Too Late CEO: The Runaway Wife Returns

The Maybach descended into the private underground parking garage of the Holloway Group headquarters in Manhattan.

Damon stepped out of the car. The air around him was suffocatingly heavy. His employees kept their heads down, terrified of the dark aura radiating from their CEO. He walked with long, aggressive strides toward his private elevator.

He stepped into his top-floor office and ripped his suit jacket off, throwing it onto the leather sofa. He walked behind his massive mahogany desk. His eyes immediately fell on a silver photo frame. It was placed face-down on the wood.

The intercom on his desk buzzed.

"Mr. Holloway," his secretary's voice trembled. "Ms. Kara Berger is in the lobby. She doesn't have an appointment, but she's causing a scene."

Damon's brow furrowed deep. A wave of pure disgust rolled through his stomach. "Send her up."

Minutes later, the office doors opened. Kara walked in wearing a simple, innocent white dress. Her eyes were red and puffy. She looked fragile and broken.

She practically ran to the desk. She reached her hand out, trying to grab Damon's wrist.

Damon shifted his arm back, dodging her touch effortlessly.

Kara's hand froze in the air. She pulled it back, her face flushing with embarrassment. She immediately burst into tears.

"Damon, you have to help me," she sobbed. "The internet trolls are ruining my life. They are spreading vicious rumors that I used a ghostwriter for my memoir."

Damon leaned back in his leather chair. He stared at her with dead eyes.

"It's not a rumor, Kara," Damon said, his voice slicing through her tears like a blade. "It's a fact."

Kara's face went paper-white. She gripped the edge of his desk. "It's my competitors! They are trying to destroy me. I need the Holloway PR team to release a statement."

Damon didn't speak.

"If I can just get an exclusive cover interview with Nova magazine, I can flip the narrative," Kara pleaded. "Please, Damon."

"I don't use my company's resources to cover up stupid lies," Damon said coldly.

Kara gasped. She suddenly clutched her chest, her breathing turning ragged and shallow. She swayed on her feet.

"My chest," she wheezed. "It hurts so much. Ever since that night five years ago... when your wife's blood was pumped into my veins... my body has never been the same."

The words hit Damon's ear. The muscle in his jaw ticked violently. The guilt of having destroyed Corrie to save this wretched woman was a daily torture.

Damon stared at her pathetic display. "Fine. I will have my office contact Nova."

Kara instantly stopped wheezing. A bright smile broke through her tears. "Thank you! Will you come with me to the charity gala tonight?"

"No," Damon snapped. He pressed the button on his desk. "Brad. Escort Ms. Berger out."

Kara bit her bottom lip, furious but hiding it. She turned and walked out as Brad entered.

The heavy doors clicked shut.

Damon grabbed the knot of his silk tie and yanked it down, desperate for air. The guilt of owing his life to a woman he despised was a daily torture.

Brad walked to the desk and handed Damon a sleek black folder. "Background check on Nova magazine, sir."

Damon flipped the folder open. His eyes scanned the executive summary, stopping on the name of the Editor-in-Chief: Aria.

"She has no last name on file," Brad explained. "No public photos. She took over Nova two years ago and pulled it out of bankruptcy. She's ruthless."

Damon felt a flicker of predatory interest. "Skip the PR department. Book a meeting with this Aria for me directly."

Brad shifted uncomfortably. "I tried, sir. Her assistant rejected the request ten minutes ago. She said Nova doesn't do favors for liars."

Damon raised a dark eyebrow. In this city, no one slapped the Holloway Group in the face.

A cold smirk played on his lips. "Cancel my afternoon meetings. I'm going to meet this editor myself."

He stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the crawling traffic of Manhattan.

Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain hit the left side of his chest.

It was a phantom pain. It happened every time it rained, every time he remembered that night five years ago.

He walked slowly back to his desk. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out and touched the back of the face-down silver frame.

He flipped it over.

Behind the glass was a candid photo of Corrie. She was laughing, her hair blowing in the wind, her eyes full of bright, innocent light.

Damon's thumb rubbed over the smooth glass, tracing the curve of her cheek.

"Corrie," he whispered. The sound tore out of his throat, thick with agonizing pain.

Brad stood silently near the door. The world thought Damon Holloway was a machine made of ice and money. Only Brad knew that the CEO had died the same night his wife's car went off that bridge.

Brad's phone buzzed aggressively in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the text message. His eyes went wide.

"Boss," Brad said, his voice tight. "There's an anomaly at the Golden Leaf Academy. The autism project you fund."