Too Late For Regret: My Possessive Billionaire

or's Hermès Birkin creaked unde

ic where, three years ago, she had sat alone after her first miscarriage. Back then, she had not been Ciara Astor. Ba

conditioning blew directly onto her expose

one here knew that she was Mrs. Alexzander Astor, wife of the man the financial magazines called "the king of private equity." And no one here knew that her husband had n

arm smile spreading across her face. She

the nurse said softly. "You a

gainst her ribs. Heat f

the folder. She stared at the black ink on the page, the letters bl

tiny, flicker

, but Ciara was already pushing through the heavy glass doors of the clinic. The crisp, early autumn wind of Manhattan hit her f

b hovered over the screen before she dialed

. Once. Twice

. Four rings. Five. Ciara's excitement

the call

irens, not ambulance sirens. The screech of tires tearing against asphalt pierced her eardrum

-not just with excitement anymore, but

exzander's voice roa

tan was completely gone. The voice she heard was not the voice that had si

li

it Ciara l

exzander Astor dance with another woman at a debutante ball. Elliana Beaumont, who had laughed when Ciara

a's engagement announcement. The same Elliana Beaumont who Alexzander

old. Her stomach-her six-week-pregnant stomach, carrying the child she had prayed for through t

emanded, her voice rising in panic. "W

ne wen

d in her ear. She pulled the phone from her face an

er why she called. He had not told her

behind her-a young man in a neon yellow vest, balancing three towers of takeout containers on the back of his electric bike. She di

argo, easily forty pounds of Chinese takeout and Italia

Choo shoe-the nude patent leather pumps she had worn to her first wedding anniversary di

rm blood welling up and mixing with the grime of the city sidewalk. The shock of the fall stole her brea

he pai

n and saw her wrist bent at an unnatural angle. The bone had not br

deep, terrifying cramp s

is was a hot, twisting claw, digging into her womb, ripping at something she c

the baby inside her body. Cold sweat drenched her cashmere sweater in seconds-the cream-colored sweater Alexzander had brought back fro

ty-the honking taxis, the shouting pedestrians, the r

opped her groceries and frantically dialed 911. A teenager in a prep school blazer knelt beside her

yes shut and sent a desperate, silent plea upward-to God, to fate, to whoev

s. Paramedics pushed through the crowd, strong hands lifting her onto a stretcher. They strapped her i

amedic said to the other. "Six wee

emergency bay of a Manhattan trauma center-the same trauma center where, three years ago, a younger Ciara had

luorescent lights forced Ciara to squint. The smell of antiseptic and blood filled her

ss. Rapid, heavy footsteps-five, six, seven people-echoed down th

her heavy e

e rushing toward the trauma rooms, surround

Alexz

him pick out-was wrinkled beyond recognition. His silk tie was pulled loose, hanging haphazardly around his

orbes and Vanity Fair, was pale and twisted with an expres

woman tightly a

long golden hair-the same golden hair Ciara remembered from that debutante ball fifteen years ago-spilled d

na Be

e. His one th

ching doctors. His chest heaved with unchecked panic. "I don't care who you

call his name. Alex. Alex, I'm here

the sidewalk. No sound came out. Only a small, strang

r-so close that the fabric of his suit jacket brushed against the edge of her white hospital blan

not loo

red streaks across her cheek from when her palms had

her neck, or the splint on her right wri

urled in agony, less than

but something else. Something worse. It squeezed the air from her lungs, pr

ubled. A warm, wet sensati

doors at the end of the hall. The doors swung shut behind him with a soft p

ra's eye, sliding down her temple and soaking i

opposite end of the hall. The fluorescent lights blurred into

d spun v

e word echoed in her mind-cold and sharp and f

vo