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