Too Late For Regret: The Genius Ex-Wife

Seraphina stared into Alistair's dead eyes. Acid clawed up the back of her throat. Her stomach violently cramped, a physical rejection of the man standing before her. She lunged forward and snatched the pregnancy test from beneath the envelope. She pulled it tight against her chest, her arms crossing over her flat stomach in a desperate, primitive shield. Alistair's jaw tightened. He looked at her with pure annoyance. "Julian. Call the private clinic. Book the procedure for tonight." Julian pulled his phone from his suit pocket. The rapid, synthetic beeps of the keypad echoed off the high ceilings. Seraphina's heart slammed against her ribs. Begging would do nothing. She dropped her chin, letting her hair fall forward to hide her eyes. She forced her shoulders to slump, adopting the pathetic, submissive posture he expected. "Give me a minute," she whispered, her voice shaking perfectly. "I need to change my clothes." Alistair sneered. He waved his hand dismissively. "Make it fast." Seraphina turned. She walked toward the long hallway. She forced her legs to move steadily, suppressing the violent tremors shaking her thighs. She reached the master bedroom and stepped inside. She slammed the heavy oak door shut and twisted the deadbolt. The lock engaged with a loud, solid click. "Don't try anything stupid, Seraphina," Alistair's voice barked through the thick wood. She ignored him. She sprinted to the walk-in closet. She grabbed an orange Hermès Kelly bag from the top shelf and dumped its contents onto the floor. Lipsticks and compacts shattered against the hardwood. She dropped to her knees and ripped open the bottom drawer. She shoved her passport, three stacks of emergency cash, and a bottle of painkillers into the empty bag. She tore off the silk robe. The fabric pooled at her feet. She pulled on a pair of thick black leggings, a tight thermal shirt, and a heavy windbreaker. Someone pounded on the bedroom door. "Miss Fletcher," Julian called out. "The car from the clinic is downstairs." She ignored the balcony. The bedroom door handle rattled violently as Alistair kicked the wood; the doorframe groaned. She threw the strap of the bag across her chest, bolted toward the en-suite bathroom, and locked that door too. She yanked open the utility access panel hidden behind the mirrors-a route she had memorized from the building's blueprints. She squeezed into the narrow, dark maintenance shaft. The freezing draft from the building's ventilation system bit into her cheeks. She climbed down the interior metal rungs, the darkness swallowing her. The metal was slick with condensation and freezing air. Her sneaker slipped. Her entire body weight dropped. A scream caught in her throat. She clamped her hands tighter around the vertical rails. The friction tore the skin from her palms. Warm blood slicked the freezing metal, but she stopped her fall, her heart hammering against her ribs. Above her, a deafening crash echoed. The bedroom door splintered open. Alistair rushed into the room, then into the bathroom. He saw the open access panel. His pupils dilated in fury. He pulled a radio from his pocket and roared into it. "Security! HVAC Equipment level! She's in the maintenance shaft! Intercept her now!" Seraphina scrambled down the metal rungs, her arms screaming in pain. She reached the grated metal platform of the 69th-floor HVAC level and kicked open the access door. Before she could sprint toward the service elevator, the heavy door at the end of the corridor slammed open and two massive men in black tactical gear burst through. A thick hand clamped around her wrist, crushing her bones. The guard yanked her off the ladder and dragged her roughly into the concrete corridor.