Too Late, Billionaire: Watch Me Leave

The force of her slap, of her defiance, hung in the air between them. Ciara took a half-step back, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

The adrenaline that had fueled her, the anger that had been her armor, suddenly drained away. The day's events-the rain, the stress, the emotional trauma-crashed down on her all at once.

The room began to spin. Jordon's furious face blurred into a distorted mess of color.

Her legs gave out. She was falling, a puppet with its strings cut, toward the cold, hard floor.

Jordon's eyes widened. The rage vanished, replaced by a primal, gut-wrenching panic.

He moved faster than she thought possible, lunging forward and catching her before she hit the ground. He scooped her limp body into his arms.

The moment his hand touched her forehead, he flinched. She was burning up.

"Get the car ready! Now!" he roared at the guards still standing in the doorway.

Jordon carried her down the stairs, his long strides eating up the distance. He carefully placed her in the back of the armored SUV and climbed in beside her, pulling her close.

"Go," he ordered the driver. "Break every damn law you have to."

The car shot into traffic. Jordon held her shivering body, his mind racing. He felt a terror so profound it almost choked him.

Back at the Fifth Avenue penthouse, Jordon carried her straight to the master bedroom, laying her gently on the massive bed and covering her with a thick down comforter.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Alistair Finch, the Webb family's private physician, arrived, breathless and carrying his medical bag. He began his examination immediately.

"High fever, signs of dehydration and shock," he murmured, listening to her heart with a stethoscope. "I need to draw blood, run a full panel. Find the source of the infection."

He pulled out a rubber tourniquet and wrapped it around her left arm, the uninjured one.

The sharp, sterile sound of a needle being unwrapped from its plastic casing filled the quiet room. The cold tip of the needle touched her skin.

That cold prick was enough to slice through the fog of her fever. Ciara's eyes flew open. She saw the needle, the syringe, the doctor's focused expression.

Blood test.

HCG levels.

They would know. They would know about the baby. The family trust, the pre-nup, the clauses about heirs... they would take her child. They would rip it from her arms and she would be powerless to stop them.

A surge of pure, animal terror gave her a strength she didn't know she possessed.

She screamed, a raw, ragged sound, and thrashed wildly, knocking the doctor's hand away.

The metal tray beside the bed crashed to the floor, scattering vials and sterile wipes across the expensive rug.

"Get away from me!" she shrieked, scrambling to the far corner of the bed, pulling the sheets around her like a shield. Her eyes were wild, dilated with absolute panic. "You all want to hurt me! I don't trust you! I won't let any of you touch me! Get out! Get out!"

The doctor stared, shocked and confused.

She began to hyperventilate, her breath coming in short, panicked pants. It was a terrifying display of a complete emotional breakdown, fueled by genuine, trauma-induced terror that the doctor couldn't possibly dismiss as mere hysterics.

Jordon looked at her, at her pale, tear-streaked face, at the wild fear in her eyes. He saw the raw, angry burn on her other hand. A wave of guilt, sharp and suffocating, washed over him. He had done this to her.

Jordon turned to the bewildered doctor. His voice was low, but it carried the weight of absolute command.

"Get out."

Dr. Finch didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to pick up his supplies and fled the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Now they were alone.

Jordon slowly approached the bed, his movements careful, as if approaching a wounded, terrified animal.

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