The Almighty Tycoon Returns For Her

April stomped down the hallway, her chest tight with a suffocating mix of anger and jealousy.

She reached the guest room at the end of the hall. She grabbed the handle and pushed. It didn't budge.

Frowning, she noticed the electronic keypad on the door. She punched in the standard default codes-0000, 1234. The screen flashed a harsh red light, beeping loudly. Access Denied.

She gripped the handle with both hands, rattling it in frustration.

Just as she was about to march back to the study and scream at him, the heavy oak door of the master bedroom down the hall clicked open.

Bartholomew stepped out.

He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose, black silk pajama pants. He held a glass of water in one hand. Damp hair fell across his forehead, and droplets of water still clung to his broad chest.

April's eyes inevitably landed on his bare torso. She froze. The breath was knocked out of her lungs.

Running directly down the center of his muscular left chest, right over his heart, was a massive, jagged surgical scar. It was a violent, angry red line, at least six inches long, looking like a grotesque centipede crawling over a marble statue.

It was a brutal, physical testament to a body that had been ripped open.

April's jealousy vanished instantly, replaced by the sharp, clinical instincts of an internal medicine doctor. Her eyes darted over the scar tissue.

She knew exactly what that was. That was the entry point for a major open-heart surgery. And based on the healing of the tissue, it was fresh. Less than a year old.

One year ago. The exact time he abandoned her the day after their wedding and flew to Europe.

April's hands flew to cover her mouth. Her eyes widened in pure horror.

"What... what happened to you?" she whispered, her voice trembling violently.

Bartholomew didn't try to cover himself. He took a sip of his water, his face completely impassive. He grabbed a towel draped over his shoulder and casually dried his hair.

"A genetic heart condition," he said, the words cold and detached. "The doctors in Switzerland fixed it."

The words hit April like a freight train.

He wasn't partying in Europe. He wasn't running away from her because she disgusted him. He was lying on an operating table, his chest sawed open, fighting for his life.

A wave of nausea and crushing guilt washed over her. Just a few hours ago at the club, she had been laughing, praying for his death so she could collect his money. She felt like a monster.

Bartholomew walked slowly toward her. He stopped right in front of her, looking down at her pale, stricken face. A dark, self-mocking smile touched his lips.

He reached out. His damp fingers gently tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

"Are you disappointed?" he murmured, his thumb brushing against her jawline. "I didn't die. I came back with a brand new heart."

April shook her head frantically. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Her medical empathy overpowered every defense she had.

Bartholomew dropped his hand. He pointed toward the open door of the master bedroom.

"The security system on the guest room is malfunctioning," he lied smoothly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You're sleeping in the master bedroom tonight."

If he had said this ten minutes ago, April would have fought him tooth and nail. But looking at the angry red scar over his heart, all the fight drained out of her.

She lowered her head like a reprimanded child and silently followed him into the massive master suite.

The room was dominated by a colossal King Size bed. The dark grey sheets smelled of his cedarwood cologne.

Bartholomew walked to the left side of the bed, pulled back the covers, and lay down, turning his back to her. He left more than half the bed empty.

April stood awkwardly near the door. She bit her lip, then slowly crept toward the right side of the bed. She climbed in, moving with agonizing slowness to avoid making a sound.

They were miles apart on the mattress, but this was the first time in their entire marriage they were sharing a bed.

The lights automatically dimmed to pitch black. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic sound of their breathing.

April lay flat on her back, stiff as a board. Her mind was a chaotic mess, bouncing between the paper airplane and the brutal scar on his chest.

She shifted slightly, the sheets rustling.

"If you toss and turn one more time," Bartholomew's gravelly voice drifted through the darkness, "I can't guarantee we'll just be sleeping."

April gasped softly, instantly freezing her body. She didn't dare move a single muscle.

In the dark, Bartholomew slowly opened his eyes. Listening to her breathing finally steady out, a triumphant, predatory smirk spread across his face.