Too Late For Regret, Mr. Mckinney

The hum of quiet efficiency in the Elysian Creative office was usually a sound Everleigh loved. Today, it felt like the ticking of a clock counting down to disaster.

She was in the middle of a strategy meeting with her small team, trying to figure out their next move. The energy was tense.

Her assistant, Mia Foster, knocked and entered the glass-walled conference room, her face pale with worry.

"Everleigh," she whispered, leaning in close. "I just heard back from the agency that handles the Times Square digital billboard."

Everleigh paused, her pen hovering over the whiteboard. "And?"

"They said our application has been... indefinitely postponed." Mia swallowed hard. "A 'higher priority client' took the slot."

Everleigh's fingertips began a soft, unconscious rhythm against the cool surface of the conference table. Tap. Tap. Tap.

She didn't need to ask who. She knew.

A chill that had nothing to do with the office air conditioning crept down her spine. He wasn't just threatening her anymore. He was actively dismantling her business, piece by piece.

She forced her expression to remain calm for her team. "Okay. Plan B. Mia, get in touch with the reps for the Nasdaq Tower. Ryan, let's look at a more aggressive social media push."

The meeting wrapped up, but the cloud of uncertainty remained. Everleigh stood alone at the window of her office, looking out at the chaotic ballet of New York traffic below. She had built this place with her own two hands, every client won, every project completed a testament to her independence. And he thought he could just take it all away.

A wave of helplessness washed over her, so strong it made her knees feel weak.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. An unknown number.

Her heart gave a hard thud against her ribs. She hesitated for only a second before answering, her voice cool and professional.

"Everleigh Conway."

The voice on the other end was ice. Pure, distilled rage, barely contained.

"We need to meet. You can choose the place. Or I can choose for you."

It was Brice. And he sounded like he was on the verge of starting a war.

In his office high above Manhattan, Brice stared at the phone on his desk, his grip tightening. On his desk, next to the first report, lay a second, much shorter one.

It was a single page from a genetics lab.

The results were brutally simple. A comparison between a sample from "John Doe" (Brice) and "Minor Male" (Leo Conway).

Probability of Paternity: 99.9%

The words seemed to burn on the page.

Jamey had just finished explaining how his investigator had managed it. A discarded ice cream spoon from a playground trash can near Everleigh's apartment. Clean, efficient, and utterly damning.

Brice hadn't really heard the details. His mind was a maelstrom of white-hot fury.

She had hidden his son from him.

The thought was a profound betrayal, a calculated theft of his own flesh and blood. The anger was so intense it felt like a physical presence in the room, choking him. He felt a surge of jealousy so powerful it made him see red.

He shot up from his chair, the force of the movement sending the heavy leather seat rolling back until it slammed into the credenza behind him. The sound echoed in the vast office.

He snatched the report from the desk, his knuckles white. He strode to the window, the city spread out beneath him like a map of his own kingdom.

He had given her this city. He had laid it at her feet. And in return, she had stood in this very city and made a fool of him by keeping his heir a secret.

He crushed the paper in his fist.

"Cancel my afternoon," he said to Jamey, his back still to the room.

He pulled out his phone, his thumb moving with violent precision until it found her number. A number he hadn't called in two years.

He listened to her cool, professional greeting, the sound of her voice a spark on dry tinder. And he issued his ultimatum.

Back in her office, Everleigh held the phone, the heavy silence on the line vibrating with his unspoken threat. She could still feel the barely controlled violence in his voice. It was more than just anger about the divorce or her company. This was something else. Something personal.

She had assumed it was about the billboard.

"I have nothing to say to you," she said, her voice colder than his.

A harsh, humorless laugh crackled through the line. "Really? Then let's talk about Leo Conway."

The world tilted on its axis. Her breath hitched. Her blood ran cold.

He knew.

"Three o'clock. In front of your building."

The line went dead.

Everleigh slowly lowered the phone, her hand trembling. He had found her son. He had found her one vulnerability, and he was already using it as a weapon.