Too Late For Regret: My Lost Heir

One floor up. The Oncology VIP suite.

Harper West sat up in bed. She was checking her makeup in a compact mirror. She added a touch more pale powder to her cheeks.

The IV drip next to her was flowing steadily. It was saline and vitamins. Nothing else.

She scrolled through Twitter on her phone. PrayForHarper was the number one trending topic worldwide.

She clicked on a video. It was an interview she had given yesterday. I don't want to ruin anyone's marriage, she sobbed on screen. I just want to say goodbye to my best friend.

The comments were vicious.

Seraphina Sterling is a monster for keeping them apart.

If Harper dies, it's on Seraphina's hands.

Harper smiled. It was a small, tight smile that didn't reach her eyes.

The door opened. Her private nurse walked in.

Miss West, the nurse whispered. The doctor... he says your ulcer is healed. The scans are clean. He wants to discharge you.

Harper didn't scream. She didn't throw anything. She simply turned her head slowly to look at the nurse. Her eyes were dry and incredibly cold.

"Is that so?" Harper whispered. She picked up her phone and tapped the screen. She held it up. It was a draft email addressed to the Hospital Board of Directors.

"If I am discharged," Harper said, her voice soft and sweet, "I will tweet that this hospital neglected a dying woman because she wouldn't pay a bribe. I have twenty million followers. How long do you think your career will last?"

The nurse paled.

"I need to be sick for another month," Harper said. "Fix the charts. Or I fix your life."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a checkbook. She scribbled a number. A big number. She tore the check out and let it flutter to the floor at the nurse's feet.

"Consulting fee," Harper said.

The nurse bent down, shaking, and picked up the check.

Footsteps approached from the hallway. Heavy, hurried strides.

Harper threw herself back against the pillows. She let out a low moan, clutching her stomach.

Julian burst into the room. He saw Harper writhing in pain.

Harper! He rushed to her side. What happened?

I... I tried to get water, Harper gasped. My hands... so weak. I'm useless, Julian. I'm just a burden.

No, Julian said fiercely. He stroked her hair. You are fighting.

Harper buried her face in his chest. She inhaled the scent of his expensive cologne.

Julian, she whispered. Take me downstairs. To the garden. Please. I need fresh air. This room smells like death.

Julian hesitated. The press is downstairs, Harper.

I don't care, she said, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes. Let them see. I'm not ashamed of loving you. I want to see the sun one last time.

It was a line from a movie. Julian didn't know that. He just saw a dying woman's wish.

Okay, he said.

He lifted her into the wheelchair. He grabbed a blanket and tucked it around her legs.

Harper slipped her hand into her pocket and tapped out a text to the paparazzo she had hired. Coming down now. Elevator B.

Julian pushed the wheelchair into the hall. They waited for the elevator.

The doors opened. They stepped in. Julian pressed the button for the Lobby.

The descent was smooth.

When the doors opened on the ground floor, the lobby was chaos. Security was trying to hold back the line of reporters.

And right there, in the center of the lobby, trying to weave through the crowd toward the exit, was a woman in a black coat and a hat.

Seraphina.

Julian stopped the wheelchair.

Seraphina looked up. Her eyes met his.

For a second, the world stopped.

Then, a reporter shouted. Is that the wife?

The mob turned. The cameras swung around. Flashbulbs exploded like fireworks.