Three days later, the crystal chandeliers inside Le Bernardin cast a warm, golden glow over the dining room. The Michelin-starred seafood restaurant was quiet, filled only with the low murmur of Manhattan's elite.
Casey sat at a corner table near the window. She wore a sleek, black silk slip dress that perfectly framed her collarbones. Her hair was pulled back into a sharp, elegant knot. The bruise on her cheek had faded to a faint yellow, easily hidden by makeup.
She raised a crystal glass of expensive Chardonnay. Across the table, Paige raised her own glass.
"To Bedlam," Paige whispered excitedly.
They clinked their glasses together. Casey took a sip of the cold wine. She had just signed the final contract with the Hollywood studio. She had secured full creative control and a massive upfront payment. She was officially a major player in the industry. She felt a surge of pure, electric confidence run through her veins.
A sudden shift in the atmosphere made Casey look up. The maître d' was bowing deeply near the entrance, rushing to accommodate two new guests.
Casey's eyes locked onto the doorway.
Bartholomew walked into the restaurant. He was wearing a custom navy-blue suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His face was a mask of cold authority. Clinging tightly to his right arm was Halie Haynes.
Halie was wearing a bright red designer dress. She was smiling brightly, looking around the room to make sure everyone saw her. She had just been handed the lead movie role Bartholomew bought for her, and she was radiating arrogant triumph.
Bartholomew's eyes scanned the room. His gaze suddenly stopped. He saw Casey.
His footsteps faltered. He stared at her. She looked stunning. She did not look like a broken, abandoned wife. She looked powerful. A hot spike of irrational anger pierced his chest.
Halie followed his gaze. When she saw Casey, her smile tightened. She gripped Bartholomew's arm harder, pressing her chest against his bicep.
The maître d' led them to a VIP booth just three tables away from Casey.
As soon as Bartholomew sat down, Halie stood back up. She smoothed her red dress and walked purposefully across the dining room, her high heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.
Halie stopped right next to Casey's table. She looked down at Casey and let out a loud, theatrical sigh.
"Casey," Halie said, her voice dripping with fake pity. "I am so surprised to see you here. I heard you moved out of the penthouse. Are you staying in some awful little motel in the outer boroughs? You really should have asked Bart for some money."
Paige slammed her wine glass down on the table. She opened her mouth to scream, but Casey reached under the table and grabbed Paige's wrist, squeezing hard to keep her quiet.
Casey picked up her silver knife and fork. She slowly cut a piece of her seared scallop. She did not look up at Halie.
"You need to step back," Casey said calmly, chewing her food. "That cheap, synthetic vanilla perfume you drown yourself in is ruining the smell of my food."
Halie's face turned bright red. Her mouth dropped open in shock. That perfume was a limited-edition scent Bartholomew had bought for her.
Before Halie could scream, a large shadow fell over the table. Bartholomew had crossed the room. He stepped in front of Halie, shielding her.
He placed both of his large hands flat on the edge of Casey's table and leaned down. His face was inches from hers. His eyes were dark and furious.
"Do not take your bitterness out on her," Bartholomew hissed. "She has nothing to do with your failures."
Casey finally put her fork down. She picked up her white linen napkin and elegantly dabbed the corners of her mouth. She looked up directly into his angry eyes. Her gaze was full of mocking amusement.
Bartholomew hated that look. He decided to drop the bomb he had been saving.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
"You think you are so clever, hiding out in the slums," Bartholomew whispered dangerously. "But you left a trail. I know exactly where you are staying. I know all about that pathetic little apartment in Brooklyn and your loudmouth friend, Paige. If you do not withdraw that ridiculous net-zero divorce filing, I will not come after your nonexistent bank accounts. I will come after her."
He watched her face, waiting for the panic to set in. Waiting for her to realize she was trapped.
"Cancel the divorce filing tonight," Bartholomew commanded smoothly. "Apologize, and come home where you belong. Keep pushing, and my lawyers will make sure your best friend loses her job, her apartment, and everything she owns before Friday."
Casey stared at him for three seconds. Then, she laughed. It was a soft, genuine laugh filled with absolute pity.
She reached into her small black clutch. She pulled out a sleek, heavy metal credit card. It was completely black, with no bank logo and no Hendricks family crest. It was the private offshore account card she had secretly maintained for years under the 'Bedlam' pseudonym, holding millions in royalties that the Hendricks family never even knew existed.
She held the card between her index and middle finger. She flicked her wrist. The heavy metal card hit the table and slid across the white linen, stopping right against Bartholomew's knuckles.
"Sue me," Casey said. Her voice was ice cold and deadly serious. "Let's see who works faster. Your lawyers, or my ability to turn you into the biggest joke in New York City."
She raised her hand and signaled the waiter. She paid the bill with a tap of her phone. She stood up, grabbed her clutch, and walked right past Bartholomew. Paige followed closely behind.
Bartholomew stood frozen at the table. He stared down at the strange black card. His heart hammered violently against his ribs. The threat had completely failed.
Hours later, at two in the morning, Bartholomew sat alone in the back of his Maybach. The car was parked on a dark, empty street. He pulled his tie loose. He stared at his phone. He pressed Casey's number again.
The automated voice filled the dark car. "The number you have dialed is unavailable."
He threw the phone against the leather seat and buried his face in his hands.
