Too Late For Regret: Watch Me Shine

The brass elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Fiona stepped out into the dimly lit corridor of the Manhattan private club, the vintage wall sconces casting long, distorted shadows across the heavy wallpaper. She gripped the velvet gift box in her right hand, her fingers cramping from holding it too tight during the ride up. She looked down, using her free hand to smooth the silk of her skirt. She forced her lungs to take in a slow, deep breath, trying to push down the exhaustion that had settled in her chest from staying up three nights straight to finish his gift. Her stilettos sank into the thick Persian carpet with each step. The dense physical material swallowed the sound of her footsteps completely, allowing her to approach in absolute silence. At the far end of the hallway, the heavy mahogany door to the VIP suite stood slightly ajar. A gap of yellow light spilled out onto the floor, accompanied by the thumping bass of the music and the overlapping hum of male voices. Fiona slowed her pace. A small, genuine smile touched the corners of her lips as she imagined the look on Kevon's face when he opened the box and saw the antique watch she had tracked down for months. She adjusted her grip on the velvet box, her thumb stroking the soft fabric. She reached the door, her hand extending toward the brass handle. Before her fingers made contact, the music inside the suite abruptly cut out. The sudden silence was deafening, and the void of sound made the voices inside shockingly clear. "Seriously, man," Preston's voice drifted through the crack, carrying the lazy tone of someone half-drunk. "When are you actually going to tie the knot with Fiona? The society pages are getting impatient." Fiona's hand froze an inch from the brass. Her breath hitched in her throat. She waited, her pulse suddenly pounding in her ears, desperate to hear the reassurance she had been fed for three years. A cold, dismissive scoff echoed from inside. The sound was painfully familiar. It was Kevon. "Marriage?" Kevon's voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. "It's just a necessary transaction. The Baxter family needs a presentable, obedient PR billboard, and she fits the description. For now." Fiona's heart seized in her chest. It felt like a physical clamp had been tightened around her ribs, stopping the blood flow. Her fingers turned to ice, hovering uselessly in the air. Her mind went completely blank, wiped clean of the fantasy she had constructed. "Come on," Preston pressed, his tone shifting to something more serious. "She's poured everything into your career, Kev. She even signed over the patent rights to the 'Starlight' series. That was worth millions." Kevon cut him off with an irritated click of his tongue. "That was the price of admission. She's a nobody from Brooklyn who wanted to latch onto a top-tier family. Handing over those patents was the least she could do for the privilege of wearing my name." A violent spasm clenched Fiona's stomach. Acid burned the back of her throat. She staggered sideways, her shoulder hitting the cold, hard wall of the corridor. The plaster was rough against her bare arm, the only thing keeping her upright as her knees threatened to buckle. Another voice chimed in-Lachlan, sounding amused. "Speaking of privileges... what about Kayla? You've been keeping her pretty well hidden away." At the sound of Kayla's name, Fiona's pupils dilated. A rapid-fire montage played behind her eyes: the canceled dinners, the unreturned calls, the weekends Kevon spent claiming to be out of town while she sat alone in the penthouse. Kevon's tone underwent an instant transformation. The coldness vanished, replaced by a soft, protective warmth that made Fiona's skin crawl. "Kayla is different. She's the only woman I've ever actually wanted to marry. She's real." "Real?" Lachlan laughed. "Fiona is standing right by your side at every gala." "Fiona is arrogant and controlling," Kevon snapped, the warmth evaporating back into disdain. "Every time I look at her, I see the reason Kayla suffered so much back then. She suffocates me." The words struck Fiona like a physical blow to the sternum. She gasped, her lungs refusing to expand. A sharp, stinging pressure built up behind her eyes, threatening to spill over. She lowered her gaze to the velvet box in her hand. She had spent three months negotiating with a collector in Geneva for this watch. She had customized the engraving. She had thought it was a symbol of their future. Now, it just looked like a pathetic offering to a god that didn't exist. From the far end of the corridor came the soft, distant chime of the elevator arriving. Fiona snapped upright. She blinked rapidly, forcing the moisture back into her tear ducts. She smoothed her expression, erasing every trace of vulnerability. When she looked up, her face was a mask of cold, unyielding stone. The sound had been a necessary jolt-a reminder that she could not stand here forever, hiding in the shadows like a ghost. She turned back to the crack in the mahogany door. The burning in her chest had been extinguished, replaced by a freezing, absolute clarity. The grief was gone. In its place was a sharp, biting fury. Three years. Three years of her life, her talent, her resources, drained to feed an ungrateful parasite. She looked at the velvet box. She didn't hesitate. She turned to the antique porcelain vase sitting on the console table beside the door. She shoved the box deep into the mouth of the vase, pushing it down until it disappeared into the dry decorative branches. It hit the bottom with a dull, satisfying thud. She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone. Her thumb moved swiftly across the screen, navigating to Kevon's contact. She tapped the settings, selecting "None" for his ringtone, and then blocked his notifications entirely. Fiona drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold, recycled air of the corridor. She straightened her spine, her shoulders pulling back. There was no hesitation in her stance now. She didn't turn around to leave. She reached out, her fingers wrapping around the cold brass handle. She pushed the door with all her strength, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a thunderous crash.