Chapter 2

April snapped her head down.

Her long hair fell forward, shielding her pale, bloodless cheeks. She dug her fingernails into the leather edge of the sofa, trying to anchor herself as her heart hammered violently against her ribs.

Constance noticed her sudden rigidity. She leaned over, shouting over the bass.

"Are you okay? Do you need to throw up?"

April didn't dare look up. She couldn't point to the second floor. She bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

"I'm fine," she lied, her voice shaking. "Just swallowed the cheap champagne wrong. It burns."

The blonde model immediately grabbed a glass, filled it with soda water and ice, and pushed it toward her, eager to redeem himself.

April took the glass with trembling hands. As she brought it to her lips, she used the motion to peek through her eyelashes toward the second floor.

The dark silhouette was gone.

A wave of dizzying relief washed over her. Her tense shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. It was just a hallucination. The strobe lights and her own anxiety playing tricks on her. He was still in Europe. He had to be.

Constance, trying to bring the energy back up, slammed her hand on the table.

"To April's useless husband!" Constance yelled, making the models chuckle. "May the bastard who ghosted you never come back from Europe, so our April can live her best single life!"

April needed to cover up her panic. She forced a laugh, leaning into Constance's joke.

"Yeah," April said loudly, her voice dripping with alcohol-fueled bitterness. "I pray every single night that I get to wear a black dress to his funeral soon."

She held up her fingers, pretending to do math.

"If he drops dead tomorrow, I get to cash out that miserable prenuptial trust fund. I'll be a very rich, very happy widow."

The booth erupted in cheers. The models raised their glasses, toasting to her future billions.

Right as the glasses clinked together, the heavy velvet curtain behind their booth-the one blocking the private staircase from the second floor-was violently ripped open.

Bartholomew stepped out of the shadows.

He brought with him the cold scent of expensive cigars and an aura so suffocating it sucked the oxygen out of the space.

Constance was facing the curtain. The smile on her face died instantly. Her pupils dilated in pure, unadulterated terror.

As the niece who had snuck out to a club she wasn't supposed to be at, Constance's hands spasmed. She crushed the plastic dice she was holding. She stopped breathing.

April was facing away from the curtain. She was still talking, her voice carrying over the music.

"He probably doesn't even have the stamina to walk up a flight of stairs," April mocked, taking another sip of her drink.

Constance shot up from the sofa like she had been electrocuted.

"My stomach hurts! Bathroom! Now!" Constance stuttered, her voice cracking.

Before April could even reach out to stop her, Constance grabbed her Birkin bag and bolted toward the club's back exit, running like the devil himself was chasing her.

April stared at the empty space where her best friend had just been. Confusion knitted her brows. She turned to the models to ask what just happened, but her phone buzzed on the table.

The screen lit up. A text from an unknown, encrypted number. One sentence.

The payout process for the trust fund might take longer than you think, Mrs. Reynolds.

The blood drained from April's face. The phone slipped, almost tumbling out of her sweaty palm.

She whipped her head around in a panic, searching the crowd. The models, thinking she wanted more attention, started sliding closer to her.

A large, masculine hand wearing a Patek Philippe watch reached over her shoulder.

The hand smoothly plucked the half-empty champagne glass right out of her grip.

"The vintage of this garbage doesn't match your net worth," a low, magnetic voice vibrated directly against her ear.

The models froze. The sheer dominance radiating from the man standing behind the sofa made them instinctively scramble backward, leaving a massive empty space around April.

April's neck cracked as she turned her head. Her eyes traveled from the impossibly expensive watch, up the tailored black suit, until she collided with Bartholomew's dead, freezing eyes.

He looked down at her. A cruel, sharp smile played on his lips.

"Have you picked out the black dress for the funeral yet?" he asked softly.

April's throat closed up completely. She opened her mouth to speak, to defend herself, to apologize, but not a single sound came out. She was drowning in pure terror.

Bartholomew didn't break eye contact. He slowly tilted her champagne glass over the ice bucket in front of the models. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he dropped the entire crystal flute into the bucket.

It shattered with a violent, piercing crack.