Too Late, Mr. Ex: I'm Free

Aurora POV:

I walked down the quiet corridor of the Manhattan private hospital, dragging my pale and weak body.

The thick, heavy carpet absorbed every sound. I had been taught since childhood, moving from one foster home to another, to never be a burden. I learned to make my footsteps invisible.

I stopped outside the VIP ward.

I raised my hand. My fingertips hovered just an inch away from the cold brass handle.

Then, Ethan’s voice drifted through the slight crack in the door. It was low, hard, and devoid of any warmth.

My fingers jerked and froze in mid-air.

"Destroy all the security footage from the stairwell," Ethan ordered. "Do it immediately."

There was a brief silence. Then, his executive assistant spoke, his voice laced with hesitation. "Sir, if we do that, it will completely cover up the fact that Miss Ilene pushed her. The police won't have any evidence."

"Exactly," Ethan cut him off. His voice was like a blade of ice. "Ilene cannot have an intentional assault scandal tied to her name. The family stock would tank. Erase it all."

My stomach seized in a violent cramp.

A wave of physical nausea rushed up my throat. I slapped my hand over my mouth, pressing hard against my lips to force the vomit back down. My chest heaved, but I didn't make a sound.

The pain and the desperate begging that had clouded my eyes for the past few days froze in a single second.

The last pathetic shreds of love I had for this man were thrown into a meat grinder of pure logic. He wasn't just choosing her over me. He was covering up the murder of our unborn child to protect her reputation.

I didn't push the door open. I didn't scream. I didn't act like a hysterical woman.

I was entirely, terrifyingly calm.

I reached into the pocket of my hospital gown and pulled out my phone. I kept the screen dimmed and made sure the device was completely on silent.

I opened the voice memo app. I pressed my phone flat against the crack of the door.

Inside, the conversation shifted. I heard Ilene’s voice now. She was crying, a fake, breathy sound that made my skin crawl.

"Thank you, Ethan," she sobbed. "I was so scared. I didn't mean to do it, I swear."

I stared blankly at the wall, my face devoid of any expression, and recorded every single word. I recorded the proof that my husband was destroying the evidence of my child's death.

I hit the stop button. I saved the audio file and immediately synced it to a hidden, encrypted cloud server.

I turned around. My steps were harder and much firmer than when I had arrived.

I walked back to my own hospital room and locked the door behind me with a soft click.

I sat on the edge of the bed and dialed a heavily encrypted number. It belonged to a top-tier offshore trust lawyer in New York.

"Bonjour," the voice answered.

I spoke in fluent French, keeping my voice low and steady. "I need to initiate the highest level of asset isolation. Immediately."

The lawyer paused. "Understood. Do you need me to prepare the divorce papers as well?"

I looked out the window. The Manhattan rain was streaking against the glass, gray and relentless.

"Yes," I replied flatly.

Heavy, steady footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Leather shoes against the carpet. Ethan's footsteps.

I hung up instantly and wiped the call log from my phone.

I shoved the device deep under my pillow, slid under the covers, and closed my eyes.

The door handle turned. It made a sharp clicking sound as it unlocked from the outside.

Ethan walked in. He brought the freezing chill of the hallway with him.

He walked straight to the side of my bed and looked down at me. I opened my eyes slowly, pretending I had just woken up from a nap.

He didn't ask how I was feeling. He didn't ask if I was in pain.

He tossed a thick stack of papers onto the nightstand. It landed with a heavy, dull thud.

"Sign this compensation agreement, and let's put this matter to rest."