Too Late For Regret: My Dying Breath

Ezra stared down at Harlow. His chest heaved with heavy, uneven breaths. The amber liquid in his crystal glass sloshed over the rim, spilling onto his fingers.

He hated this. He hated the way she looked at him with those desperate, dying eyes. He hated the way her kneeling made him feel like a monster. It was a blatant emotional manipulation, a calculated attack on his sanity.

Ezra slammed the whiskey glass down onto the bar cart. The loud crack of glass hitting marble made Harlow flinch.

"Get up," Ezra commanded, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage. "Stop this pathetic act and get off my floor."

Harlow didn't move. She bit her lower lip so hard a drop of blood welled up. She kept her chin raised, her dull eyes locked onto his with a terrifying, stubborn resolve.

She reached into the deep pocket of her oversized coat. Her hand trembled as she pulled out a cheap pair of folding scissors and a small, clear Ziploc bag.

She held them up in the air between them.

Ezra's pupils contracted. He took a swift half-step back, his muscles tensing. For a second, he thought she was going to stab herself.

But Harlow just opened the scissors. She reached up, grabbed a small chunk of her own dull, lifeless hair near the root, and snipped.

She dropped the strands of hair into the Ziploc bag.

Then, she placed her hands flat on the floor and pushed herself up. Her legs wobbled, but she managed to stand.

She turned around and began to walk out of the study, her steps slow and dragging.

Ezra's brow furrowed. He followed her out into the massive foyer, his eyes glued to her back.

In the corner of the hall, Clementine was still curled up on the velvet sofa. She was sleeping, but her small face was scrunched up in distress. Tear tracks stained her pale cheeks.

Harlow dropped to her knees beside the sofa. Her movements were incredibly gentle. She brushed a stray blonde curl away from Clementine's ear.

With a quick, precise motion, Harlow snipped a few strands of hair from the back of her daughter's head, making sure to get the follicles.

Clementine whimpered in her sleep, shifting uncomfortably.

Harlow immediately dropped the scissors. She placed her hand flat against the little girl's chest, patting her in a slow, rhythmic motion until Clementine's breathing steadied.

Harlow picked up the Ziploc bag, dropped Clementine's hair inside, and sealed it tight.

She stood up, turned around, and walked back to Ezra. She held the plastic bag out to him.

"Here," Harlow said. Her voice was completely hollow, stripped of all emotion. "Take it to any lab you trust. Do it yourself, so you know I didn't tamper with it. I just want a fair result. I want you to see that she has your blood."

Ezra stared at the clear plastic bag. The strands of blonde and brown hair rested at the bottom. He looked at it like it was a live grenade.

His brain screamed at him to throw it away. He remembered the photos of her walking into Atticus's hotel room. He knew this was a trap.

But deep down, a tiny, insidious seed of doubt began to sprout.

Ezra raised his hand. His face was a mask of cold indifference. He pinched the top corner of the Ziploc bag with two fingers, looking at it with utter disgust, and pulled it from her grasp.

The moment the bag left her hand, Ezra turned to the wall intercom. He slammed his palm against the button connecting to the security gate.

"Send two men to the main house," Ezra ordered, his voice robotic. "Escort the intruders off my property."

Harlow watched him call security. Her heart felt like it was being crushed in a vice, but she didn't cry. She had accomplished what she came to do.

Two massive security guards jogged through the front doors a minute later. They stopped in the foyer, gesturing toward the exit.

Harlow didn't fight. She walked over to the sofa and slid her arms under Clementine.

As she lifted the sleeping four-year-old, the physical exertion was too much for her failing lungs. Harlow's legs buckled. She stumbled forward, nearly dropping the child onto the marble floor.

Ezra stood ten feet away. When he saw her stumble, his right arm violently twitched upward, a pure instinct to catch her.

But he forced his arm back down. He nailed his feet to the floor, his jaw locked tight.

Harlow caught her balance. She clutched Clementine tightly against her chest. She turned her head and looked at Ezra one last time.

Her eyes held no anger. Only an endless, bottomless exhaustion and a profound sorrow.

She turned around and walked out the front doors, stepping back into the freezing, pitch-black night.

The security guards pulled the heavy oak doors shut. The loud click of the deadbolt echoed through the empty foyer.

Ezra was left completely alone.

For a reason he couldn't articulate, the image of the little girl's wide, frightened eyes was seared into his mind. There was a haunting familiarity in that terrified stare, a ghost of something he violently refused to acknowledge.

A wave of suffocating panic crashed over him. He couldn't breathe.

Ezra marched over to the glass coffee table and slammed the Ziploc bag down onto it. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed his private assistant, Simon Caldwell.

"Simon," Ezra barked the second the call connected. "Find the top private genetics lab in the country. I need an expedited, legally binding DNA test done tomorrow. And Simon-make sure absolutely no one knows about this."