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.

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Chapter 9

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