Too Late For Regret: The Genius Ex-Wife

Seraphina hit the ground hard. Her knees slammed into a chunk of ice hidden beneath the fresh snow. A sharp, electric pain shot up her femurs, making her gasp.

She heard the heavy click of the hospital's glass doors locking behind her.

She pulled the thin cashmere coat tighter around her shoulders. It offered zero protection against the howling wind. She forced herself to her feet, her legs trembling violently.

The wind whipped across her face, instantly freezing the tears on her cheeks. The temperature was dropping fast.

She couldn't stay here. She dragged her feet through the knee-deep snow, moving away from the hospital entrance toward the main road.

Within minutes, her thin hospital gown was soaked through. The wet fabric clung to her skin, draining her body heat. Her teeth chattered so hard her jaw ached.

She wrapped both arms around her stomach. She pressed her cold hands against her womb, silently praying for the tiny life inside her to hold on.

The streetlights flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow over the empty road. The city was a ghost town. No cabs. No pedestrians. Just the relentless whiteout.

Her vision began to blur at the edges. Her thoughts slowed down. The heavy, seductive pull of hypothermia started to drag her down.

Then, she heard it. The deep, powerful hum of a massive engine.

Two blinding LED headlights pierced the wall of snow. A vehicle was moving slowly down the center of the road.

Adrenaline flooded her system. This was it. Her only chance.

She pushed off her back foot and sprinted toward the middle of the street. She threw her arms out wide, standing like a broken cross directly in the path of the approaching black Maybach.

The driver slammed on the brakes. The heavy tires locked, sliding over the ice with a high-pitched screech.

The heavy chassis of the Maybach skidded over the ice, sliding for several terrifying yards before finally coming to a halt just a few feet away from her.

The physical shock of the near-impact drained the last of her strength. Her legs gave out. She dropped to her knees in the snow, her hands slamming onto the freezing hood of the car to keep from collapsing completely.

The driver's side window rolled down an inch. "Move, you crazy bitch!" the driver yelled.

In the back seat, the tinted privacy glass slowly lowered.

Silas Rhodes sat in the shadows. His sharp, aristocratic features were illuminated by the dashboard lights. He frowned, irritated by the delay.

"Mitch, get out and move her," Silas ordered, his voice a low rumble.

Silas looked out the window. He watched the woman shivering in the glow of the headlights. Then, his eyes narrowed as he took in her bruised face. He recognized her from the high-society pages. Seraphina Vaughn-Cromwell. Alistair's recently discarded wife.

She wasn't trying to push herself up anymore. Both of her hands were clamped tightly over her lower abdomen, curling inward in a desperate, protective instinct.

A cold, calculating smile touched Silas's lips. That specific posture-the absolute desperation of a mother protecting her unborn child-combined with her identity, sparked a dangerous idea. She wasn't just a dying woman; she was the ultimate weapon against his greatest rival.

Seraphina lifted her head. Through the swirling snow, her eyes locked onto the dark figure in the back seat. Her eyes were hollowed out by pain, but they burned with a ferocious refusal to die.

The connection lasted one second. Then, her eyes rolled back. She collapsed, sliding off the hood and disappearing into the snowbank.

Silas's heart skipped a beat. "Mitch. Get her in the car. Now."

Mitch looked back in shock, but he didn't argue. He jumped out into the storm, scooped up Seraphina's unconscious body, and carried her to the back door.

He laid her carefully on the leather seat next to Silas.

Silas immediately stripped off his custom-tailored suit jacket. It was still warm from his body heat. He draped it over her freezing, soaked shoulders, tucking it around her neck.

He looked at the bloody bandage on her head and her blue lips.

"Drive to the Long Island estate," Silas commanded.

The Maybach's engine roared. The heavy car gripped the ice and surged forward, vanishing into the blizzard.

In the warmth of the cabin, Seraphina's tense muscles finally went slack.