The Penniless Ex-Wife Is A Hidden Boss

Casey stared at the Beef Wellington resting in the center of the long mahogany dining table. The pastry crust had collapsed into a soggy mess. The rich gravy had congealed into a thick, cold paste. She watched a single drop of condensation slide down the side of her crystal water glass and hit the expensive linen tablecloth. The antique grandfather clock in the corner of the penthouse began to chime. The heavy brass pendulum swung back and forth, slicing through the dead silence of the room. Twelve strikes. Midnight.

She picked up her phone from the table and pressed her thumb against the screen. The bright light stung her tired eyes. The screen was completely empty. There were no missed calls. There were no text messages from Bartholomew. There was only a blank, silent screen mocking the five hours she had spent sitting in this chair.

She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the stem of her wine glass. The glass was freezing. The coldness seeped into her skin, traveling up her arm and settling deep in her chest. It felt like a physical weight pressing down on her lungs. She let go of the glass and let her hand drop to her lap.

Her phone suddenly vibrated against the wood table. The harsh buzzing sound made her flinch. The screen lit up with a name. Julian Croft. He was the senior manager at the Tinglan Private Club.

Casey swiped the screen and brought the phone to her ear.

"Mrs. Hendricks." Julian spoke quickly. His voice was tight and awkward. "I apologize for the late call. Mr. Hendricks has had quite a bit to drink. He requested that a family member come pick him up."

Casey did not yell. Her heart did not speed up. She simply took a slow breath and let it out.

"I will be there in twenty minutes," Casey said.

She ended the call and stood up. She reached behind her back and pulled the zipper down on her expensive silk dress. The fabric pooled at her feet. This was the dress Bartholomew had picked out for their fifth anniversary. She stepped out of it and left it lying on the hardwood floor.

She walked into the massive closet and pulled a plain gray trench coat off a hanger. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and tied the belt tightly around her waist. She grabbed the Porsche keys from the marble counter and walked straight to the private elevator.

The engine of the Porsche roared to life in the underground garage. The sound vibrated up her arms and into her shoulders. Casey drove out onto the empty Manhattan streets. The freezing rain hit the windshield in heavy sheets. The wipers scraped back and forth in a relentless, mechanical rhythm. She kept her eyes locked on the red taillights of the car in front of her.

She pulled the Porsche up to the front entrance of the Tinglan Club. The valet stepped forward. He looked at her plain gray coat and hesitated for a full second before reaching out to take the keys.

Casey pushed the heavy brass doors open. A wall of sound hit her instantly. The heavy bass of the music vibrated against her ribs. The air was thick with the smell of expensive cigars and spilled alcohol.

Julian was waiting at the end of the entrance hallway. He refused to meet her eyes. He held out a black VIP keycard.

"He is in the back," Julian said.

Casey took the card from his hand. She ignored the pity on his face and walked past him. She moved down the long, dark corridor toward the most exclusive room in the club.

She swiped the card and pushed the door open. The room was bathed in a dark purple light. Casey stopped just inside the doorway, letting the shadows hide her.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. She saw him sitting in the center of the large leather sofa. Her stomach violently twisted into a tight knot.

Bartholomew had his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He was looking down at the woman sitting pressed against his side. The hard, cold lines of his jaw were completely relaxed. He looked soft. He looked gentle. He never looked at Casey like that.

The woman turned her head. The candlelight caught the side of her face. It was Halie Haynes. She was wearing a sparkling rhinestone birthday crown on top of her blonde hair.

Casey stared at Halie's neck. A massive blue sapphire necklace rested against her collarbone. Casey recognized it instantly. Bartholomew's assistant had purchased that exact necklace at an auction last week. Casey had thought it was her anniversary gift.

The crowd in the room started clapping and cheering. Someone brought out a massive cake. No one noticed the legal wife standing in the shadows.

A blonde woman in a tight red dress turned around to grab a bottle of champagne. She saw Casey standing by the door. The blonde gasped and fumbled her glass. The champagne spilled all over the floor.

"Oh my god," the blonde said loudly. She pointed a manicured finger at Casey. "Look who decided to check up on us. The little contract wife is here."

The music cut off abruptly. The sudden silence was deafening. Every single person in the room turned to stare at Casey. Their eyes were filled with raw, unfiltered disgust and amusement.

Halie gasped and shrank back against Bartholomew's chest. She made herself look tiny and fragile. Her eyes filled with tears.

"I am so sorry," Halie whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear. "I told them I did not want a party. I did not mean to cause trouble."

Bartholomew lifted his head. The softness in his eyes vanished the second he looked at Casey. His gaze turned into solid ice. He pulled his eyebrows together in deep annoyance.

"What are you doing here?" Bartholomew demanded. His voice was a cold whip. "Why are you interrupting my friends?"

A few of the men in the room snickered. They leaned in and whispered to each other, laughing at the woman who could not even keep her husband's attention on their anniversary.

Casey stood perfectly still. She curled her fingers inward and dug her nails deep into the palms of her hands. The sharp pain grounded her. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted the warm, metallic tang of blood. She swallowed it down.

She did not lower her head. She looked straight into Bartholomew's eyes. Her chest was completely hollow. There was no anger left. There was no sadness. There was only a freezing, absolute emptiness.

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the car keys. She tossed them onto the glass coffee table near the door. The metal hit the glass with a sharp, loud crack that echoed in the silent room.

"The car is outside," Casey said. Her voice was flat and steady. "Whenever you are done playing here, you can drive yourself home."

She did not wait for his response. She turned her back on him, pushed the heavy door open, and walked out into the hallway. The cold air hit her face. She took a deep breath, feeling her lungs expand. The marriage was dead.