Too Late, Billionaire: Watch Me Leave

The sedan pulled up to the curb in front of the Webb Capital building on Wall Street. Ciara stepped out, the cold, drizzling rain hitting her face.

She walked up the marble steps, her sunglasses a mask of indifference, and pushed through the revolving glass doors.

The lobby was an ocean of polished granite and quiet, expensive ambition. She walked to the reception desk. "I'm here to see Jordon Webb. Top floor."

The receptionist, a young woman with a perfectly polite and impenetrable smile, looked her up and down. "Do you have an appointment, ma'am?"

Ciara's jaw tightened. Before she could produce an ID that would prove she was, in fact, Mrs. Webb, a man rushed out from the elevator bank.

It was Marcus Cross, Jordon's executive assistant.

"Mrs. Webb," he said, his voice a mixture of surprise and carefully controlled professionalism. He dismissed the receptionist with a flick of his wrist. His eyes, however, held a hint of suspicion.

Ciara felt it instantly, the subtle shift in the air. He was guarding something. "Take me to Jordon," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Cross swiped his keycard for the executive elevator. The ride up was silent, the air thick with unspoken questions.

The doors opened onto the top floor. The sound of a hundred keyboards clicking in unison filled the air, the hum of a billion-dollar hive.

She followed Cross down a long hallway toward the corner office, her heels sinking into the plush, ridiculously expensive carpet.

Halfway there, a frantic analyst stopped Cross, pointing at a screen filled with cascading red numbers. Cross shot her an apologetic look. "One moment, Mrs. Webb."

Ciara didn't wait. She continued walking toward the massive, double mahogany doors of Jordon's office. She noticed one of the doors was slightly ajar.

She reached for the handle, but a voice from inside stopped her. It was Preston, Jordon's best friend and a notorious playboy.

"So you spent the whole night playing nurse to Jasmine," Preston said, his voice laced with amusement. "Doesn't your little charity case wife from the Rust Belt ever get jealous?"

Ciara froze. Her fingers dug into the cool wood of the doorframe, her knuckles turning white. She held her breath.

The flick of a lighter. Then Jordon's voice, cold and devoid of any emotion.

"She's a protocol wife, Preston. She knows her place. I don't have to explain anything to her. She's replaceable."

The words were a physical blow. They knocked the air from her lungs, the strength from her legs. She stumbled backward, her elbow lightly brushing against a large, framed abstract painting on the wall. The frame made a barely audible, soft scrape against the wallpaper, a sound completely swallowed by the hum of the office.

Panic seized her. She had to get out. She turned to flee, to escape the suffocating reality of his words, and ran straight into a group of people emerging from a conference room.

At the head of the group was Taryn, Jordon's cousin. Her perfectly styled dress and arrogant expression were a Webb family signature. She looked Ciara up and down, a slow, insulting appraisal.

"Well, well," Taryn sneered, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "Look what crawled out of the woodwork. I didn't know Webb Capital gave tours to the homeless."

The executives behind her chuckled. Their eyes, filled with the casual cruelty of the elite, raked over Ciara.

She was trapped in the middle of the hallway, a specimen under a microscope. Her sunglasses couldn't hide the sudden pallor of her face.

Taryn took a step closer, her voice dripping with venom. "Everything you're wearing, from that suit to the shoes on your feet, was paid for by my family. A gift. You should be more grateful."

The whispers of the executives were like snakes, slithering into her ears, poisoning her. She felt her breath shorten, the air growing thin.

Her hand instinctively went to her purse, her fingers pressing against the thin paper of the lab report hidden inside. A surge of protective instinct, fierce and primal, shot through her.

Ciara took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and met Taryn's gaze. "Get out of my way," she said, her voice low and steady.

Taryn looked momentarily stunned by her defiance, then her expression twisted into a mask of rage. She raised the paper cup of coffee she was holding, blocking Ciara's path.

The air in the hallway crackled with tension. A battle of wills, of class, of dignity, was about to erupt in the heart of Wall Street.

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