood from his taped knuckles on the screen. He dialed Cash.

"Sir?" Cash answered immediately.

"Call the studio head at Paramount," Bartholomew ordered, his voice shaking with manic energy. "Tell them Hendricks Group is doubling our investment in that new indie film. But the condition is they fire the lead actress and give the role to Halie Haynes. Today."

He hung up the phone. A dark, vindictive sneer twisted his lips as the plan solidified in his mind. Casey, you think you can just walk away and play the independent woman? You think you can survive outside my shadow? I will show you exactly how the real world works. I will take the very industry you are desperately trying to break into and hand it over to the woman you hate most. He wanted to crush her newfound rebellion. He wanted to force her to see that he controlled the air she breathed. He pulled his arm back and punched the steel support beam of the boxing ring. The skin on his knuckles split open. Blood dripped down his fingers. He stared at the wall, his eyes wide and completely unhinged. He would show Casey exactly who held the power in this city.