Too late to regret

The car that Marcus led me to wasn't just a vehicle; it was a fortress on wheels. It was a black Rolls-Royce Cullinan, the kind of car Julian's father used to reserve for heads of state. As the door was held open for me, I hesitated, my hand clutching the strap of my threadbare bag. I felt like a smudge of charcoal on a pristine white canvas.

"Please, Miss Thorne," Marcus said, his voice as steady as the idling engine. "The schedule is non-negotiable."

I climbed in, the scent of expensive leather and cool, filtered air instantly erasing the smell of the humid city streets. I watched through the tinted windows as my neighborhood-the place where I had lived in a "temporary" apartment for three years, waiting for a husband who never intended to claim me-faded into a blur of grey concrete. By the time we reached the private terminal at Teterboro, the city felt like a dream I had finally woken up from.

The jet was a sleek, silver needle pointed toward the horizon. It bore no logo, no name-just a tail number that whispered of anonymity and power. As I walked up the air-stairs, a flight attendant greeted me by name, her smile perfectly polished.

"Welcome aboard, Miss Thorne. Mr. Thorne has requested that you make yourself completely at home."

The interior of the plane was a master class in quiet luxury. There were no bright lights or cramped seats. Instead, the cabin was lined in soft, cream-colored silk and dark, polished mahogany. A plush captain's chair waited for me, a cashmere throw folded neatly over the armrest. On the sideboard sat a crystal glass of chilled water and a plate of delicate macarons-the very ones I used to see Isabella eating in society magazines.

I sank into the seat, the buttery leather conforming to my tired body. For the first time in forty-eight hours, the adrenaline that had been keeping me upright began to drain away, replaced by a crushing wave of exhaustion and disbelief.

"We will be at cruising altitude in ten minutes," the attendant murmured. "There are fresh clothes in the stateroom at the back, should you wish to change. Mr. Thorne has selected them himself."

I nodded dumbly. Once she disappeared into the galley, I let out a breath I felt like I'd been holding since the night of the divorce. I looked down at my hands. They were still shaking. I was a scholarship girl from the wrong side of the tracks, a secret wife who had been discarded like yesterday's news. Why was the most powerful man in the tech industry treating me like a queen in exile?

The plane took off with a smooth, powerful roar that pushed me back into my seat. As the ground fell away, I watched the sprawling grid of the city shrink until it was nothing but a toy set. Somewhere down there, Julian was likely sitting in a boardroom, or perhaps having lunch with Isabella, laughing about the "mousy girl" he'd finally gotten rid of.

He thought he had won. He thought he had erased me.

A soft chime echoed through the cabin. A sleek, integrated tablet on the armrest began to glow. A call was coming through. My heart skipped a beat. I hit the 'Accept' icon with a trembling finger.

The screen didn't show a face. It showed a high-resolution view of the ocean, the waves rippling under a setting sun. But the voice that filled the cabin was unmistakable. It was the deep, resonant baritone that had haunted my dreams since the club.

"You're late, Maya."

I swallowed hard, my voice catching. "The car arrived on time, Mr. Thorne. I was the one who was... delayed."

"By the ghosts of your past?" Cyrus asked. I could hear the faint clink of ice against glass on his end. "You shouldn't let them haunt you. Ghosts have no power over the living unless you give them permission."

"It's hard to forget three years in three hours," I whispered, leaning my head back against the headrest.

"Then don't forget," he replied, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low vibration that seemed to pulse in the very air around me. "Use it. Every cold word Julian spoke, every door he slammed in your face today-save them. Wrap them in ice and keep them in your heart. They are the only things that will keep you focused when the work gets difficult."

"Marcus said you're sending me to France," I said, trying to change the subject before the intensity of his voice made me cry again. "Why the South of France?"

"Because you need to learn how to breathe again," Cyrus said. "And because the man who will be teaching you the fundamentals of international law lives in Cap Ferrat. For the next six months, you will not be Maya Thorne, the scholarship student. You will be Maya Thorne, the enigma. You will learn to speak three languages, you will learn to read a balance sheet like a map to a treasure, and you will learn how to walk into a room and make every man in it forget their own names."

I felt a strange, terrifying thrill go through me. "And then?"

"And then, we return," Cyrus said. "And we take what is ours."

"Ours?" I asked. "You don't even know me, Cyrus. Why are you doing all of this? This plane, the clothes, the education... it must cost a fortune."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I could almost imagine him sitting in a darkened office, his sharp eyes fixed on a city skyline.

"I've known you longer than you think, Maya," he said softly. "I watched you at the St. Jude's galas, standing three paces behind Julian like a shadow. I watched you edit his father's merger proposals and saw the brilliance in the margins that he was too arrogant to notice. Julian didn't deserve you. He was a child playing with a masterpiece he didn't understand. I, however, understand perfectly."

My breath hitched. "You've been watching me?"

"I've been waiting for you," he corrected. "And now that I have you, I have no intention of letting you go. Go to the stateroom, Maya. Change out of those clothes. Wash the scent of that man off your skin. When you wake up, you'll be in a different world. My world."

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen for a long time, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. His words were a promise and a threat all at once. He didn't want a wife; he wanted an asset. But the way he said my name... it didn't feel like business. It felt like possession.

I stood up, my legs feeling a bit more stable, and walked toward the back of the plane. I pushed open the door to the stateroom and stopped dead.

It was a bedroom that rivaled any five-star hotel. In the center of the silk-covered bed lay a single outfit: a deep navy-blue wrap dress in heavy, expensive silk, paired with a trench coat that felt like a cloud. Next to them was a pair of simple, elegant heels and a small box.

I opened the box. Inside was a watch. It wasn't covered in diamonds like the ones Julian used to buy for Isabella. It was a classic, understated Patek Philippe. On the back, a tiny inscription was engraved in the gold:

Your time starts now.

I stripped off my old clothes, the thrifted suit that felt like a shroud, and stepped into the small, high-tech shower. I scrubbed my skin until it was pink, washing away the tears, the dust of my old apartment, and the lingering memory of Julian's touch. When I stepped out and put on the blue silk dress, I didn't recognize the woman in the mirror.

She looked colder. Sharper.

I walked back to the captain's chair and curled up under the cashmere throw. As the plane chased the sun across the Atlantic, I closed my eyes. For the first time in three years, I didn't dream of Julian.

I dreamt of a man with storm-grey eyes and a blue silk handkerchief, waiting for me in the shadows of a throne.