The Ex's Regret: I Became The Billionaire Hockey King's Doctor

Chloe POV:

I leaned against the cold marble wall, exhaling a long breath. The air in the opulent hallway hung thick with the scent of fake perfume and hypocrisy.

As the initial adrenaline of the confrontation faded, a profound sense of annoyance and sheer exhaustion settled into my bones. The entire evening had been a colossal waste of my time.

My phone vibrated in my clutch. I pulled it out to find a text from Victoria.

The message was brief, dripping with a victor's gloat. "Sister, I'm so sorry, it's all my fault. Harrison insisted on staying with me, I couldn't convince him otherwise. You're not mad at me, are you?" A crying emoji punctuated the pathetic performance.

I stared at the screen, a sharp, sarcastic smile curving my lips. This was her official declaration of war.

I blocked her number and deleted the thread, permanently revoking her access to my peace of mind.

I needed to leave. The heavy couture gown had served its purpose, and now it was just a cumbersome annoyance.

I strode toward the elevators, the sharp click of my heels echoing with authority in the empty corridor.

The polished mirror inside the elevator cabin reflected my image. My makeup remained flawless, and my eyes held the cold, hard glint of absolute clarity. I was completely done with this circus.

I pressed the button for the ground floor. I planned to call a car, return to the Beaumont estate, and pack my essentials. My time in that toxic household had officially expired.

Stepping out through the hotel's side exit, the crisp New York night air hit my bare shoulders. The chill acted as a welcome stimulant, sharpening my senses and washing away the stifling atmosphere of the ballroom.

I bypassed the swarm of reporters camped at the main entrance, opting for the quiet, shadowed alleyway to secure a ride in peace.

I stood by the curb, ordering a premium car on my phone. The app indicated a three-minute wait.

Tires screeched against the asphalt as an unlicensed black van abruptly halted inches from my feet.

The side door rattled open, and two burly men in dark hoodies vaulted out, flanking me with practiced precision. Their eyes gleamed with obvious malice.

My combat instincts flared to life instantly. I took a calculated step back, my hand slipping discreetly into my evening clutch.

A wave of pure, dark amusement washed over me. These idiots saw a delicate heiress in a white gown. They had absolutely no idea they were cornering an elite, highly trained self-defense expert.

"Miss Beaumont. Come with us," the larger man grunted, his voice raspy.

I met his gaze with icy condescension. "Who sent you?"

They remained silent, lunging forward to grab me.

I was perfectly prepared. The moment the man on the left clamped his hand around my arm, I yielded to his momentum. I stepped smoothly into his space, driving my elbow into his ribs at a sharp, bone-bruising angle.

He grunted, his grip instantly slackening. I seized the opening, twisting my body with fluid agility and ducking under his heavy arm.

Simultaneously, my fingers closed around the object in my clutch—a sharp, titanium tactical pen disguised as a lipstick. I drove the metal point ruthlessly into the back of the second man's reaching hand.

He shrieked, snatching his bleeding hand back to his chest.

The shock on their faces was almost comical. They had expected a screaming victim, not a lethal weapon.

Furious and humiliated, the first man lunged at me again. I pivoted sharply out of his path, bringing the steel-reinforced heel of my stiletto down with crushing force onto his instep.

He let out a guttural howl, collapsing to one knee.

I immediately moved to create distance, taking two swift steps toward the street. The second man recovered faster than anticipated, wrapping his thick arms around my waist from behind.

He hoisted me off the pavement. The stench of his sweat and cheap cologne assaulted my senses, fueling my irritation.

I maintained absolute focus. Channeling my core strength, I snapped my head backward, driving the hard base of my skull directly into the center of his face.

A sickening crunch of cartilage echoed in the alley. The man screamed, releasing his hold instantly. I landed gracefully on the balls of my feet, instantly regaining my balanced fighting stance.

I stared down at the two "professionals" writhing on the concrete, my expression devoid of pity. These were hired muscle, executing a targeted hit.

I stepped toward the man clutching his ruined nose, planting the pointed toe of my heel firmly onto his uninjured hand. I applied a calculated amount of pressure. "I will ask you one last time. Who sent you?"