Too Late CEO: The Runaway Wife Returns

Five years later. The arrival board at John F. Kennedy International Airport flipped rapidly, displaying flights from Paris. Corrie walked out of the VIP terminal. She wore a sharp, camel-colored trench coat and oversized black sunglasses. The terrified, broken girl from five years ago was gone. Her spine was straight, her aura untouchable. Five years. Sometimes Corrie still woke up gasping, the phantom sensation of that black glove dragging her into crushing darkness. She never found out who had attacked her that night—only that someone else, someone she never saw, had pulled her from the Hudson's freezing grip and left her at the door of a Parisian charity hospital. She had woken up three days later to a doctor telling her two things: she had lost nearly forty percent of her lung function, and she was seven weeks pregnant with twins. Those twins were the reason she had forced her shattered body to heal. They were the reason she had built an empire in the shadows. She pushed a luggage cart with one hand. Sitting on top of the suitcases was a four-and-a-half-year-old boy. Leo wore a custom-tailored miniature navy suit. His small fingers flew across the screen of an iPad, lines of complex code reflecting in his piercing blue eyes. Beside Corrie, a little girl clutched the hem of the trench coat. Stella had big, timid eyes. She hugged a worn-out stuffed rabbit tightly to her chest, hiding slightly behind her mother's leg. A black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the curb. Mael Corbin jumped out of the driver's seat. He grinned widely and pulled Corrie into a tight hug. Leo didn't look up from his iPad. He simply raised one small, firm hand and pushed against Mael's chest. "Uncle Mael, three seconds. You're over the limit." Mael laughed awkwardly and stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. He quickly loaded the heavy suitcases into the trunk. The SUV merged onto the highway, heading toward a high-end, secure art loft in Brooklyn. As soon as they arrived and the kids were settled in the living room, Corrie walked into the master study. She shut the heavy wooden door and locked it. She sat at the desk and opened her laptop. Her fingers typed in a complex password, logging into an offshore, encrypted bank account. She stared at the long string of zeros on the screen. Her tense shoulders finally dropped a fraction of an inch. She opened a new tab and navigated to the billing portal of a premier nursing home in New Jersey. She paid the massive monthly invoice for her comatose mother's life support without blinking. A third email popped up, this one from Mael: Studio's lease is signed. The SoHo space is ours. Ready when you are, boss. An email notification popped up. It was from Yara, the executive assistant at Nova magazine. Reminder: Editorial pitch meeting tomorrow at 9 AM, Aria. A second email arrived immediately after. This one was from a top literary agent in Manhattan. IX, the publisher is begging for the final outline of the new thriller. Please advise. Corrie rubbed her temples. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. Juggling the identities of 'Aria', the ruthless magazine editor, and 'IX', the bestselling mystery author, was exhausting. But the money and the power were the only armor she had to protect her family. The jewelry studio was her own—not a pseudonym, not a mask. A place where she could create with her hands and breathe, if only for a few stolen hours a week. The doorknob rattled. The door pushed open slightly. Leo walked in, balancing a warm mug of milk in his small hands. He walked to the desk, stood on his tiptoes, and placed the mug carefully next to her laptop. He looked at the banking screen before she could minimize it. "My stock portfolio made twenty thousand dollars today," Leo said, his voice completely serious. "I can help pay the bills, Mom." Warmth flooded Corrie's chest. She pulled her genius son into her lap and pressed a long kiss to his forehead. "Adult problems are for adults to solve, baby," she whispered. Leo rested his head against her chest. "Why did we have to come back to New York?" Corrie's body went completely rigid. The memory of the freezing Hudson River water rushing into her lungs hit her. The phantom sensation of Damon's hand crushing her jaw made her breath hitch. She forced her lungs to expand. "Because New York has the best pediatric specialists in the world. We need them to help Stella talk." Leo looked up at her. His eyes, sharp and far too observant for a child, studied her face. He knew she was lying. But he didn't push. He just slowly clenched his small hands into tight fists. That night, Corrie tossed and turned in the large bed. She was trapped underwater. The black glove was pulling her down. She couldn't breathe. Corrie shot up in bed, gasping for air. Cold sweat soaked her pajamas. Her hand flew to her chest, her fingers trembling as they traced the long, raised surgical scar hidden beneath her shirt. The next morning, Corrie stood in front of the mirror. She applied a bold red lipstick, masking the pale exhaustion on her face. She stepped into a pair of sharp stilettos. She drove the twins to the Upper East Side. She parked in front of the wrought-iron gates of the Golden Leaf Academy. Corrie knelt on the sidewalk. She straightened Leo's tie and smoothed Stella's hair. "Watch out for your sister," Corrie told him. Leo's eyes darkened with a fierce, protective glare. "I won't let anyone touch her." Corrie smiled softly and watched them walk through the heavy security doors. She turned around, pulling her car keys from her purse, ready to head to the Nova office. She reached for her car door handle. A sleek, black Maybach turned the corner and rolled slowly down the street. Corrie's peripheral vision caught the custom license plate. Her heart literally stopped beating for a full second. The blood drained from her face, leaving her dizzy. She ripped her car door open, threw herself into the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut. She ducked down, pressing her chest hard against the steering wheel, making herself as small as possible. The Maybach glided past her parked car. The rear passenger window was rolled halfway down. Through the glass, Corrie saw the sharp, cold profile of Damon Holloway's face. They were less than three feet apart.