Chapter 8

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.