Too Late For Regret: The Surgeon Heiress

Courtland stared at the torn pieces of the check. The blood pounded heavily in his temples.

He swung his leg out and kicked the heavy leather chair next to him. The chair crashed backward into the glass wall.

He spun around and sprinted out of the conference room, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway as he tried to catch up to Areli.

He reached the elevator bank just in time to see the metal doors slide completely shut. The digital numbers above the door began to drop.

Courtland whipped his head around and glared at Marcus, who had run out behind him.

"Cancel all of her supplementary credit cards right now," Courtland ordered, his voice harsh and breathless. "Freeze every account attached to my name."

Marcus quickly pulled out his tablet. His fingers tapped rapidly across the glass screen. Ten seconds later, Marcus's face turned pale.

"Sir," Marcus said, his voice hesitant and tight. "She didn't just stop using them. The system shows that every supplementary card had a single one-dollar charity donation processed late last night. After that, we received a formal legal notice from her attorney renouncing all access rights. The physical cards were cut into pieces and left in an envelope at the lobby front desk."

Courtland blinked, his mind struggling to process the information. He pulled at his collar. "Track her cell phone GPS," he demanded. "Find her."

Marcus pulled out his phone and dialed a direct number to an internal contact at the major telecom provider.

Two minutes passed in tense silence. Marcus lowered the phone. "The number has been completely deactivated, sir. They wiped it from the network. They can't even ping the nearest cell tower."

A hot wave of frustration burned in Courtland's chest. He turned and marched toward the exit. He needed to go back to the penthouse.

Thirty minutes later, Courtland pushed open the heavy doors of the master bedroom. He walked straight to the massive walk-in closet and yanked the sliding doors open.

The right side of the closet, which had belonged to Areli, was completely empty. There were no clothes, no shoes, not even a single stray hair left on the shelves. It was as if she had never lived there.

Courtland grabbed his phone from his pocket. He dialed the direct, encrypted line to the most expensive private investigator in the city.

"I will pay you double your normal rate," Courtland barked into the phone. "I want her exact location within twenty-four hours."

Twenty-four hours passed with absolutely no news. Courtland's patience was wearing dangerously thin. He paced the length of his corporate office, checking the heavy watch on his wrist again and again. The silence was maddening. Finally, his private encrypted line rang. He snatched it up instantly.

The private investigator was on the line, his voice tight with confusion.

"Mr. Roman," the investigator said. "I have utilized every high-level contact I have, but she is a ghost. There are no hotel bookings under her name, no flight manifests, no credit card swipes. Nothing."

Courtland let out a roar of anger. He grabbed the heavy crystal whiskey glass from his desk and hurled it across the room. It smashed against the wall, shattering into hundreds of sharp pieces.

The loud crash made the office door swing open. His close friend, Rex Holloway, leaned casually against the doorframe.

"Did your wife finally dump you?" Rex asked, a mocking smile on his face.

Courtland ground his teeth. "She is playing a stupid hiding game," he snapped. "She will run out of cash and come crawling back."

Rex shrugged his shoulders. "A woman with zero money doesn't just vanish from a top-tier PI's radar, Courtland."

The words hit Courtland hard. A cold spike of doubt pierced his arrogance, making his stomach twist into a tight knot.

At that exact moment, across the city in Hollywood, a black Maybach pulled into the secure underground parking garage of Aura Entertainment.

Areli stepped out of the car. She walked into the private elevator and rode it straight to the top floor.

She stepped into the massive CEO office. The Vice President, Donovan Finch, bowed his head slightly and handed her a heavy, black-and-gold name badge.

Areli took the badge. It read 'Miss Stephenson'. She clipped it onto the lapel of her suit jacket.

She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. She looked down at the sprawling, bright lights of the city below.

Her eyes were sharp, filled with cold ambition. She had completely shed the skin of Areli Roman. She was now in total control.