Chapter 2

Thirty minutes later, the passenger door of the Porsche was pulled open. Bartholomew dropped into the leather seat. A wave of stale alcohol and sweet rose perfume filled the small space of the car.

He slammed the door shut. He leaned his head back against the headrest, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He did not say a single word about the club. He did not offer a single excuse.

Casey kept her eyes on the windshield. She pressed the ignition button. The engine roared to life, the sound unnaturally loud in the suffocating silence of the car.

She pulled out of the parking spot and drove toward the intersection. The traffic light turned red. She pressed the brake pedal.

"You embarrassed Halie tonight," Bartholomew said. His voice was hard and flat. "She was terrified when you showed up looking like a ghost."

Casey tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Her knuckles turned completely white. She slowly turned her head and looked at him. There was a bright red lipstick smudge on the collar of his white shirt. She let out a short, dry laugh.

She did not say a word in defense. The traffic light turned green. She slammed her foot down on the gas pedal. The Porsche shot forward.

The sudden acceleration threw Bartholomew back against his seat. He grabbed the door handle. He opened his eyes and glared at her.

"Slow down," Bartholomew ordered sharply. "Stop acting like a child throwing a tantrum."

Casey ignored him. She kept her foot pressed down. She navigated the empty Manhattan streets with aggressive precision. She turned sharply into their building's underground garage, the tires squealing against the concrete. She slammed on the brakes and jerked the car to a halt in his reserved spot.

They walked to the elevator in complete silence. The air between them was thick and suffocating. Casey stared at the metal doors. Bartholomew stared at his phone.

The elevator doors opened at the penthouse. Bartholomew pressed his thumb against the biometric lock. The heavy front door clicked open. The smart lights flickered on automatically.

The lights illuminated the dining room. The cold Beef Wellington and the untouched anniversary setup sat exactly as Casey had left them.

Bartholomew stopped walking. His eyes swept over the table. A brief flash of shock crossed his face, but he blinked and it was gone. He hardened his jaw.

He pulled off his suit jacket and threw it onto the nearest armchair. He stared at the ruined pastry, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before his expression hardened into its usual arrogant mask. "What is the meaning of all this on the table?" he asked, his voice dripping with cold impatience. When Casey remained completely silent, staring at him with those hollow eyes, his irritation spiked. "Stop playing these pointless games. Go to the kitchen and make my hangover soup," Bartholomew commanded. He loosened his tie and walked straight toward the master bathroom.

Casey stood in the hallway. She watched his broad back disappear behind the bathroom door. She took a slow, deep breath. She turned and walked into the massive kitchen.

She opened the refrigerator. Her movements were completely mechanical. She pulled out the ginger. She grabbed a knife. She chopped the ginger into tiny, precise pieces. She turned on the stove and boiled the water. She had done this exact routine hundreds of times over the past five years. Every time he came home smelling like another woman, she had stood in this kitchen and boiled his soup.

Ten minutes later, she poured the hot liquid into a ceramic bowl. She carried it into the dining room.

Bartholomew walked out of the bathroom. He was wearing a dark gray bathrobe. He was drying his wet hair with a small towel. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

He picked up the spoon and took a sip of the soup. He immediately swallowed it and dropped the spoon.

The silver spoon hit the ceramic bowl with a sharp clatter.

"This is completely tasteless," Bartholomew snapped. He pushed the bowl away. "You cannot even get a simple bowl of soup right today."

In the past, Casey would have panicked. She would have apologized quickly and rushed back to the kitchen to add more seasoning. Tonight, she did not move.

She stood next to the table. She looked down at the man she had loved for five years. Her heart was completely still. She felt like she was looking at a stranger on the street.

Bartholomew noticed her silence. He stopped drying his hair. He looked up at her. The absolute deadness in her eyes made his stomach tighten. He felt a sudden, irrational spike of irritation.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

"What do you want?" Bartholomew asked. His tone was dripping with condescension. "Is this about a new necklace? Do you want to go to Paris? Tell me what the compensation is so we can end this mood."

Casey blinked slowly. She slid her hands into the pockets of her gray trench coat. She looked at his face.

"Bartholomew," Casey said. Her voice was clear and cold. "We are getting a divorce."

The words hung in the air. There was no tremor in her voice. She spoke as if she were reading a grocery list.

Bartholomew froze. His hand stopped moving the towel. The entire dining room plunged into a heavy, suffocating silence. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock.

Five seconds passed. Bartholomew let out a harsh, mocking laugh. He threw the towel onto the table next to the cold soup. His eyes narrowed into dark slits.

He stood up. He was much taller than her. He stepped close, using his size to force her to look up.

"You think threatening divorce will get the prenup changed?" Bartholomew sneered. "You think I am stupid?"

He leaned his face closer to hers.

"Let me remind you of the contract you signed," he said, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper. "If you file for divorce, you get nothing. Zero. You walk away with the clothes on your back and you go straight back to the slums you came from."

Casey did not step back. She did not flinch. She looked right into his angry eyes. The corners of her mouth lifted into a small, relieved smile.

"That is exactly what I want," Casey whispered.

Bartholomew's face flushed with sudden rage. He hated when he could not predict her reactions.

"Stop playing these pathetic games," Bartholomew barked. He turned around and walked toward the master bedroom. "I am going to sleep."

He walked into the bedroom and slammed the heavy wooden door shut. The loud bang echoed through the empty penthouse.

Casey stood alone in the dining room. She looked at the bowl of soup. She pulled her hands out of her pockets and let out a long, shaky breath. The act was over.