Too Late For Regret, Mr. Morrison

Carmen returned to the Morrison estate to pack. The house felt different now. The staff avoided her eyes, stepping out of her path like she was contagious. But there was a new element in their gaze: fear. Word of the divorce and the trust fund had traveled fast.

She didn't take much. Just a single, small rolling suitcase. Inside were her mother's pearl earrings, a few photos, and her medical kit. She left the designer clothes, the jewelry, the car keys on the kitchen counter. She wanted nothing that belonged to him.

She walked out the front door, pulling the suitcase behind her. She had called a ride-share to take her to a hotel in the city.

She stood on the gravel driveway, waiting. The afternoon sun was too bright, making her head throb where the stitches pulled at her skin.

The roar of an engine shattered the quiet.

A black Bentley flew up the driveway, tires screeching on the loose stones. It skidded to a halt inches in front of her, blocking her path to the gate.

Kian jumped out of the driver's seat. He looked deranged. His tie was loose, his hair a mess, his eyes bloodshot and wild.

"You think you can just take my money and walk away?" he yelled, slamming the car door. "You think I'll let you humiliate me?"

Carmen gripped the handle of her suitcase. "The paper is signed, Kian. It's over."

"Over?" He stalked toward her. "You're going to run straight to Julian Thorne, aren't you? I saw the way he looked at you at the gala last month. You've been planning this."

Carmen frowned. Julian Thorne? She had barely spoken two words to the man. "You're delusional."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight until Farrah is safe," Kian growled. He lunged for her arm.

Carmen's instincts compelled her to scream. Her muscles tensed, ready to retaliate. A swift strike to the radial nerve, followed by a twist of the wrist, would be enough to bring him down. But a wave of intense dizziness washed over her.

She forced her body to remain loose, to look weak. "Kian, let go of me."

"You made the mistake!" he shouted. He yanked her arm, trying to drag her back toward the car.

Carmen staggered, her body becoming increasingly sluggish, a bad feeling washing over her. She dodged his pull by sidestepping, but in her weakened state, his strength only increased.

He kicked her suitcase in frustration. It flew open, spilling her belongings onto the gravel. A framed photo of her and her mother skidded across the stones, the glass cracking.

Carmen gasped. She looked down at the photo. In that split second of distraction, Kian grabbed her from behind.

He wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides. She slammed her elbow back into his ribs. She felt a satisfying thud, but not the crack she'd aimed for. Kian grunted in pain, but his grip only tightened.

He started dragging her toward the Bentley.

"Do you know why you've been feeling dizzy so often for the past six months?" Keane's deep voice boomed in my ear, like the whisper of a demon.

Carmen shook her head, trying to shake off the heavy, oppressive feeling in her head. Her blood felt frozen, and a bone-chilling cold enveloped her.

“I’ve included a little gift in your milk every morning.” Keane gripped Carmen’s hand even tighter, as if his bones were about to break.

The suffocating, overwhelming force was surging through Carmen, who was almost losing her ability to think.

She naively thought she was just too tired, never imagining that the person next to her in bed was a devil.

Carmen tried to speak, but her breath was knocked out of her. Her vision started to gray at the edges. The world was fading.

Then, a new sound. The low, powerful purr of a different engine.

A sleek, black, armored SUV glided to a stop behind the Bentley. The windows were tinted black.

The rear window rolled down with a quiet hum.

A man sat in the back seat. He was dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit. His face was sharp, aristocratic, and completely devoid of emotion. His dark eyes surveyed the scene: the spilled suitcase, the bleeding photo, Kian manhandling a limp, half-conscious Carmen.

Julian Thorne.

He didn't speak. He just watched. His gaze lingered on Kian's brutal grip, then moved to Carmen's fading eyes.

The look on his face wasn't surprise. It was calculation. And it was very, very dangerous.