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.

Three days later, the crystal chandeliers inside Le Bernardin cast a warm, golden glow over the dining room. The Michelin-starred seafood restaurant was quiet, filled only with the low murmur of Manhattan's elite.

Casey sat at a corner table near the window. She wore a sleek, black silk slip dress that perfectly framed her collarbones. Her hair was pulled back into a sharp, elegant knot. The bruise on her cheek had faded to a faint yellow, easily hidden by makeup.

She raised a crystal glass of expensive Chardonnay. Across the table, Paige raised her own glass.

"To Bedlam," Paige whispered excitedly.

They clinked their glasses together. Casey took a sip of the cold wine. She had just signed the final contract with the Hollywood studio. She had secured full creative control and a massive upfront payment. She was officially a major player in the industry. She felt a surge of pure, electric confidence run through her veins.

A sudden shift in the atmosphere made Casey look up. The maître d' was bowing deeply near the entrance, rushing to accommodate two new guests.

Casey's eyes locked onto the doorway.

Bartholomew walked into the restaurant. He was wearing a custom navy-blue suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His face was a mask of cold authority. Clinging tightly to his right arm was Halie Haynes.

Halie was wearing a bright red designer dress. She was smiling brightly, looking around the room to make sure everyone saw her. She had just been handed the lead movie role Bartholomew bought for her, and she was radiating arrogant triumph.

Bartholomew's eyes scanned the room. His gaze suddenly stopped. He saw Casey.

His footsteps faltered. He stared at her. She looked stunning. She did not look like a broken, abandoned wife. She looked powerful. A hot spike of irrational anger pierced his chest.

Halie followed his gaze. When she saw Casey, her smile tightened. She gripped Bartholomew's arm harder, pressing her chest against his bicep.

The maître d' led them to a VIP booth just three tables away from Casey.

As soon as Bartholomew sat down, Halie stood back up. She smoothed her red dress and walked purposefully across the dining room, her high heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.

Halie stopped right next to Casey's table. She looked down at Casey and let out a loud, theatrical sigh.

"Casey," Halie said, her voice dripping with fake pity. "I am so surprised to see you here. I heard you moved out of the penthouse. Are you staying in some awful little motel in the outer boroughs? You really should have asked Bart for some money."

Paige slammed her wine glass down on the table. She opened her mouth to scream, but Casey reached under the table and grabbed Paige's wrist, squeezing hard to keep her quiet.

Casey picked up her silver knife and fork. She slowly cut a piece of her seared scallop. She did not look up at Halie.

"You need to step back," Casey said calmly, chewing her food. "That cheap, synthetic vanilla perfume you drown yourself in is ruining the smell of my food."

Halie's face turned bright red. Her mouth dropped open in shock. That perfume was a limited-edition scent Bartholomew had bought for her.

Before Halie could scream, a large shadow fell over the table. Bartholomew had crossed the room. He stepped in front of Halie, shielding her.

He placed both of his large hands flat on the edge of Casey's table and leaned down. His face was inches from hers. His eyes were dark and furious.

"Do not take your bitterness out on her," Bartholomew hissed. "She has nothing to do with your failures."

Casey finally put her fork down. She picked up her white linen napkin and elegantly dabbed the corners of her mouth. She looked up directly into his angry eyes. Her gaze was full of mocking amusement.

Bartholomew hated that look. He decided to drop the bomb he had been saving.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

"You think you are so clever, hiding out in the slums," Bartholomew whispered dangerously. "But you left a trail. I know exactly where you are staying. I know all about that pathetic little apartment in Brooklyn and your loudmouth friend, Paige. If you do not withdraw that ridiculous net-zero divorce filing, I will not come after your nonexistent bank accounts. I will come after her."

He watched her face, waiting for the panic to set in. Waiting for her to realize she was trapped.

"Cancel the divorce filing tonight," Bartholomew commanded smoothly. "Apologize, and come home where you belong. Keep pushing, and my lawyers will make sure your best friend loses her job, her apartment, and everything she owns before Friday."

Casey stared at him for three seconds. Then, she laughed. It was a soft, genuine laugh filled with absolute pity.

She reached into her small black clutch. She pulled out a sleek, heavy metal credit card. It was completely black, with no bank logo and no Hendricks family crest. It was the private offshore account card she had secretly maintained for years under the 'Bedlam' pseudonym, holding millions in royalties that the Hendricks family never even knew existed.

She held the card between her index and middle finger. She flicked her wrist. The heavy metal card hit the table and slid across the white linen, stopping right against Bartholomew's knuckles.

"Sue me," Casey said. Her voice was ice cold and deadly serious. "Let's see who works faster. Your lawyers, or my ability to turn you into the biggest joke in New York City."

She raised her hand and signaled the waiter. She paid the bill with a tap of her phone. She stood up, grabbed her clutch, and walked right past Bartholomew. Paige followed closely behind.

Bartholomew stood frozen at the table. He stared down at the strange black card. His heart hammered violently against his ribs. The threat had completely failed.

Hours later, at two in the morning, Bartholomew sat alone in the back of his Maybach. The car was parked on a dark, empty street. He pulled his tie loose. He stared at his phone. He pressed Casey's number again.

The automated voice filled the dark car. "The number you have dialed is unavailable."

He threw the phone against the leather seat and buried his face in his hands.