Chapter 8

The late afternoon sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse walk-in closet.

April stood in front of the full-length mirror, her fingers trembling slightly as she tried to fasten a heavy, blindingly bright diamond earring. She was using the jewelry as armor, trying to mask the knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach. Tonight was the Poole family dinner.

Bartholomew walked into the closet. He was wearing a bespoke, midnight-black suit that fit his broad shoulders flawlessly.

He saw her struggling with the clasp of her diamond necklace. Without a word, he stepped behind her and took the cold metal from her hands.

He lowered his head. His warm breath fanned across the sensitive skin of her nape. His large, calloused fingers deftly secured the clasp, intentionally letting his knuckles drag against her bare skin.

April flinched as if she had been burned. She met his dark gaze in the mirror, her heart doing a violent flip. She quickly looked away. "Thank you," she muttered.

They rode the elevator down to the garage. The bulletproof Maybach was waiting.

The moment they slid into the backseat and the privacy partition rolled up, the tense, quiet atmosphere vanished. It was a war room now.

Bartholomew opened an iPad resting on his lap. He pulled up a detailed dossier.

"Gregory will use the excuse of celebrating my recovery to force the port tariff reduction proposal at the dinner table," Bartholomew said, his voice cold and analytical.

April let out a bitter laugh. "And my stepmother, Lorraine, will put on her 'loving mother' act to guilt-trip me into agreeing."

Bartholomew turned his head, his eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity. "How far do you want to go tonight?"

April didn't hesitate. "I want to rip their fake masks off. I don't want them getting a single cent from Reynolds Group."

Bartholomew's lips curved into a dangerous smile. He closed the iPad.

"Good. But just in case things get out of hand, we need a safe word." He looked down at her legs. "If they back you into a corner you can't handle, kick my left shin twice under the table. I will physically remove you from the house."

A strange, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in April's chest. No one had ever offered to protect her like this. But her pride made her lift her chin. "I can handle them."

The Maybach cruised down the tree-lined avenues of the Upper East Side, surrounded by century-old townhouses.

Suddenly, Bartholomew reached across the center console. His large hand clamped down over April's cold, nervous fingers.

April gasped, trying to yank her hand back, but he intertwined their fingers, locking her in a grip that was firm but not painful.

"We are playing a happily married couple," he said, staring straight ahead. "Start getting used to the physical contact."

April gave up struggling. She let her hand rest in his, feeling the rough calluses on his palm and the steady, grounding heat radiating from his skin.

The car pulled up to the extravagant French-style townhouse of the Poole family. The butler was already waiting by the door.

Bartholomew stepped out first. He turned and offered his hand to April, playing the role of the devoted husband to perfection.

From the corner of his eye, Bartholomew spotted the flash of a paparazzi camera hidden in the bushes. He didn't flinch. He wanted the world to see that April belonged to him.

April took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and looped her arm through his.

The heavy front doors swung open. Lorraine, dripping in gaudy jewelry, rushed forward with a sickeningly sweet smile.

Lorraine opened her arms to hug April, but Bartholomew smoothly shifted his body, blocking Lorraine completely. He offered a stiff, formal handshake instead.

Lorraine's smile cracked for a second before she awkwardly shook his hand and ushered them inside.

In the living room, April's stepsister, Sloane, was lounging on the sofa, posing with a limited-edition Birkin. When she saw Bartholomew, her eyes lit up like a predator seeing meat.

Sloane pushed her chest out, lowering her voice to a breathy purr. "Hi, brother-in-law." Her eyes raked over his body shamelessly.

Acid clawed up April's throat. She clenched her jaw, ready to snap.

But Bartholomew didn't even blink. He looked right through Sloane as if she were a piece of ugly furniture. He completely ignored her existence.

He leaned down, his lips brushing April's ear. "Looks like the prey is eager to jump into the slaughterhouse," he whispered, a dark amusement lacing his tone.