The Almighty Tycoon Returns For Her

Bartholomew pressed the half-smoked cigar into the crystal ashtray, crushing the cherry until it died.

He stood up. His massive frame seemed to swallow the dim light in the room.

He walked toward April. The soft thud of his leather shoes against the Persian rug sounded like a countdown to her execution.

April shrank back instinctively. Her shoulder blades hit the solid wood of the locked door. She tilted her chin up, glaring at him with wild, defiant eyes.

Bartholomew stopped inches away from her. He looked down at her chest, watching it rise and fall rapidly with her panicked breaths. His eyes darkened.

He didn't yell. He didn't curse. He simply reached into his own pocket and pulled out a set of sleek car keys. He tossed them in his palm once, the metal clicking softly. April's eyes widened—she didn't recognize them. They weren't hers.

"Hey!" April gasped, confused. "Those aren't mine!"

Bartholomew ignored her protest. "They are now," he said flatly. "And I'm keeping them. Your blood alcohol level prohibits you from driving tonight."

He turned his head, giving Pierce and Julian a brief nod of dismissal. Then, he wrapped his large hand around April's waist, his fingers pressing firmly into her side, and physically guided her out of the room as the bodyguards unlocked the doors.

The guards formed a human wall, clearing a path down the hallway. April, completely overpowered, stumbled slightly, forced to match his long strides.

They stepped into the VIP elevator. The doors slid shut, sealing them in a descending metal box. The faint, bitter scent of medicine mixed with his expensive cedarwood cologne filled her lungs.

The elevator pinged open in the underground garage. A jet-black, bulletproof Maybach was idling in the VIP spot. The driver rushed out, pulling the rear door open.

Just as Bartholomew put his hand on April's head to guide her into the car, a voice echoed from the stairwell.

"Hey! Let her go!"

The blonde model from the club came stumbling out of the fire exit, his shirt torn at the collar, his face pale with terror. One of his hands clutched his ribs as if he had been shoved hard. He pointed a trembling, hesitant finger at Bartholomew, his voice shaking. "You... you can't force a woman into a car! I'll... I'll call the cops!"

April squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted the concrete floor to open up and swallow her. The sheer stupidity of this boy was physically painful—but she also noticed how terrified he looked.

Bartholomew stopped. He pulled April behind his back, shielding her completely. He looked at the model the way a man looks at a cockroach.

He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a sleek checkbook. He uncapped a fountain pen, scribbled a string of numbers, ripped the check out, and threw it directly at the model's face.

The paper fluttered to the ground.

"This is enough money to buy that face of yours," Bartholomew said, his voice lethal. "Get out of Manhattan."

The model looked down at the check. He saw the amount. He saw the signature. All the blood drained from his face. His knees buckled. He didn't even pick up the check—he turned and scrambled back into the stairwell, tripping over his own feet, disappearing into the darkness.

April watched, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Part of her was relieved the ridiculous confrontation was over, but a larger, more terrified part saw the casual, brutal way he wielded his wealth. To him, people were just numbers on a check, to be dismissed or destroyed at will. And she was now entirely in his possession.

With the garbage disposed of, Bartholomew turned around. He didn't use a gentle touch this time. He practically shoved April into the spacious backseat of the Maybach and climbed in after her.

The heavy door slammed shut. The driver immediately pressed a button, and the thick, soundproof partition rolled up, sealing the back seat into absolute privacy.

April rubbed her wrist, sliding as far left as the leather seat would allow. She pressed herself against the door, staring warily at the man who had already closed his eyes, resting his head back.

The Maybach glided smoothly out of the garage, merging into the glowing neon arteries of Manhattan. The silence in the car was so thick it felt like water filling her lungs.

After five agonizing minutes, April couldn't take it anymore.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded. "Are we going back to that cold museum you call a house?"

Bartholomew didn't open his eyes. He pressed the intercom button.

"Change the route. Take us to the diner in Hell's Kitchen."

April froze. Her breath hitched. That old, run-down diner was where she used to go at 3 AM during her brutal medical residency rotations. How the hell did he know about that place?

The Maybach pulled up to the curb. The flickering, buzzing neon sign of the diner reflected off the bulletproof glass, looking completely absurd next to a million-dollar car.

Bartholomew stepped out first. He popped open a large black umbrella. He walked around the back of the car and opened her door, the rain drumming heavily against the umbrella fabric.

He held out his large, scarred hand, waiting for her. It was a domineering gesture, yet laced with a strange, eerie chivalry.

April stared at his hand through the curtain of rain. A tiny crack formed in the impenetrable wall of hatred she had built against him.

She took a shaky breath, placed her cold fingers into his warm palm, and let him lead her into the diner that smelled of burnt sugar and cheap coffee.