Too Late For Regret: The Ruthless Wife

The interior of the Maybach smelled like expensive leather and stale cologne.

Cora sat stiffly in the back seat. Leland had forced her into a heavy, violet gown. The fabric was thick and conservative. The neckline choked her collarbone, and the tight sleeves restricted her arms. It was designed to make her look invisible.

Leland sat next to her. He adjusted his silk tie and glared at her.

"You keep your mouth shut today," Leland warned, his voice a low growl. "You stand next to me, you smile, and you don't speak unless spoken to."

Cora closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window. She ignored him completely. The dress was annoying, but she could work with it.

The Maybach slowed down as it approached a massive wrought-iron gate. They were in the Hamptons. The sprawling estate was packed with luxury cars. Outside the velvet ropes, a swarm of paparazzi flashed their cameras, desperate for a shot of the famed but brittle Vance family.

The car stopped. The driver opened the door.

Leland plastered a fake, loving smile on his face. He stepped out and turned around, holding his hand out to help Cora.

Cora stepped out of the car. She completely ignored his outstretched hand and walked right past him.

Leland's hand hung in the empty air. His smile twitched. He cursed under his breath, quickly dropping his arm and rushing to catch up with her. He grabbed her elbow, his fingers digging painfully into her skin, and marched her toward the grand ballroom.

The ballroom was suffocatingly crowded. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the elite guests.

Cora stood near a pillar, her eyes scanning the room. She memorized faces, watching who talked to whom, mapping out the family hierarchy. Her gaze flicked briefly to Marge, who was working the room with her usual venom, her injured wrist now wrapped in a discreet, flesh-colored compression brace that she tried to hide with a heavy gold bracelet. The injury was clearly still a problem, but Marge was masking it for the public.

A young man with bleached blonde hair and a flushed face stumbled toward her. He was holding a glass of champagne. His eyes were glassy and predatory.

This was Jagger. Leland's nephew.

Jagger stopped right in front of her. He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her chest. He didn't bother hiding his disgust.

"Well, if it isn't the family charity case," Jagger slurred, leaning in close. His breath smelled like expensive vodka and vomit.

Cora's eyes darkened. She tightened her jaw but didn't move.

Jagger leaned in closer. "You know, Heloise, you're looking a little tense. Maybe you need a real man to loosen you up."

Cora felt a surge of pure disgust. She took a half-step back.

Jagger laughed, a nasty, wet sound. He stepped forward, closing the distance. He reached his hand out and grabbed her thigh, his fingers squeezing the thick fabric of her dress.

Cora's reflexes flared. She slapped his hand away instantly. Her eyes burned with lethal intent.

Jagger looked shocked for a second, then his face twisted into an ugly sneer. He thought she was just the weak aunt he could bully.

Cora's eyes darted to the side. Through the large glass doors, she saw a group of paparazzi pressing their lenses against the glass, trying to get shots of the interior.

A plan formed in her mind instantly.

She didn't punch him. Instead, she reached out and grabbed a full glass of red wine from a passing waiter's tray.

Without a second of hesitation, she threw the dark red liquid directly into Jagger's face.

The wine splashed across his eyes and soaked into his pristine white tuxedo shirt.

Jagger gasped in shock. He wiped the wine from his eyes, his face turning purple with rage. "You stupid bitch!" he roared.

He raised his hand, balling it into a fist, ready to strike her.

Several guests nearby gasped and turned to look.

Cora didn't flinch. Instead, she grabbed the thick fabric of her violet dress right at the thigh.

As Jagger's fist started to come down, Cora's fingers accurately found the top of the stitching on the dress's high side slit. She yanked upward with all her strength. Riiiiiip. The already fragile seam snapped under the sudden tension, and the tear split violently all the way up to her upper thigh, exposing her bare leg.

The moment the fabric tore, Cora threw her head back and let out a piercing, terrified scream.

The sound cut through the ballroom music like a siren.

Every single head in the room snapped toward them. The paparazzi outside went crazy, their camera flashes strobing like lightning through the glass doors.

Cora dropped to her knees. She clutched the torn fabric of her dress against her chest. She pointed a trembling finger at Jagger, who was still standing there with his fist raised and wine dripping from his face.

She looked at the crowd with wide, tear-filled eyes, playing the perfect victim of a violent sexual assault.

The ballroom erupted into chaos.

"Oh my god, he attacked her!" a woman screamed.

Leland shoved his way through the crowd. His face was pale with horror. He saw the cameras flashing and realized the magnitude of the disaster.

He ripped off his suit jacket and lunged forward to cover Cora.

Cora scrambled backward, dodging his jacket, making sure the cameras got a clear shot of her torn dress and Jagger's aggressive stance.

Clarence, the elderly patriarch of the family, slammed his cane against the floor. "Get the press out of here! Now!" he bellowed, his face red with fury.

Security guards rushed in. Two of them grabbed Jagger, wrestling him to the ground as he screamed that he didn't do it.

Amidst the screaming and the flashing lights, Cora kept her head down. She pressed her face into her hands, pretending to sob.

Behind her hands, a cold, satisfied smile spread across her lips. The Vance family's public image was bleeding out on the floor.