Goodbye, My Love

Chapter 6---Let's Talk

Holden Prescott stared at Madeline Cook in her crimson dress a few paces away and muttered, "What the hell?"

Rowan Chadwick beside him arched a brow. "What's wrong?"

"She didn't take a single cent from Mr. Cook."

Rowan Chadwick burst out laughing. "Who told you that? Who else could've covered tonight's tab? The alcohol alone must've cost over three million dollars. Does Madeline Cook strike you as someone who'd casually throw that kind of money around?"

Holden hesitated. "Mr. Cook said it himself."

Rowan paused, then whispered, "Now *that* is truly unbelievable."

Madeline herself felt like she was living a nightmare. Who'd have thought that the one time she stepped into a club to celebrate her freedom, she'd run into Mr. Cook's closest friends?

Wendy Taylor, noticing her distant look, passed her a cocktail. "What's with the gloomy face? Don't tell me you're regretting the divorce already?"

Madeline rolled her eyes. "I'd only regret being a fool!"

She was wealthy—yes—but not reckless. Thank goodness she was only divorcing once. If she had to do this every time, even the world's richest would wince.

Wendy clicked her tongue, sat beside her, and nudged her shoulder. "So what's eating you? Feeling nostalgic?"

Madeline sipped the cocktail. Not bad—she took another. Then she said, "Check the eight o'clock position. Who's in that booth?"

Wendy had no clue—until she turned and nearly dropped her drink. "What kind of twisted luck is this, Madeline?"

Madeline shrugged. "I'd love to know."

She'd come to celebrate her rebirth, yet here she was, sipping a drink in a corner, looking like a woman scorned.

Mr. Cook's two closest friends were just meters away. She couldn't let them see her like this.

She downed the cocktail in one gulp and stood. "Dance with me?"

Wendy raised a brow. "Haven't danced in ages, have we?"

Madeline smiled. "Now that you mention it, we really haven't."

"Let's go! Tonight, we're stealing the spotlight!"

Wendy, full of fire, dragged her to the DJ and snatched the mic. "Hey, everyone! Let me introduce the woman behind tonight's drinks—my bestie, the legendary Madeline Cook! But that's not the main event. To celebrate her new beginning, we're giving you a show you'll never forget! Yeah! Let's light it up!"

At first, Madeline felt exposed. But if Wendy, the celebrity, didn't care, she might as well stop pretending.

Who knows what Wendy said to the DJ, but the lights shifted. The dancers cleared the stage. The glittering platform now belonged solely to them.

Poles descended from the ceiling. Under the kaleidoscopic glow, Madeline felt a surge of exhilaration.

Since marrying Mr. Cook, she'd buried her fire, playing the quiet, obedient wife—forgetting she'd never been that woman.

She didn't crave pity. She craved power. She was meant to reign.

As the music pulsed, Madeline glanced at Wendy. They'd learned this dance together—once for Wendy's audition, once for her own passion. When Wendy signed up for pole dancing, Madeline followed.

Twenty years of friendship. Eight years of rhythm. No rehearsal needed—they moved as one.

Under the shimmering lights, the two women circled the poles with feline grace, fingers trailing down each other's arms. The crowd roared.

Dressed in black and red, they twisted like flames. When Serena Halberg returned from a call, she nearly collapsed.

Is Wendy even thinking about her image?!

Serena rushed to the edge. "Wendy, have you lost your mind?!"

Wendy, tipsy and bold, sobered instantly at her manager's scream. She shrank back.

But Madeline was lost in the moment. Her long leg wrapped around the pole. She opened her mouth—then saw him.

Wendy raised a brow, fell silent, and slipped offstage. Only Madeline remained.

In her red dress, she commanded the stage. Though some noticed Wendy's exit, no one dared interrupt—the woman in red held them spellbound.

This was what Mr. Cook walked into: the woman who once played demure now danced like a serpent.

Her waist, boneless and fluid, coiled around the pole.

Her hair swung through the light, revealing a face of fierce beauty—eyes smoldering with lazy fire, like a wild cat climbing, or a rose blooming through cracks in concrete.

Her pale legs in the red dress wrapped around the metal, inviting desire.

Madeline slid down, dress fluttering, legs landing softly. She finished with a boneless press against the pole.

Breathing hard, she released her grip—then saw him.

Three meters away, Mr. Cook stood in a suit, face cold, eyes like a storm about to break.

She gave him one look. Then turned away.

"Amazing! Miss, can I be your dance partner for the night?"

She took the juice Wendy offered, tapped her forehead. "Don't think this means I'll forgive you for leaving me up there!"

"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry!"

Wendy was a walking contradiction—wild yet managed to maintain that icy celebrity persona. Madeline had to admire her.

"Don't hug me!"

She shoved her away. As Wendy tried again, Madeline snapped, "I'm drenched in sweat—stay back!"

Wendy grinned, leaned in. "Mr. Cook's here. You know?"

"Yeah."

Madeline kept her head down, sipping.

"When did you notice?"

Madeline smiled, about to speak—when a cold, sharp voice cut through: "Come out. Let's talk."