Too Late CEO: I Am Taking Everything

The hot steam billowed out into the hallway as Julian pushed the bathroom door open. He was rubbing a towel through his damp hair, a white bath towel slung low around his waist. He walked barefoot toward the open-concept kitchen. Eleonora stood at the marble island. She picked up the plates of cold, untouched filet mignon and scraped them directly into the trash can. The ceramic plate clattered harshly against the rim of the bin. Julian stepped up behind her. His bare chest pressed flush against her back. He wrapped his strong arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against him. Eleonora's entire body went rigid. Her lungs seized. The silver fork slipped from her trembling fingers and clattered loudly onto the marble countertop. The heat radiating from his damp skin seeped through the thin silk of her robe. And then, she smelled it again. The hot water of the shower had washed away his cologne, but the faint, sickeningly sweet scent of tuberose still clung to his skin. Julian let out a low chuckle. He bit down softly on her earlobe. "Throwing away our anniversary dinner?" he murmured. The vibration of his voice against her neck made her skin crawl. Eleonora locked her knees to keep from shoving him away. "It was ice cold," she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. Julian let go of her waist. He stepped back and walked around the island. He pulled a dark apron from a hook and tied it around his waist. He opened the pantry and pulled out a box of linguine and a jar of imported tomato sauce. "I'll make it up to you," he said, his tone dripping with practiced affection. "I'll cook." Eleonora leaned against the counter. Her eyes tracked his movements. He chopped an onion with precise, practiced efficiency. A cold, desolate wind blew through her chest. Julian Sinclair, the ruthless CEO of Sinclair Group, only knew how to cook one dish. Pasta pomodoro. She knew, with absolute, sickening certainty, that he had not learned to cook this dish for her. The water in the copper pot began to boil, sending thick white steam into the air. Julian turned his head and flashed her a devastatingly handsome, indulgent smile. Eleonora shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her silk robe. Her fingers brushed against the folded piece of paper—the pregnancy test report she had hidden there twenty minutes ago. She gripped it tightly, the sharp edges cutting into her fingertips. The pain kept her grounded. She would not tell him. She would protect this secret with her life. Julian plated the pasta. He slid a steaming bowl across the marble island toward her and handed her a fork. The heavy, acidic smell of cooked tomatoes and garlic hit her face. Eleonora's stomach violently contracted. A massive wave of nausea surged up her throat. She slapped her hand over her mouth. She shoved herself away from the island. The heavy barstool screeched horribly against the floorboards. She sprinted across the living room and threw open the door to the first-floor powder room. She dropped to her knees in front of the toilet and dry-heaved. Her chest burned as her stomach cramped painfully. Footsteps pounded against the floor outside. Julian slammed his fist against the bathroom door. "Nora!" he shouted. "Are you sick? Did you eat something bad?" His voice sounded frantic. The panic in his tone sounded so real it made her want to scream. Eleonora flushed the toilet. She stood up on shaking legs and turned on the cold water in the sink. She splashed the freezing water onto her pale face. She looked at her reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot. She took a deep breath, forcing her facial muscles to relax. She unlocked the door and pulled it open. Julian stood there, his chest heaving. He reached out to press the back of his hand against her forehead. Eleonora jerked her head back, dodging his touch. "I'm fine," she said quickly. "It's just my stomach. I've been pulling all-nighters for the Sinclair Group's new design pitch. My digestion is a mess." Julian's hand hung in the empty air. His jaw tightened in a brief flash of annoyance, but he quickly masked it with a look of deep concern. Without a word, he stepped forward, bent down, and scooped her up into his arms. Eleonora gasped, her hands automatically flying to his bare shoulders to steady herself. He carried her up the sweeping staircase to the second-floor master bedroom. He laid her down gently on the center of the massive king-size bed. He pulled the heavy silk duvet up over her legs. Eleonora immediately closed her eyes. She turned her head away, feigning absolute exhaustion. She wanted to build a wall between them. The mattress dipped heavily beside her. Julian slid under the covers. His large, scorching hot body pressed against her side. His hand slid under the hem of her silk robe, his rough palm gliding up her bare thigh. His touch was possessive, demanding. Eleonora's eyes snapped open. She grabbed his wrist, her fingernails digging into his skin. She stared into his dark eyes, her breathing shallow and fast. "Julian, please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I feel sick." Julian's hand stopped moving. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast harsh shadows across his face. He stared down at her pale, rigid features. The air in the bedroom grew thick and heavy with dangerous sexual tension. He was a man who rarely heard the word no. Eleonora's heart pounded against her ribs. She braced herself, terrified he would force the issue. Suddenly, Julian let out a heavy sigh. He pulled his hand out from under her robe. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tightly against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Go to sleep, Nora," he murmured. His heart beat steadily against her back. Thump. Thump. Thump. To Eleonora, the sound was repulsive. She lay completely frozen in his arms. She didn't dare move a muscle, terrified he would feel the slight, protective tension in her lower abdomen. Hours passed. The room grew pitch black. Julian's breathing eventually deepened into a slow, rhythmic snore. Eleonora waited another twenty minutes to be absolutely sure. Then, moving inch by agonizing inch, she slid out of his embrace. She stepped barefoot onto the plush wool rug. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out at the glittering skyline of Manhattan. The neon lights reflected in her cold, dead eyes. She pulled her phone from her robe pocket. She turned the brightness all the way down. She opened her messages and tapped on Sloane's name. I need a favor. Can you access the Sotheby's buyer registry from tonight? I need a name. A few seconds later, Sloane replied: "Give me ten minutes." Eleonora waited, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Exactly eleven minutes later, a new message lit up the screen. Sloane had sent a screenshot of the internal bidding log and a grainy photo pulled from event security footage. "The buyer is Julian Sinclair. But the guest—the woman in white—I ran facial recognition through our industry database. Her name is Seraphina Sinclair. Julian's stepsister. Just got back from a Swiss psychiatric facility last week. Be careful, Nora." Eleonora stared at the name. Seraphina. A ghost from Julian's past that he never spoke about. Her blood ran cold. She typed back: "Thank you." Then locked the screen. She let out a bitter, silent laugh. She didn't reply further. She locked the screen. She walked silently into the massive walk-in closet. She opened the bottom drawer of her vanity and pulled out an old, leather-bound diary with a small metal lock. She took the crumpled pregnancy test report from her pocket. She smoothed out the creases and placed it flat between the pages. She snapped the small padlock shut. The metallic click sounded loud in the quiet closet. With that sound, she locked away the last shred of hope she had for this marriage. She rested her hand flat against her stomach. I'm sorry, she whispered in her mind. She walked back into the bedroom. She stood by the bed, looking down at Julian's sleeping face. The man she had loved fiercely for three years now looked like a terrifying stranger. A violent shiver racked her body. She carefully lifted the edge of the duvet and slid back into bed. She stayed as close to the edge of the mattress as possible, keeping a safe physical distance from him. She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow. Suddenly, Julian's arm shot out across the bed. He grabbed her waist and yanked her backward. He pinned her tightly against his chest, his grip like a steel vice. Eleonora's eyes flew open in the dark. She gritted her teeth, her body stiff with resistance. "Don't leave..." Julian mumbled into her hair, his voice thick with sleep. Eleonora squeezed her eyes shut. She lay trapped in the dark, her heart cold as ice, waiting for the sun to rise.