Too Late For Regret: The Surgeon Heiress

The soft ping of an incoming email echoed in the quiet, top-floor conference room of Aura Entertainment. Areli sat at the head of the table. She glanced down at the sleek tablet resting in front of her. She saw the sender's name on the screen: Marcus, Senior Assistant, Roman Group. She reached out and tapped the screen. Her eyes scanned the text of the proposal quickly. She scrolled down to the attached files. She opened the document containing Holli's heavily airbrushed acting portfolio and resume. A short, sharp sound of amusement escaped her lips. Donovan stood near the whiteboard. He looked over at her. "Do you want the legal team to draft a counter-offer with a high-risk return clause?" he asked. Areli pushed the tablet away. It slid across the smooth table, stopping near the center. "No," Areli said, her voice completely flat. "Reply with exactly this: Aura does not invest in talentless, negative assets." Donovan swallowed hard. He pulled out his phone, typed the exact, insulting words into the reply box, and hit send. Back at the Roman Group headquarters, Courtland was sitting at his desk, tapping his pen against a notebook, waiting for the confirmation. Marcus practically ran into the office. He didn't even knock. He was sweating, his face pale. Marcus walked up to the desk and handed the tablet to Courtland. His hands were shaking. "You need to read this yourself, sir." Courtland snatched the tablet. He read the single line of text. The vein in his forehead throbbed violently. He slammed his open palm down onto the heavy mahogany desk. The impact rattled the coffee cup, making the dark liquid spill over the edge. His chest heaved. He felt a burning rage in his throat. This 'Miss Stephenson' was intentionally humiliating him. She was challenging his power. Courtland reached up and violently yanked his tie loose. He needed a drink to burn off the anger. He walked out of the office. He ordered his driver to take him to the most exclusive, members-only lounge in Soho. The inside of the lounge was dark. The air smelled of expensive cigars and aged leather. Low, heavy jazz music played from hidden speakers. Courtland stood at the bar. He held a cold martini glass in his hand. He turned around and let his eyes wander over the VIP booths in the back. His gaze suddenly stopped moving. His entire body went rigid. Sitting in one of the curved leather booths was a woman wearing a stunning, deep-V red couture dress. She turned her head slightly. It was Areli. The face he had been desperately trying to find for days. Courtland's heart slammed against his ribs. His first instinct was to walk straight over to her. But then he saw the man sitting across from her. It was Zane Sterling, one of the highest-paid A-list actors in Hollywood. Zane leaned forward across the small table. He moved his face very close to Areli's ear and whispered something. Areli lifted her hand to cover her mouth and laughed. Her eyes were bright, filled with a confident, radiant energy that Courtland had never seen during their marriage. A hot, suffocating wave of jealousy crashed into Courtland. It burned in his chest and made his hands shake. His fingers tightened around the stem of the martini glass. His knuckles turned completely white from the pressure. His arrogant mind immediately jumped to the only conclusion that made sense to him. He convinced himself that Areli was using her beauty to cling to a man like Sterling, playing the part of a desperate social climber just to provoke his jealousy. Courtland slammed the glass down onto the bar counter. The liquid splashed over his hand. He pushed away from the bar. He took long, aggressive strides across the dark carpet, heading straight for their VIP booth.