Too Late, Mr. Tycoon: Watch Me Bloom

I was a top hand model, just weeks away from marrying billionaire Chase Strong.

But my life was destroyed when my hands were severely burned by an exclusive cream recommended by my bridesmaid, Karis.

The chemical burns ruined my career and cost me a three-million-dollar contract.

When I cried in agony, Chase just frowned in annoyance, calling my pain a dramatic tantrum.

He fiercely protected Karis, claiming she was worried sick about my accident, while his mother openly mocked me as a cripple unfit for their family.

He even crossed my name off our first-class honeymoon tickets and wrote Karis's name instead, telling me it was compensation for her stress.

I didn't understand why the man I loved was so cruel, until I secretly investigated the salon.

I found out the cream was an unlicensed, corrosive chemical Karis deliberately used to disfigure me.

And Chase knew. He was actively covering up her crime, treating me as a convenient placeholder while he protected the woman he truly wanted.

I didn't scream or beg for his love anymore.

On the morning of our multimillion-dollar wedding, I left the ten-carat diamond ring on his nightstand and vanished on a private jet.

As he stood panicked at the altar in front of New York's elite, I sent him one last text:

"I left you everything you ever gave me. Including this wedding."

Chapter 1

Clare Jennings POV:

I tried to make a fist, but the thick layers of gauze refused to yield. Underneath the sterile white cotton, a fire licked along the delicate network of nerves in my palms. I let my hands fall uselessly into my lap.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan glittered, a galaxy of ruthless stars. It was a beautiful prison, this penthouse, a gilded cage I had mistaken for a home.

My phone screen lit up on the cushion beside me. A text from my agent, David. *“Clare, any update for De Beers? They’re getting nervous.”*

I couldn’t summon the energy to reply. The thought of tapping out a message, of the pressure on my bandaged fingertips, made my stomach clench. I flipped the phone face down.

The memory of the salon surfaced, unbidden. The sharp, chemical tang of the product Karis had been so excited about. Her dazzling smile as she insisted I try it. *“It’s a new exclusive from Europe, darling. It will make your hands look like spun silk.”* And the aesthetician, a young girl whose name I never learned, her own hands trembling as she applied the cream.

A keycard beeped at the front door, followed by the soft click of the lock disengaging. My heart gave a painful thud against my ribs—a stupid, reflexive leap of hope and fear.

Chase Strong walked in, bringing a gust of cold night air and the scent of expensive cologne with him. He saw me on the sofa, gave a curt nod, and walked straight to the wet bar. The clink of a heavy crystal tumbler against the marble countertop was the only sound in the room. He poured himself two fingers of whiskey.

“Busy day?” I asked. My voice was a dry rasp, rough from disuse.

He didn’t turn around. “Hmm,” was all he said, the sound a low vibration in his chest as he took a long swallow of his drink.

Finally, he walked over, his shadow falling over me. His gaze dropped to my bandaged hands. A frown creased his perfect brow, but it wasn't the soft line of concern. It was the hard, sharp edge of annoyance.

“What did the doctor say?” His tone was the same one he used to ask for a project status update. All business.

“Chemical burns,” I said, my voice hollow. “They’re deep. The doctor wouldn’t give me a straight answer. He said we’d need to wait and see. But his face…” I shook my head. “It didn’t look good.”

I looked up, searching his face for a flicker of sympathy, of shared pain. I found only impatience.

“So, how long until they’re healed?” he pressed, focused on the outcome, not the agony.

A cold, heavy thing settled in my stomach. “He’s not sure. He said… they might never be.”

The air around him went arctic. He loosened the knot of his silk tie as if the fabric were suddenly choking him.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Clare.” The words were meant to be comforting, but they landed like shards of ice.

He turned and walked toward the master closet, shrugging out of his suit jacket. “I saw Karis today,” he said casually, his back to me. “She’s worried sick about you.”

My body went rigid. My uninjured fingernails tried to dig into my palms, but only met the thick padding of the gauze.

He tossed the jacket onto a chair. “She told me what happened. A minor accident. Said you’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

“A minor accident?” The words were a venomous whisper.

He finally turned to face me, unfastening his cuffs. His eyes held a sliver of reproach. “Wasn’t it? Karis was nearly in tears. She feels terrible, thinks she didn’t take good enough care of you.”

He painted a picture of her fragile guilt, her selfless concern, while my own tangible, searing pain was an inconvenience he couldn’t be bothered with.

I looked at him, at this man I had loved for five years, the man I was supposed to marry. He was a complete stranger.

A wave of despair, so vast and cold it stole my breath, washed over me.

He seemed to consider his duty done. “I’m hungry,” he announced, his tone shifting back to business. “Let’s order something.”

He had no idea. He had no idea that his words, his casual dismissal, had just pushed me off a cliff into the freezing, dark water below.

I just stared at him, my silence a living thing in the space between us.

He frowned, his handsome face marred by irritation. “What’s wrong with you? Stop throwing a tantrum.”