Too Late, Billionaire: Watch Me Leave

Ciara remained seated on the sofa, like a sculpture in the darkness, until the gray light of dawn seeped through the window, stinging her dry, tired eyes. She reached for the glass of water on the coffee table. The water was cold. She took a sip, trying to calm the nausea churning in her stomach. Her phone screen lit up. It's a shocking piece of gossip news. She swiped the screen. The image immediately loaded: a high-resolution photo of Jordan at JFK airport, protecting a woman as she evaded paparazzi. He wrapped her in his coat, his posture full of protectiveness and possessiveness. The headline read: "Jordon Webb Rekindles Old Flame in Late Night Rush." Shia gasped. It was the same coat he'd worn last night. The air in her lungs seemed to freeze. Her trembling fingers zoomed in on the photo. She saw a unique and vintage Cartier bracelet on the woman's wrist. Jasmine's bracelet. The world spun around her. Her phone slipped from her numb fingers and fell silently onto the thick carpet. She stood up abruptly, a sharp pain shooting through her stomach. She bent over, covered her mouth with her hand, and fought back nausea. She took a deep breath. She forced herself to calm down. She picked up her phone stiffly and found Jordan's number in her contacts. She pressed the dial button. The long, rhythmic beeping in her ears was pure torture, each second stretching into eternity. Finally, someone answered. But it wasn't Jordan's deep, familiar voice. Instead, it was a soft, feminine sigh. "Hello?" Jasmine's voice was languid, heavy with sleepiness. In the background, Shiara could faintly hear the weak but steady beeping of the hospital monitor. A pure and chilling shock struck Chiara like lightning. "Where is Jordan?" she demanded, her voice shrill, unrecognizable even to herself. Jasmine chuckled softly, her voice slightly guttural. "Jorden stayed up all night with me. He just fell asleep. I don't want to disturb him." Ciara felt as if her chest was being crushed. "Let him answer the phone, Jasmine," she roared, her last shred of composure crumbling completely. “Oh my God,” Jasmine feigned surprise. “You don’t have to be so aggressive. I was just too scared after my…outburst. Jordan was the only person I could call.” The unspoken message was clear: he chose me. In the background, Chiara hears Jordan's indistinct voice asking who it is. “It’s nothing, darling,” Jasmine said sweetly, her voice low and intimate. “I’ll handle it.” The call ended. The dial tone was buzzing in her ears. A wave of intense nausea washed over her, and she rushed to the bathroom. She leaned over the sink, dry heaving, but nothing came out. Hot, silent tears streamed down her cheeks, splashing onto the cold marble. She turned on the tap and splashed the cold water on her face. She looked up and saw her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were bloodshot. She looked pitiful. A distant love affair that lasted ten years. This humiliating, contractual, expedient marriage that lasted three years played the role of a perfect, silent shadow. For what? Just for this betrayal? The tenderness in her eyes hardened. The sadness receded, replaced by a cold, sharp anger. She straightened up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She strode into their enormous walk-in closet, past rows of soft cashmere dresses and "dignified wife" style flats. She pulled out a custom-made black power suit. The sharp lines of her suit jacket resembled armor. She wore a pair of dangerously high stilettos. She put on a pair of large sunglasses, concealing the tear tracks at the corners of her eyes and the vulnerability in them. She grabbed her handbag, took the folded lab report out of her coat pocket, and stuffed it deep into an inner zippered compartment. In the entryway, she pressed a button on the smart home system. “Get the car ready,” she commanded, her voice devoid of emotion. “I’m going to Wall Street.” She pushed open the heavy apartment door and walked towards the elevator, her high heels making a purposeful sound on the marble floor. She was no longer the woman who had been waiting. She slid into the back seat of the waiting car. “Webb Capital,” she said, looking straight ahead. “Don’t skimp on the power.”