Chapter 5

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.