Too Late For Regret: Watch Me Shine

Fiona's heels clicked against the floor as she headed for the exit. She didn't look back. She didn't need to.

Behind her, the shock wore off. Kevon hissed in a breath, the stinging pain on his cheek fueling a rage that snapped his last shred of control.

The sound of glass shattering exploded behind her. Kevon had kicked the coffee table, sending crystal decanters and ashtrays crashing to the floor.

"Who do you think you are?" he bellowed.

Heavy, rapid footsteps pounded on the wood floor. Kevon was charging toward her.

Fiona didn't break her stride. She sensed the movement, her body reacting before her mind could process the threat. As Kevon's hand reached out to grab her shoulder, she shifted her weight to her left foot and spun sideways.

Kevon's fingers closed on empty air. His momentum carried him forward, and he stumbled, looking clumsy and foolish.

Fiona turned to face him, her eyes sharp enough to cut glass. "Touch me," she said, her voice low and lethal, "and the headline tomorrow will be about the Baxter heir's assault charge. I guarantee it."

Kevon froze, his hand still hovering in the air. The fury in his eyes warred with the instinct for self-preservation. He slowly lowered his arm, but his jaw was clenched tight.

"You're nothing without me," he sneered, trying to regain his footing. "Without Baxter money backing you, your little jewelry line is worthless. Those designs are just scrap metal."

Fiona tilted her head, a mocking smile playing on her lips. "You have a famous last name, Kevon. That's it. Without it, you're just a mediocre trust fund baby who can't even run a charity division without his daddy's help."

She took a step closer, forcing him to look her in the eye. "The position of the future Mrs. Baxter? Whoever wants it can have it. I find it dirty."

The insult struck home. Kevon's face turned purple. "You'll be back," he snarled, his voice trembling with rage. "You'll come crawling back when you realize no one else will put up with your ego. This is just some manipulative game to get my attention."

Fiona looked at him-really looked at him. She saw the petty, spoiled boy who had never been told 'no' in his life. She felt no desire to defend herself or to prove him wrong. He was a closed book, and she was done trying to read him.

She turned away. This time, she didn't pause. She stepped through the doorway and grabbed the edge of the heavy door. With a forceful pull, she slammed it shut. The sound was a solid, final boom that sealed his raging screams inside.

The corridor was dead quiet. Fiona leaned against the wall for a second, taking a long, shuddering breath. The air outside the suite felt cooler, cleaner.

She pushed off the wall and walked briskly to the elevator. As she walked, she pulled her phone from her clutch. Her thumbs flew across the screen. She didn't just block his number; she went into every social media app, every messaging platform, and severed the digital cord. Block. Block. Block.

The elevator dinged open. She stepped inside and watched the stainless-steel doors slide shut. In the distorted reflection, her face was pale, but her eyes were hard and unyielding.

The elevator deposited her in the opulent lobby. The club manager, a man with a practiced smile, saw her walking alone and moved to intercept her. "Miss Paul, is everything alright? Can I arrange a car for-"

Fiona raised a hand, a simple, sharp gesture that stopped him in his tracks. The manager swallowed his words and stepped back, recognizing the look of a woman who would not be trifled with.

She pushed through the revolving glass doors. The New York winter hit her immediately. The wind off the avenue was biting, carrying fat, wet snowflakes that stung her cheeks. The cold was a shock to her system, but it felt good. It felt real.

A valet rushed over, his breath pluming in the frigid air. "Miss Paul! Should I bring Mr. Baxter's car around?"

"No," Fiona said flatly. She walked past him, stepping off the carpet and onto the slush-covered curb. She raised her arm, flagging down a passing yellow taxi.

The cab screeched to a halt. She yanked the door open and slid into the backseat, the vinyl cold against her legs. "Manhattan, West 54th Street," she said, giving the address of the apartment she had bought before she ever met Kevon.

The taxi merged into the traffic on Fifth Avenue. Fiona turned her head to look out the window. The neon signs of the city blurred into streaks of light. For the first time in three years, the tightness in her chest loosened. She felt light.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Zara, her best friend and lawyer, lit up the screen. "How did the surprise go? Is he crying tears of joy?"

Fiona stared at the words. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she typed back: "The surprise was a success. I'm single."

The response was instantaneous. Her phone rang, Zara's name flashing on the screen. Fiona answered, holding the phone to her ear.

"What do you mean you're single?" Zara's voice was a mix of a scream and a whisper. "Fiona, what happened?"

"I walked in on him bragging about how I'm just a PR billboard," Fiona said, leaning her head against the cold glass of the taxi window. She recounted the events with the detachment of a surgeon describing an operation. "He thinks Kayla is a saint. He thinks I'm going to crawl back."

"That son of a bitch," Zara hissed. The sound of rustling papers came through the speaker. "I'm switching to work mode. Do you want me to start the termination process for the endorsements?"

Fiona watched her own reflection in the window. The woman staring back at her looked tired, but her eyes were those of a predator. "Draft the papers to terminate all commercial backing. Every single one. Do it now."

"Consider it done," Zara said, her tone grim and professional. "I'll have the initial docs in your inbox within the hour."

The line went dead. Fiona dropped the phone into her lap and watched the city fly by. The war had just begun.