Too Late For The Billionaire's Regret

Cora pushed open the heavy oak double doors of the penthouse, the scent of fresh basil and sourdough from the Chelsea Market grocery bag clinging to her.

A smile touched her lips. It was a genuine smile, the kind she hadn't known she was capable of before Harlan.

She placed the bag on the marble island in the kitchen, her fingers brushing over the smooth, cool stone. Everything here felt like him-solid, expensive, and hers.

Her heart beat a little faster, a nervous flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with the baby. Tonight. She would tell him tonight.

She walked toward the study, the plush runner silencing her footsteps. The door was slightly ajar. She saw his back, broad and familiar in a crisp white shirt, as he stood by the window, a phone pressed to his ear.

"The liquidation of Burton Group's assets needs to be finalized by Friday," Harlan's voice drifted out, not the warm baritone he used with her, but a blade of ice. "I want every subsidiary dismantled, every patent sold off. Leave nothing but dust."

Cora's breath hitched. Her hand, reaching for the doorknob, froze mid-air.

Burton Group. Her father's company.

He must have sensed her. He turned, his gray eyes meeting hers through the crack in the door. There was no warmth, no love. Only the cold, assessing gaze of a predator.

Her blood ran cold. She pushed the door open, the heavy wood swinging inward with a soft groan.

"What did you just say?" Her voice was a whisper, fragile in the vast, silent room.

Harlan ended the call without another word, his movements calm and deliberate. He walked to the massive mahogany desk and picked up a thick document. He didn't hand it to her. He tossed it.

It landed at her feet with a soft thud.

She looked down. The words on the cover page burned into her retinas: "Hostile Takeover Agreement: Burton Group." And at the bottom, a signature she knew better than her own: Harlan Sinclair.

Sinclair. Not the simple surname he'd used for the past five years as her family's head of security. The name that ruled Wall Street with an iron fist.

A wave of nausea washed over her. She stumbled backward, knocking over a floor lamp. It crashed to the ground, the sound of shattering glass echoing the implosion in her chest.

Harlan shoved his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers, his posture relaxed, almost casual, as he walked toward her. "This is for what your father did five years ago."

"My father is innocent," she choked out, tears blurring her vision. She reached for his arm, a desperate, instinctual gesture. "Harlan, please, this is a mistake."

He jerked his arm away as if her touch were poison. The force of it sent her staggering, and she collapsed onto the expensive Persian rug.

The impact jarred her, and a sharp, protective pang shot through her lower abdomen. Her hands flew to her flat stomach.

"I'm pregnant," she said, the words tumbling out, her last, desperate gamble. "Harlan, I'm pregnant."

For a single, heart-stopping moment, he froze. His eyes, sharp and piercing, locked onto her belly. The air crackled with a tension so thick she could barely breathe.

Then, he laughed.

It wasn't a sound of joy or even surprise. It was a harsh, ugly bark of derision that echoed off the high ceilings.

He crouched down, his face level with hers. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, the pressure just shy of breaking bone.

"Kali told me everything," he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper.

"Kali?" Cora's mind reeled. Kali Miles, her so-called friend.

"That night at the hotel in Beverly Hills," he said, each word a deliberate, crushing blow. "The man in your bed? It wasn't me. It was some homeless drunk she paid to take my place."

The world tilted on its axis. The room spun, the edges of her vision turning dark. "No," she whispered, shaking her head, the movement sending sparks of pain through her jaw. "No, that's not true. It was you."

He released her with a shove, standing to his full, intimidating height. He looked down at her, his expression one of utter disgust, as if she were something he'd scraped off his shoe.

He went to his desk, pulled out a checkbook, and scrawled a number with angry, slashing strokes. He strode back and threw the check at her.

It fluttered down, the sharp edge of the paper slicing her cheek. A single drop of blood welled up, a tiny red tear on her pale skin.

"Take the money," he commanded, his voice devoid of all emotion. "Get rid of that bastard child. And then get out of my sight forever."

Her shock curdled into a white-hot rage. She snatched the check from the floor. In front of his cold, unmoving eyes, she ripped it into tiny pieces. The white scraps rained down around her like bitter snow.

Using the desk for support, she pulled herself to her feet, her body trembling but her spine straight. The despair in her eyes was gone, replaced by a hatred so pure it was terrifying.

"You will regret this," she said, her voice low and shaking with fury. "One day, you will crawl on your knees and beg for my forgiveness, and I will give you nothing."

He didn't even flinch. He turned his back on her, a final, dismissive gesture, and pressed the intercom on his desk. "Security to the penthouse. Escort Ms. Burton out."

She didn't wait.

She turned and ran, stumbling out of the study. She didn't grab her coat, didn't grab her purse.

She just ran, her bare feet slapping against the cold marble floor, heading for the elevator at the end of the hall.

The tears finally came as the polished bronze doors slid shut, sealing her in darkness.