Too Late To Beg: My Cold Ex-Husband

Annis POV

I woke to the cloying scent of lilies.

I loathed them. To me, they reeked of funerals.

Forcing my heavy lids open, I realized I was lying in a private recovery suite. My arm was thickly bandaged, and my chest ached with a dull, persistent throb that radiated through my ribs.

Dominick was sitting in the wingback chair next to the bed, idly scrolling through his phone. He looked immaculate-freshly showered, hair perfectly coiffed, and dressed in a crisp new charcoal suit.

"You're awake," he said, not bothering to look up.

I tried to push myself up, but the room lurched violently. I fell back against the pillows, gasping.

"The deal," I croaked, my throat feeling like sandpaper. "You said... if I gave the blood..."

Dominick finally lifted his gaze. He stood up, sauntered to the bedside table, and fastidiously adjusted a petal on the vase of white lilies.

"I said we'd discuss a vacation, Annis. I never said I'd grant you a divorce," he replied smoothly. "You're my wife. You belong at the penthouse."

He set the vase back down with a deliberate click.

"Besides," he added, checking his Patek Philippe watch, "you need to recover. You look terrible."

He walked to the door, his hand resting on the handle.

"I have a charity gala tonight. Chastity is feeling much better, thanks to you. She'll be accompanying me."

He opened the door.

"Get some rest. The driver will collect you in the morning."

And then he was gone.

I lay there in the silence, staring at the sterile white ceiling. He had drained me to save her, and now he was parading her around town while I rotted in a hospital bed.

I reached for the bedside table. My phone was gone. Dominick must have confiscated it.

Desperate, I found the room phone and dialed a number I had memorized years ago.

Haven picked up on the first ring.

"Annis?" His voice was laced with panic. "I'm in the lobby. Security won't let me up. They claimed you were in critical condition."

"I'm alive," I whispered. "But I need to get out of here."

"I'm coming up," he said, his voice hardening.

"No," I said quickly. "Wait. I need to go back to the penthouse one last time."

"Why?"

"My passport," I said, my mind racing. "And the files. If I leave now, he'll hunt me down. I need the leverage. I need the documents from the safe."

"Annis, that's suicide."

"I have to, Haven. Just wait for my signal."

The next morning, my discharge was processed with suspicious speed. I felt hollowed out, fragile as spun glass.

Dominick was waiting at the hospital entrance. But he wasn't alone.

Chastity was sitting in the front passenger seat of the limo. She was radiant, her skin flushed with health. She waved at me cheerfully through the window.

Dominick stood by the open back door, impatience etched on his face.

"Get in," he ordered.

I looked at the front seat, then back at him.

"She gets carsick in the back," Dominick said, dismissing my stare with a wave of his hand.

I climbed into the back seat. My luggage was piled on the leather bench next to me, leaving me cramped in the corner like an afterthought.

As we drove through the city, Chastity rested her hand on Dominick's thigh. He immediately covered her hand with his.

"Oh, Dom, look," she chirped, holding up her phone. "The press loved my dress last night. They're calling us the 'Power Couple of the Year.'"

Dominick smiled at her-a genuine, warm smile. One I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

Quietly, I pulled out the burner phone I had hidden in my bra-the one thing Dominick hadn't found because he never touched me anymore.

I opened Instagram.

There it was. A photo of Dominick and Chastity on the red carpet. His arm was wrapped possessively around her waist. The caption read: Building a legacy.

I stared at the screen, my vision blurring.

Five years ago, I had miscarried our child at four months. I had called Dominick from the hospital, bleeding and terrified. He didn't answer. He was in a meeting. When he finally came home, he told me to stop crying, that we could always "make another one."

He never posted a photo of us. He never called us a legacy.

I looked at the back of his head.

With trembling fingers, I typed a comment on the post under a fake account.

May you get exactly what you deserve.

I locked the phone and slid it back into hiding.

We pulled up to the penthouse.

"Home sweet home," Chastity sang out.

I looked up at the towering building piercing the sky. It wasn't a home. It was a crematorium. And I was about to light the match.