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.