The Almighty Tycoon Returns For Her

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.