The Almighty Tycoon Returns For Her

April pushed the heavy door of the yellow cab open.

Her stiletto hit the wet asphalt, splashing a puddle of cold, dirty water onto her bare ankle. The early autumn wind of Manhattan whipped around her, sinking straight into her bones. She shivered, wrapping her thin trench coat tighter around her body.

Constance's hand clamped down on April's wrist like a vice.

"Hurry up, April!" Constance yelled over the deafening blare of a horn from the car behind them. She yanked April toward the flashing neon sign of the club, dodging the chaotic traffic.

Two massive security guards stood like brick walls in front of the brass doors. They crossed their arms, blocking the entrance.

"VIP black card only," the guard on the left grunted, his voice devoid of any warmth. The air between them instantly froze.

Constance didn't miss a beat. She dug into her Birkin bag, her manicured fingers moving frantically, and pulled out a custom matte black card. She shoved it into the guard's chest.

The guard inspected it. His posture immediately straightened. He stepped aside, bowing his head respectfully.

April followed Constance past the heavy brass doors. The moment they stepped inside, the heavy bass of the music slammed into April's chest, completely drowning out the sound of the rain on the streets.

They navigated through the sweaty, grinding bodies on the dance floor. April stumbled, her shoulder slamming into the chest of a drunk guy in a designer shirt.

He slurred a curse and raised his hand, but Constance whipped around and shot him a glare so lethal he immediately backed off, melting into the crowd.

A waiter in a crisp vest appeared, gesturing for them to follow. He led them to a semi-open, luxurious booth on the first floor.

April collapsed into the plush velvet sofa. Her muscles ached.

Constance snapped her fingers at the beverage manager.

"We need the top-tier male model champagne service," Constance shouted over the music. "We are celebrating my best friend's last night of freedom!"

April's stomach twisted. Her instinct was to say no, to go home and hide under her covers. But the thought of her nominal husband returning from Europe tomorrow flashed in her mind. A wave of rebellious anger washed over her. She gave a stiff, defiant nod.

The manager handed over a gold-embossed menu. Constance didn't even look at the prices. She dragged her finger across the page, ordering three bottles of Ace of Spades champagne, and scribbled a massive tip on the receipt.

While they waited, April pulled her phone from her clutch. The screen lit up. Zero missed calls from the Poole family. A cold, bitter laugh caught in her throat. They didn't care where she was, as long as she played the good little wife tomorrow.

A commotion rippled through the crowd. Three men, built like Greek gods and wearing deep-V black shirts, marched toward their booth. They carried a glowing champagne tower. The women at the neighboring tables gasped and pointed.

The lead model, a blonde with a jawline that could cut glass, slid onto the sofa right next to April. The overpowering scent of his heavy cologne hit her nose, making her stomach churn. She frowned, pressing her back into the cushions.

He popped the cork with practiced ease. Golden liquid spilled over the edges. He poured a glass and brought it directly to April's lips, leaning in to feed it to her.

April turned her head sharply, dodging his hand.

"I can do it myself," she muttered coldly. She snatched the glass from his grip and tipped it back, swallowing half of it in one gulp. The alcohol burned a fiery trail down her throat.

Next to her, Constance was already laughing, shaking dice with another model. She was completely oblivious to the dark, one-way glass wall of the VIP section on the second floor.

The blonde model didn't take the hint. He draped his thick arm over the back of the sofa, leaning his body weight toward April. He was trying to close the physical gap between them.

April's skin crawled. She shifted her weight, sliding her hips further into the corner until her spine hit the cold, hard wall of the booth.

Upstairs, in the most secluded circular booth, Bartholomew Reynolds sat deep in a leather armchair. His long, calloused fingers rhythmically flipped a silver lighter open and closed.

Pierce, holding a glass of scotch, walked over with a smirk. "Hey, Barty, you-"

Bartholomew raised a single hand, cutting him off instantly. His dark eyes pierced through the one-way glass, locked entirely on the scene unfolding on the first floor.

Pierce followed his gaze. He spotted the woman surrounded by male models. His jaw dropped. He nearly spilled his scotch on the Persian rug.

"Is that... April?" Pierce choked out.

Bartholomew snapped the silver lighter shut. The sharp, metallic clack echoed in the tense air. The temperature in the VIP room plummeted to freezing.

Downstairs, a violent shiver ripped down April's spine. The hairs on her arms stood up. It felt like a massive, apex predator had just locked its jaws onto the back of her neck. Her fingers gripped the champagne flute so hard her knuckles turned stark white.

The blonde model, completely unaware of the death sentence hovering over him, kept leaning in. He reached out, his fingers grazing a strand of hair that had fallen over April's shoulder.

April slapped his hand away.

"Back off," she snapped, her voice trembling with a mixture of annoyance and a sudden, inexplicable dread.

The model pulled his hand back, pouting his lips in a fake, exaggerated display of hurt.

But the crushing weight of that unseen stare only grew heavier. April couldn't breathe. Her chest tightened. She slammed her glass down on the table and began scanning the chaotic club, desperate to find the source of the pressure.

Her eyes darted past the strobe lights of the dance floor, past the crowded bar, and slowly moved upward.

Her gaze stopped at the pitch-black VIP section on the second floor.

Even in the darkness, the aggressive, broad-shouldered silhouette was unmistakable. He was leaning forward, his hands gripping the railing.

April's eyes locked onto his. Through the flashing lights and the writhing bodies, she crashed straight into a pair of bottomless, pitch-black eyes brewing with a violent storm.

The moment she recognized him, an invisible hand reached into April's chest and squeezed her heart until it stopped beating. Her lungs forgot how to process oxygen.

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.

Bartholomew didn't say another word.

He shot her one final, freezing look out of the corner of his eye, turned his back to her, and started walking toward the private spiral staircase leading to the VIP section.

That single glance held a warning so potent, April's legs felt like they were filled with wet cement. But her body moved on autopilot. She forced herself to stand up, her knees trembling, and followed him.

The male models exchanged confused looks and took a step forward to help her. Instantly, two massive bodyguards in black suits stepped out of the shadows, pinning the models to the floor with murderous glares.

April dragged her stilettos up the dark red carpet of the stairs. Every step felt like a march toward a guillotine.

She stared at the broad, rigid line of Bartholomew's shoulders. Her mind raced, flashing with every terrifying rumor she had heard about his ruthless, bloodthirsty tactics in the corporate world. He destroyed people for fun.

They walked single file down a soundproofed corridor. The heavy bass of the club faded into a suffocating, dead silence.

Bartholomew pushed open the double doors at the end of the hall. The doors were trimmed with gold leaf. The heavy scent of Cuban cigars and aged whiskey hit April's face.

She stopped at the threshold. Her terror was a live thing, clawing at her throat, but years of Poole family training kicked in. Panic was a weakness. She took a deep, jagged breath, locking the fear behind a mask of polite indifference. She would not let him see her break. She stepped inside.

Pierce and Julian were lounging on the leather sofas. When they saw April trailing behind Bartholomew, their conversation died instantly.

Julian pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose. His eyes dragged up and down April's sequined, slightly revealing dress with undisguised disdain.

Pierce let out a low, mocking whistle. "First night back in the States, and you have to go downstairs to wrangle your runaway bride, Barty?"

Bartholomew ignored them. He walked straight to the main armchair, sat down, and crossed his long legs. He pointed a single finger at the empty single sofa across from him.

April's chest burned with humiliation. The way they looked at her like she was a stray dog he had dragged in infuriated her, but she had no power here. She swallowed her pride, walked over, and sat down stiffly.

She needed to break the silence before it crushed her.

"You look... much better than before you left for Europe," April said, her voice sickeningly sweet and entirely fake.

Bartholomew pulled a cigar from a silver case. A waiter materialized instantly to light it. Bartholomew took a slow drag, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. His expression didn't change.

"Does my good health mean your trust fund payout is indefinitely postponed?" he asked, his voice flat.

The temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees. Julian let out a sharp, cruel laugh. April shifted on the leather seat, feeling the prickle of sweat on her back.

"It was just a stupid joke," April pushed out, her voice tight. "The alcohol was talking."

Bartholomew suddenly leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his knees, bringing his face terrifyingly close to hers.

"What is the name of the friend who ran away?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

April's heart stuttered. She bit the inside of her cheek. She couldn't sell Constance out.

"I don't know her well. Just a girl I met tonight," April lied smoothly, keeping her chin up.

A dark, mocking amusement flickered in Bartholomew's eyes. He knew exactly who had run away. His own cowardly niece.

He didn't call out her lie. Instead, he turned his head slightly toward Pierce.

"Go downstairs. Pay the tab for that table of models," Bartholomew ordered.

Pierce raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the show. "Should I leave them a little extra for emotional distress?"

Bartholomew shot him a look so cold it could freeze boiling water. "Reynolds money isn't used to feed trash."

The casual, dismissive way he handled the situation-handling her mess like she was an incompetent child-snapped the last thread of April's patience.

She shot up from the sofa, grabbing her clutch.

"Since the bill is paid, I have no reason to sit here and be insulted," she said, her voice shaking with rage.

She spun on her heels and marched toward the heavy double doors, desperate to escape the suffocating testosterone in the room.

Her fingers brushed the cold metal of the door handle.

"Lock it," Bartholomew's voice rang out behind her, deep and absolute.

The two bodyguards standing outside pulled the doors shut. A heavy, metallic click echoed through the room. The deadbolt slid into place.

April spun around, her chest heaving. She stared into Bartholomew's dark eyes, seeing nothing but pure, unyielding possession. She was trapped in a cage, and he held the only key.