Too Late For Regret, Mr. Morrison
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I came home exhausted from an eighteen-hour hospital shift, just wanting to rest in the bed my husband of three years rarely shared with me.
Instead, I found his mistress sprawled on our bedroom floor in a pool of stage blood, holding a knife and screaming that I had pushed her and killed her baby.
My husband, Kian, rushed in. He didn't care that I was still in my wrinkled scrubs, nor did he look at the blatantly fake ultrasound she threw on the floor.
"Shut up, you vicious bitch."
He shoved me out of the way so hard that my head cracked open against the sharp marble fireplace. As real blood gushed down my face and blinded me, he simply scooped her up and walked out, leaving me bleeding on the floor while the house staff watched in disgust.
As I lay there gasping, my medical training cut through the haze. The chronic weakness and dizzy spells I'd suffered for months weren't from overwork. Kian had been slowly poisoning me. I had played the meek, invisible wife for three years, enduring his coldness and his cheating. I didn't understand how the man I married could not only frame me, but actively try to murder me just to clear the way for his secret lover.
I dragged myself up, stitched my own torn scalp without a single tear, and pulled out my hidden military-grade laptop. I signed the divorce papers to claim my guaranteed half of his ten-billion-dollar trust fund, and logged back into my old hacker alias. The meek wife was dead.
Too Late For Regret, Mr. Morrison Chapter 1
The heavy oak door of the Morrison estate felt like it weighed a ton. Carmen Blair pushed it open, her shoulders burning from the eighteen-hour shift at the charity hospital. She still smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. Her scrubs were wrinkled, her feet aching in her cheap sneakers. All she wanted was a hot shower and to crawl into the bed that her husband rarely shared with her anymore.
She dropped her keys on the foyer table. The house was too quiet. The staff was usually buzzing around at this hour.
She climbed the grand staircase, her hand trailing up the cold mahogany banister. She walked down the long hallway toward the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar.
A smell hit her before she even pushed the door open. Copper. Raw, metallic, and thick. Mixed with the heavy, cloying scent of Seraphina's signature perfume-Frédéric Malle's Portrait of a Lady.
Carmen's hand froze on the door handle. Her brain instantly shifted from exhausted wife to clinical observer. She pushed the door open.
The white Persian rug was ruined. A dark, sticky pool of red spread across the expensive fibers. Seraphina Astor-Vance lay sprawled on the floor, her white silk slip dress hiked up, stained crimson from the waist down. A silver fruit knife glinted in her right hand, the blade smeared with blood.
Carmen's eyes dropped to the wound. Her pulse steadied. The blood was too bright. The cut on Seraphina's forearm was superficial-barely a scratch, angled upward, typical of self-infliction. The blood pooling under her skirt was too voluminous for the tiny arm wound.
Seraphina's eyes snapped open. The calculated malice in them was fleeting, quickly replaced by a trembling, terrified performance.
"Carmen..." Seraphina's voice shook, a perfect tremor of fear and accusation. "Why... why would you do this?"
Carmen didn't answer. Her feet moved forward on their own. Surgeon mode. She needed to check the actual depth of the abdominal wound, if there even was one. She had to stop the bleeding.
She took one step onto the rug.
"Don't come near me!" Seraphina shrieked, scrambling backward, the knife raised defensively. "You already killed my baby! Are you going to kill me too to shut me up?"
Carmen stopped. The words registered, but the logic refused to form. "What are you talking about? I just walked in."
Heavy, rapid footsteps thundered up the stairs. The door slammed against the wall.
Kian Morrison stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his dark hair disheveled. His gray eyes swept the room. They skipped right past Carmen and locked onto the bleeding woman on the floor.
"Kian!" Seraphina sobbed, reaching out her bloody hand toward him. With her other hand, she slid a crumpled piece of paper across the floor. "Our baby... it's gone... she pushed me..."
Kian's face drained of color, then flooded with a dark, violent red. He strode past Carmen without a glance.
Carmen grabbed his arm as he moved by. Her fingers dug into the expensive wool of his suit jacket. "Kian, wait. Look at her arm. That blood isn't hers. I was at the hospital. I just got home."
Kian stopped. He looked down at her hand on his sleeve, then slowly raised his eyes to hers. There was no confusion in his gaze. No question. Just pure, freezing contempt.
"Shut up, you vicious bitch." His voice was low, dead calm, and cut deeper than the knife on the floor.
He shook off her hand and knelt down, pulling Seraphina into his arms. "It's okay. I'm here. I've got you."
Carmen stood frozen. Three years of marriage. Three years of silence, cold shoulders, and empty beds. And he didn't even ask. He didn't even blink.
"Kian, look at the ultrasound," Carmen said, her voice harder now. She pointed at the paper on the floor. "It's dated last week. She wasn't even showing. That blood is fake. It's a setup."
Kian lifted his head. The rage in his eyes was terrifying. He stood up, holding Seraphina against his chest.
"Get out of my way." He stepped toward the door.
Carmen moved to block the doorway. She had to make him see. "You are not taking her out of here without calling an ambulance. That is a crime scene, and she is lying."
Kian's patience snapped. "I said, move!"
He didn't shove her, not directly. Instead, he took a large, aggressive step forward, his shoulder clipping hers hard as he stormed past. It wasn't a direct assault, but it was just as dismissive and twice as contemptuous.
Carmen's exhaustion, her weakened state from the long shift, betrayed her. She couldn't catch her balance. The unexpected impact sent her stumbling sideways. Her feet tangled in the ruined rug. She fell backward, the momentum throwing her weight against the sharp, carved corner of the Italian marble fireplace.
A sickening crack echoed in the room.
Pain exploded through her skull. White-hot, blinding. Her vision went black for a second, then filled with flashing spots. Warm liquid, thick and sticky, gushed down the side of her face, dripping onto her collarbone.
She lay on the floor, gasping, trying to force air back into her lungs. The room spun sickeningly.
Through the haze of pain, she saw Kian. He had paused for a fraction of a second when he heard the impact, his back stiffening, but he hadn't turned around. He just adjusted his grip on Seraphina and walked out the door.
"Call the house doctor!" Kian's voice echoed down the hallway, frantic and urgent. "Now! Hurry!"
That urgency. That panic. He had never once used that tone for her.
Carmen turned her head slightly. The blood from her head wound mingled with the fake stage blood on the rug. It was the same color. But hers was real.
Footsteps shuffled at the door. The housekeeper and two maids stood there, staring down at her. Their eyes were wide, but not with pity. It was disgust. It was fear. They looked at her like she was a rabid animal.
None of them moved to help her. None of them offered a towel or a phone.
Carmen pressed her hand against the wound on her head. The blood pulsed against her palm, hot and sticky. The physical pain was agonizing. But the cold, hollow space expanding in her chest hurt worse.
She stared at the ceiling. The ornate plaster medallion looked like a cage.
She was done.
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Too Late For Regret, Mr. Morrison of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5Chapter 6 Ch. 6
Chapter 7 Ch. 7
Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
New Release Novels
8.3
I was the long-lost Donovan heiress, finally brought home after a childhood in foster care. My parents adored me, my husband cherished me, and the woman who tried to ruin my life, Kiera Reese, was locked away in a mental facility. I was safe. I was loved.
On my birthday, I decided to surprise my husband, Ivan, at his office. But he wasn't there.
I found him at a private art gallery across town. He was with Kiera.
She wasn't in a facility. She was radiant, laughing as she stood beside my husband and their five-year-old son. I watched through the glass as Ivan kissed her, a familiar, loving gesture he’d used with me just that morning.
I crept closer and overheard them. My birthday wish to go to the amusement park had been denied because he’d already promised the entire park to their son—whose birthday was the same day as mine.
"She’s so grateful to have a family, she’d believe anything we tell her," Ivan said, his voice laced with a cruelty that stole my breath. "It's almost sad."
My entire reality—my loving parents who funded this secret life, my devoted husband—was a five-year lie. I was just the fool they kept on stage.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ivan, sent while he stood with his real family.
"Just got out of the meeting. So exhausting. I miss you."
The casual lie was the final blow. They thought I was a pathetic, grateful orphan they could control.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were.
9.1
He postponed putting my name on the deed 18 times.
Each time, his mentee Ciera had an “emergency.” Each time, he ran to her.
I watched him give her his prized Montblanc pen—the one he wouldn’t even let me borrow. I saw her post their late nights on Instagram. I ate anniversary dinners alone while he “mentored” her.
Then he bought me a necklace—identical to the one she just flaunted online.
That was when I stopped feeling anything.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight. I simply packed two suitcases, resigned from our firm, and booked a one-way ticket to London.
He thinks I’m coming back in a week.
He has no idea I’m gone for good.
Nineteen broken promises. One silent goodbye. And a new life waiting across the ocean.
7.2
Elara Vex had everything-a flawless ice core, the title of prodigy, and a place at the pinnacle of the High Tower. But in one brutal night, it was all ripped away. Her mentor tore the core from her chest. Her fiancé drove a sword through her back. Her own sister smiled as she bled out on the cold marble floor.
When Elara wakes, she's years in the past, mere hours before her core is scheduled to be stolen. This time, she won't be anyone's sacrificial lamb. She shatters her own core with forbidden blood magic and forges something far more terrifying in its place-a bottomless, ravenous Chaos Core that devours magic itself.
Now, branded a worthless cripple and cast into the deadly Abyss, Elara is pulled from the darkness by the outcasts of Elysium Academy-a school for heretics, psychopaths, and everything the Tower despises. Under the tutelage of a reclusive principal who knew her murdered mother, Elara will master her forbidden power and uncover the Tower's darkest secrets.
When the Five Academies Ranking Tournament arrives, Seraphina Vex stands in the arena, draped in white saintess robes, ready to claim ultimate glory. She doesn't know that a ghost from her past has clawed her way back from hell. She doesn't know that Elara is coming-and this time, the prodigal sister isn't asking for mercy. She's bringing chaos.
8.5
Five years ago, Nina Hale lost everything... her family, her reputation, and the man she once loved. Betrayed by her own sister and abandoned by those she trusted most, she disappeared without a trace.
Now she's back.
With a new identity and a burning determination, Nina is ready to reclaim her life and chase the dream she once gave up: becoming a star actress. But her return awakens old enemies, and her scheming sister Lydia is determined to ruin her again.
Just when Nina thinks things can't get worse, she's caught in another trap... and unexpectedly crosses paths with a quiet, lonely little boy.
Ethan Grant hasn't spoken in years.
Feeling responsible for him, Nina agrees to stay and help the child come out of his shell. But she didn't expect Ethan's dangerously charming father, Lucas Grant, to enter the picture.
Cold, powerful, and impossible to read, Lucas slowly finds himself drawn to the woman who brightens his son's world.
What begins as a simple act of kindness soon turns into something far more complicated, because Nina came back for revenge.
She never planned to fall in love.
**********
"I saw you with him," Lucas said quietly, but the tension in his jaw gave him away.
Nina exhaled, crossing her arms. "You don't get to care."
"Don't I?" He stepped in, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
"This is just a contract."
"Then why does it bother me?" His hand hovered near her waist, not touching-yet.
"It shouldn't." Her breath faltered.
His gaze darkened, "And yet it does."
8.8
Clara supported her boyfriend Leo for four years, paying his rent and buying his headshots while working dead-end extra gigs.
On his twenty-sixth birthday, she caught him in their bed with Veronica, a wealthy producer's daughter who constantly stole Clara's roles.
Leo mocked Clara as a "pathetic, poor stepping stone" who was just there until he got his foot in the door.
Veronica threatened to ruin Clara's career forever.
Clara dumped him, packed her bags, and impulsively entered a contract marriage with a cold stranger she met at City Hall.
But her nightmare wasn't over.
When her mother suddenly needed a $200,000 emergency brain surgery, Clara was forced to take a demeaning extra gig to survive.
There, Veronica and her starlet friend cornered Clara.
They mocked her cheap clothes, ridiculed her new wedding ring as fake glass, and intentionally poured scalding coffee on her feet.
"Well, maid, you better clean that up."
Veronica laughed, forcing Clara to her knees to wipe up the burning liquid while snapping photos.
Clara swallowed her burning humiliation, secretly recording their abuse on her phone.
She endured the pain, desperate for the $300 day rate to save her mother's life, feeling entirely crushed by their overwhelming wealth and power.
What she didn't know was that outside the soundstage, her new contract husband—the man she thought was just a struggling, broke tech worker—was sitting in a sleek black Maybach.
He watched his wife kneeling on the floor, and his dark eyes filled with a lethal, terrifying rage.
9.1
June woke up transmigrated into the body of a ruthless billionaire's toxic, disposable wife.
Before she could even process the massive Beverly Hills mansion, a cold system voice announced she had exactly five minutes of lifespan remaining.
To survive, she was forced to bind with the system and strictly maintain the original owner's "brainless, abusive drama queen" persona to earn hours to live.
She was forced to violently slap hot coffee out of a terrified maid's hands and physically spank her manipulative five-year-old stepson.
When she tried to escape this nightmare by throwing divorce papers at her terrifying husband, Isaac Walton, he simply ripped them to shreds.
Every time she tried to be reasonable or show a hint of kindness, the system tortured her with agonizing cardiac pain, cementing her status as the most hated monster in the family.
The most absurd part happened when she threw a hysterical, system-mandated tantrum over a gossip magazine, and Isaac's icy demeanor suddenly melted.
He gently touched her hair, offering the one thing she desperately needed.
"Stop crying. I'll handle it."
Just as a spark of hope ignited in her chest, the system's critical death warning exploded in her skull: accepting his sympathy would instantly deduct thirty days of her life.
To stay alive, June had no choice but to violently slap away the only hand reaching out to save her, forcing herself to play the greedy villain while her husband's gaze turned dangerously dark.
