MY CEO REGRETS: CHASING HIS HEIRESS WIFE.

~ LYRA ~

"Sign here, Mr. Greg, we have a deal," I said, sliding the pen and the document across the table. "Trust me, you've made a great decision. You won't regret this." I glanced up and caught the bright grin spreading across his face.

"I know," he chuckled, eyes shining. "If there's nothing else, we should get going, our flight won't wait."

"Of course," I replied, shaking his hand with a firm, practiced grip. As they left, the contract already inked, I felt a quiet, steady pride settle in my chest. The day's work was done

It's been SIX years since the divorce, and the world I inhabit now feels both larger and smaller than the one I left behind. When my father passed, his company teetered on the brink of ruin.

I stepped into his office with nothing but raw determination and a relentless drive to prove first to myself, then to everyone who ever doubted me, that I could rebuild what had been broken.

I turned the business around, lifting it from bankruptcy to become the second‑largest empire on the planet. Billions now flow through our accounts, and each number feels like a silent affirmation of every sacrifice: the late‑night emails, the missed family dinners, the endless pressure that threatened to crush me.

The satisfaction of proving them all wrong is a fire that never quite burns out, even when my eyes sting from fatigue.

"Ms. Jones?" Mida's voice was filled with anticipation as she followed me into the office. "I can tell from that grin on your face... we got the deal, didn't we?"

I didn't say a word at first. I simply turned to her and let a slow, triumphant smile spread across my face as I gave a single, firm nod.

"Congratulations," Mida breathed, her eyes shining with genuine pride. "You do it so effortlessly, Lyra."

I had insisted she use my name when we were alone. In this cold world of business and vengeance, she was the only one I allowed to see the person behind the title.

"It only looks effortless because they don't see the work we do in the dark, Mida," I replied, as I sat on my chair.

"But thank you. We've earned this win."

I glanced at the clock, "That will be all for today. Go home and get some rest. You've worked hard for this."

"Alright, then, don't forget, your final schedule for the day is the gala at 6 p.m.," she announced, her voice crisp as the paper in front of her. I glanced at the clock, gave a curt nod, and dismissed her with a quiet, "Thank you, Mida. I won't."

The door clicked shut behind her. I rose, straightened my skirt, and walked to the floor‑to‑ceiling windows.

Below, the city sprawled, its neon veins pulsing like a living thing. It was his city, my city, the place I'd fought for, bled for, and lost so much in. I let the view settle in my chest before turning away to prepare for the night ahead.

I chose a midnight‑blue velvet gown that seemed to swallow the light around it. The dress hugged my shoulders with delicate, embroidered lace sleeves that fell into a subtle, cascading train. Its deep hue echoed the night sky, giving me a sense of calm authority.

A single, discreet slit traced the side of my thigh, not for daring, but for effortles movement as I glided across the marble floor. The back was modest, a high‑collar of silk that whispered against my skin, while a thin, silver chain of tiny pearls traced the neckline.

My brother, Michael, would be my plus‑one, my anchor in the storm of expectation.

The limousine halted at the red‑carpet entrance. Cameras flashed, a sea of lenses and shouting voices.

"Ms. Jones! Over here!"

"How does it feel to run the family empire?"

"Did the divorce affect the business?" I rolled my eyes, ignoring the personal barbs, and slipped inside with Michael at my side.

The familiar sting of intrusion mixing with a practiced patience. Michael slipped his hand into mine, grounding me. "You okay?" he whispered.

"Just... a lot of noise," I replied, forcing a smile. "They haven't seen me in six years. Let them stare."

"They'll tire soon."

Inside the ballroom, the chandeliers threw golden light across polished marble. The crowd's murmurs formed a low tide that rose as soon as the doors opened for the next guest..

He nodded, but his eyes lingered on the crowd. "I heard the Whites might be here tonight."

My fingers tightened around the glass I was holding. The name sent a jolt through me. "Probably just a rumor," I said, though my pulse told a different story.

A waiter approached with a tray of champagne. "Ms. Jones?"

I took a glass, raised it to my lips, and the doors at the far end swung open. A murmur rippled through the room. "Mr. White is here."

My breath caught. Lucian White, tall, immaculate in a tuxedo, a woman with a subtle baby bump on his arm. Aryan. A sudden, fierce wave of anger surged, tightening my grip on the glass until it threatened to shatter.

"Lyra," Michael murmured, his voice a thin lifeline. I turned away, the sudden rush of memories, courtroom whispers, the cold finality of the divorce papers, the hollow ache of abandonment, crashing over me like a tide. My heart hammered against my ribs, a mixture of betrayal, grief, and a strange, lingering love that refused to die.

I moved toward the balcony, the night air a promise of escape. The cold wind brushed against my cheeks, cooling the heat of my fury. I pressed my palms to the railing, the metal biting into my skin, trying to ground the storm inside me.

Six years of healing, six good years of pretending I'd moved on, and one glance had ripped it all open. I wasn't prepared for our paths to cross so soon.

I stared into the night, the midnight‑blue gown shimmering faintly in the moonlight, feeling the layers of my emotions settle like sediment: anger, grief, lingering affection, and an unshakable resolve.

The door opened again. Michael stepped out, his expression a mix of concern and resolve. "Lyra, we need to get back inside. The event's about to start."

I stared into the night, the weight of the city, the empire, and the ghost of a love I thought I'd buried pressing down on me.