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.