Too Late For Regret: My Hidden Billionaire
For five years, Daryl suppressed his terrifying Draconian bloodline to be a devoted, stay-at-home husband to his ambitious wife, Blaire.
But on his mother's birthday, Blaire stormed in with a billionaire heir by her side, slamming a divorce agreement directly into the birthday cake.
"This marriage is a liability to my entry into high society," she declared coldly.
Her new partner mocked Daryl's mother with eviction threats, triggering a severe heart attack that sent the frail woman collapsing to the floor.
At the hospital, Blaire refused to pay the life-saving medical deposit unless Daryl gave up full custody of their five-year-old daughter.
Through the ICU intercom, she ruthlessly told his dying mother that Daryl was a worthless failure, causing the heart monitor to violently flatline.
Daryl's sanity finally snapped.
He had protected Blaire from the shadows, hiding his god-like power just to give her a normal life. How could she treat human lives like disposable assets on a balance sheet?
The dormant volcano in his chest erupted. He signed the divorce papers and shredded her five-million-dollar pity check right into her face.
"Within one year, your empire will crumble, and you will be on your knees begging," Daryl vowed.
Then, he dialed a heavily encrypted number, summoning a fleet of black-ops helicopters and the city's most dangerous underground queen to bow at his feet, leaving his ex-wife trembling in the dust.
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Chapter 8
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.
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8.3
Ayleen Ramirez sat in the sterile Hope Hill Fertility Clinic, her heart shattering as Dr. Finch delivered the crushing news: her third IVF cycle had failed.
Eavesdropping outside a supply closet, she overheard her husband Don on the phone, laughing cruelly. "She's a defective incubator," he sneered to his mistress Alessandra. "I never used my sperm—just cheap bank donation. No trailer trash carries a Bradley heir."
Betrayed, Ayleen confronted him, but her adoptive family ambushed her at home. Her parents and brother sided with Alessandra, now pregnant by Don, demanding Ayleen sign divorce papers to secure family investments. "You're an embarrassment," her mother snapped, threatening to cut her trust fund. Ayleen tossed back their heirloom necklace and walked out.
She stormed the Bradley mansion, slapped divorce papers on Don, packed her bags amid his aunt's insults, and fled into the night.
Drunk in a trendy bar, she stumbled into a powerful stranger—Burdette Guerrero—spilling whiskey on his crotch, then accidentally grabbed a napkin to his trousers. He shoved her away in rage.
Worse, she mistook his penthouse suite for her hotel room, bursting in on his shower, smashing a mirror in panic. He pinned her to the wall, snarling accusations.
How did this arrogant man know her name? Why demand she sign a mysterious contract at 9 a.m.? Devastated and clueless she's actually pregnant—with his stolen heir—Ayleen sobbed alone, the world crumbling.
The next morning, she straightened her spine in the Grand Guerrero lobby, ready to face him and demand answers—no matter the cost.
7.8
Helen was finally brought back to the luxurious Gallagher estate as their long-lost blood relative.
But her new family didn't welcome her; they looked at her with undisguised disgust.
The matriarch mocked her stench of poverty, while her step-sister Candice treated her like a feral animal. The patriarch, Fredy—who had built his empire by betraying Helen's mother—tried to break her spirit. He blackmailed Helen into attending a high-society gala by threatening to cut off her grandmother's medical funds.
At the gala, Candice squeezed into a diamond-encrusted gown, desperate to seduce the guest of honor, Damian Montgomery. Damian was the most powerful man in New York, and he was currently tearing the city apart looking for a mysterious woman named Jane.
Overhearing this, a sick, greedy smile spread across Candice's face. She planned to impersonate Jane to claim Damian's wealth and completely crush Helen under her heel.
"Hide in the corner tonight. Don't you dare try to speak to anyone important!"
They all thought Helen was just a helpless, uncultured country girl they could easily manipulate and step on to secure their stolen legacy.
What they didn't know was that Helen was the real Jane. She was the lethal shadow who had saved Damian in the woods, shattered his grip, and robbed his highly guarded vault just the night before.
Helen calmly adjusted her simple black dress and stepped into the ballroom, ready to tear their stolen world apart.
7.2
Five years ago, I, Claire Parker, ran away for love with Daniel Carter, the broke boy everyone looked down on. But on the very day we were supposed to leave together, he abandoned me.
Overnight, I became the laughingstock of the entire city and was forced into a marriage alliance with a terminally ill man, Ryan Cooper.
Five years later, my husband died, the marriage arrangement fell apart, and the Cooper family threw me out without a shred of mercy.
Meanwhile, Daniel, the man everyone once sneered at, returned home in glory and became the hottest rising name in the business world.
And somehow, he ended up becoming my boss.
I wanted nothing to do with him, yet he kept closing in on me, cornering me with sarcasm sharp enough to draw blood.
Then one day, Daniel caught me on a date with another man.
His eyes reddened instantly as he pinned me against the wall. "Claire... are you abandoning me again?"
7.5
I am the biological daughter of the wealthy Fitzpatrick family, but I spent my childhood eating out of dumpsters.
When I was finally brought back to the estate at age seven, I thought I would experience my parents' love.
Instead, my biological parents looked at my dirty clothes with raw disgust. They only cared about Hallie, the fake daughter who lived like a princess.
The moment I walked in, Hallie hurled a heavy ceramic cup at my head, slicing my hand open.
"Get out of my house!"
My father didn't even look at the blood. He raised his hand to strike me, accusing me of bringing trailer park rules into his home.
In my past life, I dropped to my knees and begged for their forgiveness. I endured their abuse, hoping they would eventually love me.
But they let the maids humiliate me, let Hallie steal my identity, and eventually threw me back onto the streets to die. Even my playboy Uncle Byron, the only person who ever showed me mercy, was driven to suicide by them.
I didn't understand why my own flesh and blood hated me so much, or why a vicious liar deserved everything while I was treated like a jinx.
Opening my eyes again, I was back on the exact day I first returned to the estate.
As my father raised his hand to hit me, I didn't cower.
Instead, I looked at the family patriarch and pointed directly at my notorious, alcoholic uncle.
"I want him to be my new guardian."
7.7
Jaclyn woke up in the sterile hospital room after falling down the stairs. The nurse delivered the devastating news: she had bled heavily and lost her baby.
But before she could even cry, her trusted cousins, Katelyn and Cherri, locked the door and revealed the horrifying truth.
"It wasn't an accident," Katelyn smirked, pinning Jaclyn's arm down. "The lubricant on the top step was a very deliberate choice."
They needed her broken and unstable. They had forged her signature, draining her massive trust fund to save their uncle's bankrupt business.
What shattered Jaclyn's world was the fresh hickey on Cherri's neck. Her lover, Bradford, had helped plan the entire murder.
When Jaclyn tried to scream, they smothered her with a pillow, framing her as a lunatic having a mental breakdown.
Two weeks later, when she confronted them, Bradford violently shoved her through a second-story glass window to silence her forever.
As she fell to her death, the husband she had spent her life hating—the ruthless billionaire Gaines—burst through the doors.
He threw himself forward, his face filled with pure terror, desperately trying to catch her.
When her body hit the stone patio, Gaines fell to his knees in her blood, weeping and begging her not to close her eyes.
Until her last breath, Jaclyn was consumed by suffocating regret. Why did she trust the monsters who killed her, and hate the only man who truly loved her?
Opening her eyes again, she was back in the penthouse, exactly one month into her marriage with Gaines.
7.9
I woke up in a burning warehouse, twelve years after my supposed death. My body had been reset to its physical prime, the deep burn scar on my wrist completely gone.
Through the smoke, my eldest son, Kennard, rushed blindly into the flames. He was screaming the name of the very woman who had orchestrated this trap—Brittnie.
When I tackled him out of the way of a falling steel beam, he didn't recognize my youthful face. Instead, he pinned me to the concrete and nearly crushed my windpipe.
"How much did she pay you to carve up your face to look like a dead woman?"
He hissed the words at me, treating me like a sick corporate spy. For a decade, a bizarre narrative "script" had brainwashed my son, forcing him into pathetic devotion to Brittnie. She had drained his wealth, turned my daughter against him, and hollowed out our family empire.
Whenever Kennard tried to resist her, the mind control punished him with agonizing migraines, driving him to smash his own hands against the wall just to cope with the pain.
Hearing him quietly sobbing outside my locked door, my heart shattered. How could this invisible force torture my brilliant son and turn my family into puppets for a D-list actress?
I dragged him to the hospital for a DNA test.
When the results confirmed my maternity at 99.999%, the cold billionaire collapsed to the floor, weeping in my arms like a lost child.
I wiped his tears and smiled ruthlessly. It was time to take back my empire and burn Brittnie's life to the ground.