Too Late For Regret: My Hidden Billionaire

The Lamborghini tore through the neon-lit streets of Manhattan. Low, heavy jazz pulsed from the car's speakers, filling the cabin with a dangerous, thick tension.

Juliette drove with one hand on the steering wheel. Her other hand rested casually on Daryl's thigh, her manicured fingertips tracing slow, deliberate circles against the fabric of his trousers.

Daryl did not push her hand away. He leaned his head back against the leather seat and closed his eyes, absorbing the faint, soothing pulses of stellar energy radiating from her touch.

Juliette glanced at his perfect, sharp jawline. Her eyes burned with naked ambition and raw desire.

She stopped at a red light. She picked up her phone, angled the camera toward the center console, and snapped a close-up picture of Daryl's hand resting on his knee.

The framing deliberately cut off his face, but it perfectly captured the distinct, jagged dark scar wrapping around his wrist-the mark of the Draconic bloodline.

Juliette opened Instagram. She uploaded the photo to her millions of followers with a single caption:

"The legend I have waited five long years for is finally free. And now, he is completely mine."

Miles away, in the back seat of the Maybach, the temperature was freezing.

Estevan was talking loudly, bragging about the European market shares the Montgomery family would bring to the Doyle Group.

Blaire heard none of it. She stared blankly out the window, her mind endlessly looping the image of Juliette's hand on Daryl's arm.

Her phone buzzed once, silently, in her palm. Not an alert from her assistant, but an encrypted brief from her private intelligence network. Driven by a gnawing unease on the way to the dinner, she had issued a search order. The text on screen was cold and precise: «Cross-verified. Within the NYC metropolitan area, only one private medical facility meets the criteria for receiving a critical patient like Marlene Doyle AND maintains 'nation-state' level security: Asclepius Sanatorium. The institution does not accept public inquiries. Access requires a 'top-tier guarantor.'

Her phone vibrated violently against her palm. It was an emergency alert from her private PR assistant.

The assistant sent a screenshot of Juliette's Instagram post. The message below it read: "This is blowing up the entire New York socialite circle."

Blaire opened the image. Her eyes locked onto the scar on the wrist. She knew that scar. Daryl had gotten it pulling her out of a burning car three years ago.

When she read the words "completely mine," a sharp, agonizing pain spiked through her chest, as if a physical hand had crushed her heart.

Her Aethelred Method of absolute rationality disintegrated. A toxic, suffocating wave of pure jealousy flooded her veins.

Blaire slammed her finger against the power button, turning the screen black. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. Her chest heaved against her tight jacket.

Estevan noticed her panic. He leaned over, trying to peek at her phone screen.

Blaire shoved him back hard. "Tell the driver to turn around," she ordered, her voice shaking. "We are going to the Asclepius Sanatorium."

"What?" Estevan yelled, his face flushing with anger. "We have a board of directors prep dinner in thirty minutes!"

"If the media catches wind that the CEO of the Doyle Group abandoned her dying mother-in-law on the night of her transfer, the IPO will tank!" Blaire snapped back fiercely. Her mind raced, cloaking this scorching impulse in the icy logic of business. It was a flawless corporate excuse. It was so logical she almost believed it herself.

But her trembling fingers gave her away. She just needed to see it. She needed to know if Daryl was really with that woman —more importantly, she needed to see with her own eyes how much power he had hidden, and what kind of threat it posed to her.

The Maybach violently swerved across two lanes, pulling an illegal U-turn as horns blared around them.

At that exact moment, the Lamborghini pulled into the private underground garage of Juliette's penthouse in Tribeca.

The garage was a shrine to extreme wealth, lined with limited-edition hypercars.

Juliette killed the engine. She unbuckled her seatbelt and suddenly leaned across the console. Her face stopped inches from Daryl's, her breathing mixing with his.

"So," Juliette whispered, her lips brushing his ear. "Do you want to sleep in the guest room tonight, or do you want to experience a deep resonance of Stellar Attunement?"

Daryl opened his eyes. A flash of dark gold illuminated his pupils. He reached up and gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"Do not test my limits," Daryl said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Your body cannot handle the full backlash of a Draconic surge yet."

Juliette didn't pull away. She smiled, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. She knew the game of conquest had only just begun.