Too Late Mr CEO: I Am Gone

The snip of the shears was the only sound in the vast, silent living room.

Eleanore Beaumont trimmed the last white rose, its petals a stark, perfect white against the dark wood of the table. Three years. Three years of arranging these flowers, his favorite.

The front door opened and closed.

Heavy, expensive footsteps echoed on the marble floor. Donovan Sterling's tall frame filled the arched doorway. He wore the same custom suit he'd left in this morning, the dark gray a perfect match for the coldness in his eyes. There was no warmth there. There never was.

He didn't loosen his tie. He never did, not until he was in his study, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

But today was different.

He walked past her, his gaze sweeping over her without seeing her, and stopped at the glass coffee table. A black leather folder landed on the surface with a sharp crack.

Eleanore's hand froze, the shears still poised over a green stem. A tremor started in her fingers, a cold wave washing up her arm. She forced it down.

She lifted her head, her green eyes meeting his. The air in her lungs felt thin, sharp. Three years of waiting, and judgment day had finally arrived.

"Sign it." Donovan's voice was as cold and hard as the metal clasp on the folder. "Our agreement is over."

Her gaze dropped to the folder. The divorce papers. She didn't move to touch them.

"Is it because she's back?" The question was quiet, barely a whisper.

Donovan's brow furrowed, a flicker of annoyance. He hated explanations.

"Chanel is back," he said, his tone clipped. "I don't want her to be wronged."

Wronged. The word was a punch to the gut. Eleanore let out a small, bitter laugh that she quickly swallowed. She set the shears down with deliberate care and stood up.

"Fine. I'll sign."

Her quick agreement seemed to surprise him. She could see it in the slight widening of his eyes; he had expected tears, hysterics. She had none left to give.

She walked to the coffee table, her reflection a pale ghost on its polished surface. She didn't reach for the pen.

"According to the original agreement," she said, her voice steady, "half the market value of the Sterling estate and one percent of Sterling Group stock will be transferred to my name."

A cold sneer touched his lips. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out another, thinner document. "That was the price for an heir, Eleanore. You didn't deliver."

He tossed it on top of the first folder. "This is the new agreement. Ten million dollars. For three years of your time."

The words were a slap. Ten million dollars. An insult. A dismissal. A paltry sum for three years of her life, three years she could have spent building her own empire. A cold fist clenched around her heart, squeezing until she couldn't breathe. But her face remained a calm, placid mask.

She reached for the glass of red wine on the table, the one she poured for him every evening. She raised it to her lips, the rim cold against her skin, then stopped. She put it back down, untouched.

Donovan's eyes tracked the small, defiant movement. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his gaze.

Night fell. Eleanore went back to their bedroom—his bedroom—to pack.

She slipped out of the restrictive dress and stood before the full-length mirror. Her hand moved on its own, a slow, unconscious journey to her flat stomach. She pressed her palm against the silk of her slip, a gesture she'd found herself making more and more these past few weeks. A secret she barely dared to admit even to herself.

The bathroom door slammed open.

Donovan stood there, reeking of alcohol, his tall body blocking the only exit. He loomed over her, a predator in his own home.

"Where do you think you're going?" he growled, grabbing her from behind. His hot breath seared her neck.

Her body went rigid. She tried to pull away. "Donovan, we're getting a divorce."

"You haven't signed the papers," he slurred, his voice a low command. "Legally, you are still my wife."

His hands began to roam, coarse and demanding. A wave of nausea and humiliation washed over her.

"Don't touch me!" The words were torn from her throat, sharp with revulsion.

Her resistance only fueled his anger. He shoved her against the cold marble of the vanity, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. The sound of tearing silk was like a scream.

Tears pricked her eyes, hot and sharp, but she refused to let them fall. She would not give him the satisfaction.

She stopped fighting. Her body went limp, a soulless doll in his arms.

He noticed her surrender, and his movements became rougher, more brutal, a punishment for her earlier defiance.

When it was over, he rose without a word, straightening his disheveled clothes. In an instant, he was the CEO again, untouchable and remote.

"My lawyer, Patrick, will be here in the morning," he said, his voice flat. He turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Eleanore lay on the cold tile floor, the torn fragments of her slip clinging to her skin. She stared up at the ornate crystal chandelier, its light fracturing into a thousand brilliant, meaningless pieces. Her world was dead.

Slowly, she sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. Her shoulders began to shake, silent, wracking sobs that tore through her.

After a long time, she lifted her head. The vulnerability in her eyes was gone. The grief was gone. In its place was something new, something hard and cold and sharp as broken glass.

Hate.