The Billionaire's Asset: Cashing Out Freedom

Dylan downed half the glass of champagne in one swallow. The carbonation burned her throat, It was a good burn, It felt like life.

Zoe slid an iPad across the sticky table.

"Tonight's special menu," Zoe said, winking.

Dylan looked at the screen. It wasn't a list of vintage wines. It was a roster of male models and performers available for private entertainment.

She swiped through the photos. Blonde. Blue eyes. All-American jawlines.

"Too vanilla," Dylan muttered.

Zoe laughed, pouring more champagne. "So what's your risk appetite tonight? Wild? Artistic?"

Dylan stared at a photo of a man with too many muscles. Her eyes glazed over.

"I want... a distraction," she said. "Claudius was... a dictator. In all things."

Her smile faltered when she said his name.

Zoe saw it. She leaned in.

"You're still thinking about him? That fifty million is enough to buy your own island."

"It's not the money," Dylan said. She pushed the iPad away. "It's the feeling of being a liquidated asset."

She needed a bigger distraction. She pointed at a thumbnail on the screen. A group act called "Apollo."

"That one."

The waiter nodded and disappeared into the shadows.

A commotion erupted at the next booth. Loud, obnoxious laughter.

Dylan stiffened. She knew that laugh.

"Don't turn around," she hissed to Zoe. "It's Sharpe."

Quentin Sharpe. Claudius's cousin. The black sheep. The man who had tried to grope her at her own wedding reception.

Quentin was standing on the banquette, pouring vodka into the mouth of a giggling model. He scanned the room with predatory eyes. The lighting was dim, strobing purple and blue. He looked right at Dylan's back, but he didn't seem to recognize her.

"How did he get in here?" Zoe asked.

"Money opens doors," Dylan said. "Even for pigs."

The music shifted. The tempo dropped to a slow, grinding R&B beat. The lights focused on the small stage in the VIP area.

The "Apollo" group walked out. Shirtless. Oiled.

Dylan rested her chin on her hand. She watched them with the detached eye of a horse trader.

She looked at the lead dancer's abs. They were defined, but asymmetrical.

Claudius had perfect symmetry. Even his muscles were disciplined.

"Damn it," Dylan whispered.

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the image of her husband stepping out of the shower.

She waved the manager over. He was a slick man in a velvet blazer.

"I want to play a game," Dylan said. "Blind Man's Bluff."

The manager hesitated. "That is... an interactive package. It requires a private room."

Dylan reached into her purse. She pulled out a slim wallet containing several untraceable debit cards and a significant amount of cash. Her escape fund.

"Clear a room," she said, sliding a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills across the table. "And put it on a new tab. Under 'Cash'."

The manager saw the money. His hesitation evaporated.

"Right this way, Ms. Cash."

Dylan stood up. She unzipped her leather jacket, letting it slide down her arms. Her bare back gleamed in the strobe lights.

She walked toward the private rooms. She was going to burn the memory of Claudius Snyder out of her brain, one dollar at a time.