Chapter 4

The morning sun pierced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains. The bright light hit Bartholomew directly in the eyes. He groaned and rolled over on the massive mattress. His head throbbed with a vicious hangover.

He reached his arm out across the bed. He expected his hand to hit Casey's warm shoulder. He expected her to curl into his chest the way she always did.

His hand hit empty space. The bedsheets were completely cold.

Bartholomew frowned. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked around the empty room.

"Casey," he called out. His voice was thick and raspy from the alcohol.

No one answered. The penthouse was dead silent.

He threw the heavy duvet off his legs and swung his feet onto the floor. He stood up and rubbed his temples. As he turned toward the bathroom, his eyes caught a flash of light on the black marble nightstand.

He stopped breathing.

The five-carat diamond ring sat perfectly centered on the table. Underneath the ring was the black Centurion credit card.

Bartholomew stared at the objects. His chest tightened. He snatched the ring off the table. The metal bit into his palm. He turned and marched straight into the walk-in closet. He grabbed the handle of Casey's wardrobe door and yanked it open.

All the expensive dresses were still hanging there. The designer bags were untouched. But the bottom corner of the shelf was empty. Her cheap clothes were gone. The old suitcase was gone.

Maureen appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. She kept her head bowed and her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

"Sir," Maureen said, her voice trembling. "Mrs. Hendricks left at two in the morning. She took her luggage."

Bartholomew let out a harsh, barking laugh. He threw the diamond ring onto the vanity table. It bounced off the wood and hit the mirror with a loud crack.

"She thinks this will work," Bartholomew muttered to himself. He clenched his jaw. He was convinced this was just an escalation of her tantrum from last night. She wanted him to chase her.

He grabbed his phone from the charger. He found her contact and pressed call. He pressed the phone hard against his ear.

A cold, automated female voice immediately answered. "The number you have dialed is unavailable."

She had blocked him.

Bartholomew's face turned dark red. He gripped the phone so hard his knuckles popped. He waited for the beep of the voicemail.

"Listen to me very carefully," Bartholomew snarled into the phone. "You have until tonight to stop this childish game and come home. If you do not walk through that door by eight o'clock, I will freeze every single account attached to your name. You will have nothing."

He ended the call and threw the phone onto the bed. He ripped his bathrobe off and walked into the shower. He needed to get to the office.

Across the river in Brooklyn, the air inside the small, crowded coffee shop smelled like roasted beans and burnt toast. The morning sun warmed the wooden table near the window.

Casey sat in a hard wooden chair. She was wearing a loose gray hoodie and her faded jeans. She took a massive bite out of a warm bagel. Her eyes were bright. Her skin looked alive.

Paige sat across from her. Paige slid a tall iced oat milk latte across the table.

"To your escape from the gilded prison," Paige said, grinning widely.

Casey picked up the plastic cup and tapped it against Paige's coffee. Before she could take a sip, her phone lit up on the table. A notification popped up: New Voicemail from Blocked Number.

Casey set her coffee down. She tapped the screen and pressed the speaker button.

Bartholomew's angry, arrogant voice filled the small space between them. He threatened to freeze her accounts. He demanded she come home.

Paige's jaw dropped. Her face turned bright red with anger. She opened her mouth to scream insults at the phone.

Casey simply smiled. She reached out and tapped the delete icon. The voicemail vanished. She went into her settings and permanently deleted his contact file.

She opened her heavy laptop and logged into the Bedlam server.

She clicked on the top email. It was from the head of a massive Hollywood production company. They were offering to double their previous bid to buy the film rights to her bestselling thriller, West of Yesterday.

Casey placed her fingers on the keyboard. She typed a fast, aggressive reply. She refused the buyout. She demanded to be named the Executive Producer with full creative control, or there would be no deal.

Paige leaned over the table and squinted at the screen. She saw the dollar amount in the email chain. Paige choked on her coffee and started coughing violently.

"You are a millionaire?" Paige wheezed, staring at Casey in pure shock. "You have been playing the broke housewife this whole time?"

Casey closed the laptop with a loud snap. She picked up her bagel and took another bite. The ambition in her eyes was sharp and dangerous.

At the exact same moment, in the towering Hendricks Group building in Manhattan, Cash Bass knocked on the heavy oak door of the CEO's office.

Cash pushed the door open. He was sweating through his suit. Bartholomew was sitting behind his massive desk, glaring at his computer screen.

"Sir," Cash stammered. "I checked the accounts. Mrs. Hendricks has not swiped a single card since yesterday afternoon."

Bartholomew stopped writing. He pressed the tip of his expensive fountain pen into the document he was signing. The ink bled out, creating a dark, ugly stain on the paper.

"And the cars?" Bartholomew asked coldly.

"She didn't take any of them," Cash swallowed hard. "Security footage shows her walking out of the building on foot. She hailed a yellow cab three blocks away. We've lost the trail for now. She paid in cash and got out at a crowded subway station in Brooklyn, intentionally mixing into the blind spots. It will take our team a bit more time to manually analyze the city's surveillance network to pinpoint her exact location."

Bartholomew slowly lifted his head. The pen snapped in his hand. A cold, unfamiliar sensation crawled up his spine. It was the feeling of total loss of control. He stared out the window at the city below, his eyes turning viciously dark.