Too Late For Regret: The Genius Ex-Wife

The sharp, chemical stench of bleach burned Seraphina's nostrils. The steady, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor drilled into her aching head. She forced her eyelids open. The harsh fluorescent lights of the VIP hospital room blinded her.

Every bone in her body felt like it had been crushed in a vice. A dull, throbbing agony radiated from her skull.

She ignored the pain in her head. Her right hand immediately dropped to her stomach. She pressed her palm against the hospital gown. It was flat, but deep inside, she felt a faint, steady flutter.

She exhaled a long, shaky breath. The knot in her chest loosened just a fraction.

The heavy door pushed open. Julian walked in. He held a sleek black folder and a familiar manila envelope.

He stopped at the foot of her bed. His eyes were devoid of sympathy. "Mr. Vaughn-Cromwell will not be visiting you."

Julian tossed the manila envelope onto her lap. He placed a heavy Montblanc pen beside it.

"He expects your signature," Julian said coldly. "The alimony is generous. Once you sign, you are no longer his problem."

Seraphina stared at the divorce papers. The corners of her cracked lips twitched upward into a weak, humorless smile.

She didn't hesitate. She reached over with her left hand and ripped the IV needle out of the back of her right hand. Bright red blood instantly welled up, spilling over her knuckles.

She grabbed the Montblanc pen with her bloody fingers. She flipped to the last page and slashed her signature across the dotted line, smearing red across the crisp white paper.

She picked up the document and threw it at Julian's chest. "Take your trash and get out."

Julian blinked, a flicker of surprise breaking his professional mask. He gathered the papers, turned on his heel, and walked out.

The door clicked shut. Seraphina's fragile, defeated posture vanished. Her spine straightened. Her eyes turned to ice.

She leaned back against the pillows. The memory hit her with physical force. Her father, standing on the edge of the Wall Street high-rise. The sickening sound of his body hitting the pavement.

She remembered the phone call the night before he jumped. Alistair's cold, arrogant voice echoing through the speakerphone, systematically destroying her father's company, stripping him of everything under the Bankruptcy Code.

She was not Seraphina Fletcher. She was Seraphina Yates.

For two years, she had played the submissive, pathetic stand-in. She had swallowed her pride, infiltrated his life, and mapped out every vulnerability in the Vaughn-Cromwell empire.

She dug her fingernails into her palms. A wave of intense nausea washed over her. She hated herself for the moments she had almost believed his lies, for the moments her heart had betrayed her logic.

She stared out the window at the relentless snowstorm. She made a silent vow to the father she couldn't save. She would burn Alistair's empire to the ground.

She threw off the thin blanket. She gritted her teeth against the agonizing pain in her ribs and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

A nurse pushed a medical cart into the room. She gasped and dropped a roll of gauze. "Ma'am! You can't be out of bed!"

Seraphina grabbed the nurse's wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "My baby. Is it alive?"

The nurse stammered, intimidated by the fierce look in Seraphina's eyes. "Y-yes. There are signs of threatened miscarriage, but the fetal heartbeat is stable."

Seraphina pulled the nurse closer. "You will not put that in my chart. You will tell no one. If Alistair finds out, I will make sure you never work in medicine again."

The nurse swallowed hard, feeling the crushing weight of the woman's authority. She nodded quickly.

Seraphina let go and climbed back into bed. Her mind raced. Alistair would demand medical records soon. He would find out the abortion never happened.

She closed her eyes. She had to disappear before the sun came up.