The Divorced Heiress: Too Late For Regrets

The moment the taxi door opened, the biting New York air stabbed into Hadley's thin coat like a knife. She shifted her weight to her left leg, and a sharp pain shot up from her calf. She bit her lip and forced back the moan. The chill is real-it's not just a feeling, but something seeping into the bone.

The phone buzzed in my pocket. The screen lit up with a photo of Owen-her diving partner, her face full of worried wrinkles. She hung up. He only urged her to go to the hospital and advised her not to be foolish. But she's been foolish for three years; One more day of foolishness, what difference does it make?

Her lungs ached dullly, and that persistent, fever-like pulse was a "keepsake" left to her by decompression sickness. Rising rapidly from the depths of the Caribbean, she was left with far more than just a few bruises. It also gives her a heart-wrenching longing-a longing for familiarity, a longing for home, a longing for Julian.

Her thumb hovered above his photo in the contacts. Julian, dressed in a tailcoat, smiled coldly at a grand party. It was a news photo. She didn't have a single candid shot of him smiling at the camera.

She pressed the power button, and the screen went dark. Surprises will be even better. The surprise will be romantic.

Another yellow taxi pulled up to the side of the road. She said hoarsely to the driver, "Sinclair Group, Manhattan headquarters." "Her voice was even hoarser than she had expected." The taxi jolted into traffic, and through the window she caught a glimpse of her own reflection-pale-faced, lips blue, hair messed up by the flight. She futilely combed her hair with her fingers.

The Sinclair Building stands before you, a monument of glass and steel scraping against the gray sky. She paid the fare, but the crumpled bills felt strange in her hand. For three years, she still didn't need to bring cash.

She dragged her injured leg, limping toward the massive revolving glass door. The heating in the lobby felt like a tangible embrace, and a sense of relief made her nearly dizzy. Behind the huge marble countertop at the front desk, the young receptionist Chloe looked up, her professional smile immediately lighting up.

Then she saw clearly who it was.

The smile froze, the edges cracking into fine lines. That moment was mesmerizing-a well-trained disguise collapsed in an instant.

"Mrs. Sinclair." Chloe stammered, his hand quickly reaching for the phone on the table. "I...... I didn't know you would come. "

"I never said I wanted to come." Hadley's voice was as calm as water. She kept walking forward.

"Let me check Mr. Sinclair's schedule." The receptionist's voice rose in panic. She grabbed the receiver and glanced toward the elevator lobby. "He might be in a meeting."

Hadley did not slow down. She immediately knew it was a lie-the slight tremor in Chloe's voice, her evasive gaze. This reminded her of Julian's exact reaction when he was in a bad mood.

She headed straight to the private elevator hall-a floor reserved for executives and the Sinclair family. She has the right to go.

"Mrs. Sinclair, please wait!"

The gleaming steel door slid up, cutting off Chloe's panicked shouts. The small carriage was deathly silent. Hadley leaned against the cold metal wall and pressed the button labeled "PH"-the top floor. Julian's floor.

The elevator climbs at a stomach-pounding speed. The weightlessness stirred a dull pain in her lungs; she closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply. There was an old scent in the air.

A gentle notification sounded as the signal arrived. The elevator doors slid open, revealing a silent, thickly carpeted corridor. This silence is unusual. Usually, there would be the low conversations of assistants and the distant ringing of the phone here. Today, there is nothing.

The copy room door opened, and Julian's chief assistant, Felix, came out carrying a stack of documents. He looked up and saw her, his face instantly turning deathly pale. Documents slipped from his hands, scattered across the thick gray carpet.

"Hadley." He panted, his voice very low. He squatted down in a flustered manner to pick up the documents, his movements clumsy and flustered. He quickly stood up, positioning himself between her and the corridor leading to Julian's office. "He was on a conference call. A very important meeting-the Hong Kong board of directors. "

Hadley stared at him. Felix is known for his impeccable composure-he can lie to the most radical corporate predators without flinching. But now, he looked like a child caught stealing cookies. The excuse is truly pathetic: Hong Kong is now at night.

A cold fear, heavier than the pain in her leg, began to spread in her stomach. She said nothing, just took a step forward.

Felix instinctively raised his hand to stop her. "Really, Hadley. Now is not the time. "

She looked down at his outstretched arm, then looked up at his terrified eyes. Without saying a word, she bypassed him. Her heels dug into the carpet, and as she walked down the corridor toward the two huge dark walnut doors of Julian's office, she made no sound.

The door was not tightly closed.

A slender, vertical beam of light pierced through the dim hallway.

She reached for the cold brass doorknob, her fingers trembling slightly. The moment her skin touched the metal, a voice drifted out-a voice she knew even more than her own, soft and sweet.

Eleanor. Her stepsister.

A low laugh answered her-it was the sound Hadley hadn't heard Julian say to him in years. Warm, indulgent, patient. "You'll get used to it. This is the price of fame. "

Hadley's hand froze on the doorknob. The blood in his veins seemed about to turn into ice. Eleanor was supposed to make films in Europe. Julian should have been working.

"I really hope they don't ask such stupid questions." Eleanor's voice carried a deliberately sweet, sweet, and sweet tone. "Someone actually dared to ask me about Hardy's small diving accident in the Caribbean...... As if I would know about her 'hobbies.' "The last word hides a hint of almost unmistakable mockery."

Hadley held his breath. Her nails dug deep into her palm, and the sting became distant. She waited, fully absorbed in the ensuing silence, praying that Julian would say something-to defend her, to keep Eleanor from being so mean.

The silence stretched longer.

Then Julian's icy and impatient voice broke it. "Don't talk about her. Don't ruin the atmosphere. "

Those words don't sound like knives. They were like a vacuum-draining all the air from her lungs and all the heat from her body. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she shook slightly.

The soft sound of fabric came from the office-the sound of movement. It sounded like Eleanor was moving over and sitting on his lap.

A wave of intense nausea surged in his stomach. Humiliation is a physical force, a weight pressed down in the throat and eye sockets. The pain in his legs, the dull ache in his chest-compared to this, all became dull, distant echoes.

She takes a step back-a reflexive, blind step.

The heel of my shoe hit the base of a large metal flowerpot in the hallway. The sound was not loud, just a dull, muffled impact.

The laughter in the office abruptly stopped.

"Who's outside?" Julian's voice grew sharp, filled with annoyance and suspicion.

Hadley closed his eyes. In that moment, she was utterly hopeless, wanting only to escape-disappearing into the city's anonymity, pretending she had never been here.

But there was nowhere to escape.

She opened her eyes. Those tears that almost fell vanished, burned by something cold and hard, turning to emptiness. The pain remains, but it has changed. It became fuel.

She raised her hand and pressed her palm against the heavy walnut, then pushed it out.

The door suddenly burst open, producing a loud, loud cry.

The heavy doors slammed against the inner walls of the office, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the cavernous space. Hadley stood silhouetted in the doorway, a ghost of winter in the climate-controlled warmth.

Across the room, behind a desk the size of a small car, Eleanor was perched on Julian's lap. Her designer dress was hiked up her thighs, her arms wrapped around his neck. They both stared, frozen in the tableau of their betrayal.

Julian's face tightened, not with guilt, but with sheer annoyance. He shoved Eleanor off his lap with a rough, impatient movement. She stumbled, catching herself on the edge of the desk. He stood up, his hand automatically going to his tie, straightening the knot as if that could restore order.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snapped, his voice a low growl. "Have you forgotten how to knock?"

Eleanor, ever the actress, recovered instantly. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with fabricated shock. "Haddie! Oh my god, what are you doing here? We were so worried!"

Hadley's gaze swept over them, a pair of perfectly curated liars. The man she had loved for three years, the man she had crossed an ocean for while injured and in pain, was scolding her for her lack of manners. A laugh, brittle and humorless, escaped her lips.

She walked further into the room, her limp more pronounced on the plush carpet. She reached up and pulled the silk scarf from her neck. The fabric slid away to reveal the grotesque, purple-and-black bruise that spread across her collarbone, a violent bloom of shattered capillaries.

Julian's eyes flickered to the injury. For a fraction of a second, something shifted in his gaze-a flicker of shock, maybe something else-but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual cold indifference.

"Oh, you poor thing!" Eleanor gasped, rushing forward as if to inspect the wound. Her perfectly manicured fingers reached for Hadley's shoulder.

"Don't touch me," Hadley said, her voice dangerously quiet. She sidestepped Eleanor's advance with a look of such profound disgust that Eleanor flinched back as if she'd been slapped.

Eleanor, a master of turning any situation to her advantage, stumbled backward dramatically, collapsing into a leather armchair. Her eyes immediately welled with tears. "I was just trying to help," she whispered, her voice breaking.

"That's enough, Hadley," Julian said, his voice sharp with warning. He strode over to Eleanor, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. He looked back at Hadley, his eyes narrowed. "Don't come in here and start your drama."

The sight of them, him towering protectively over the weeping victim, finally severed the last, frayed thread of hope in Hadley's heart. The pain in her body went numb, a distant hum beneath the roaring silence in her head.

From her handbag, she pulled out a slim folder. It contained the preliminary data from her last dive, the discovery of a new bioluminescent microbe she had been so excited to share with him. It felt like a lifetime ago.

She held his gaze as she methodically, deliberately, tore the folder in half. Then in quarters. The crisp sound of ripping paper filled the tense silence. She let the pieces flutter from her fingers, scattering like dead leaves on the priceless Persian rug.

Julian watched, his jaw tight. He saw the act not as a symbol of a broken heart, but as a childish tantrum. "If this is about money," he said, his voice dripping with condescension, "just tell me how much you want. I'll have Felix arrange a transfer. There's no need for this pathetic display."

Hadley slowly dusted the paper fragments from her hands. She lifted her chin, her eyes locking onto his. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm, clear, and utterly devoid of emotion.

"I want a divorce."

The air in the room seemed to crystallize. Even Eleanor's fake sobs caught in her throat.

Julian stared at her for a long moment, and then he laughed. It was a short, ugly sound of disbelief. "A divorce? Is this your new game? What is it this time, Hadley? A new car? A bigger allowance?"

He walked toward her, closing the space between them until he could look down at her. The sheer arrogance rolling off him was suffocating. "Do you have any idea what you're saying? You leave me, you leave this family, and you have nothing. You can't even afford the rent on a studio apartment in Queens. You'll come crawling back within a week."

"Begging for scraps in a cage is still begging, Julian," she shot back, her voice like ice.

His face darkened. The taunt had hit a nerve. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her skin, forcing her to look at him. "Don't test my patience."

With a surge of adrenaline, she jerked her head back, slapping his hand away. Her fingernail caught the back of his hand, leaving a thin, red scratch.

He looked down at the bead of blood welling on his skin, then back up at her, his eyes turning venomous. "Are you serious?" he hissed.

"I have never been more serious in my life," she said, taking a step back. She gestured with her chin toward the armchair where Eleanor was watching with wide, calculating eyes. "I'm setting you free. So you can be with... that." She said the word with such contempt it was like spitting poison.

"How dare you!" Eleanor shrieked, finally dropping the pretense of tears for a flash of pure rage.

"Get out," Julian roared, his control finally snapping. He pointed a trembling finger at the door. "Get out of my office. You want a divorce? Fine. You'll get it. And you will regret this. You will be on your knees, begging me to take you back."

Hadley didn't give them the satisfaction of another look. She turned, her back straight, her head held high. She walked out of the office, her footsteps silent on the thick carpet.

At the doorway, she paused but didn't turn around.

"My lawyer will expect to hear from yours by tomorrow," she said, her voice carrying clearly back into the room. "If he doesn't, I'll be calling the New York Post. I'm sure they'd love a story about the CEO of Sinclair Group and his 'sister'."

She didn't wait for a reply. She walked down the empty corridor, past the horrified face of Felix, and stepped into the waiting elevator, leaving the sound of something shattering behind her.

The fingerprint scanner on the penthouse door glowed green, and the heavy door swung inward. The apartment was exactly as she'd left it. Cool, minimalist, and impersonal, decorated by a designer Julian had hired. It had never felt like a home. Now, it felt like a tomb.

She walked directly to the master bedroom, the silence of the apartment pressing in on her. From the cavernous walk-in closet, she pulled out two large suitcases. They were hers, bought with her own money before the wedding. She began to pull clothes from the hangers-her clothes, not the designer gowns Julian had bought for her to play the part of his wife.

The front door beeped again.

Her hands stilled. Julian. He had followed her.

He appeared in the bedroom doorway, his face a thunderous mask. Eleanor hovered behind him, her eyes darting around the room, a vulture assessing a fresh kill.

"What is this?" Julian demanded, gesturing at the open suitcases on the bed. "Still committed to the performance?"

Eleanor glided past him into the room, her gaze landing on the jewelry box on Hadley's vanity. She drifted toward it, a predator drawn to shiny objects.

"Oh, this is exquisite," Eleanor cooed, picking up a black velvet box. She opened it, revealing a necklace. A single, flawless blue diamond-the Sinclair Blue-rested on a delicate platinum chain. It was the family's most treasured heirloom.

She turned to Julian, the necklace dangling from her fingers. "This would look perfect with my dress for the gala next week, don't you think, Jules?"

Julian's eyes were fixed on Hadley, a cruel glint in them. "Take it," he said, his voice flat. "It's just a piece of jewelry."

Hadley stopped folding a sweater. She walked over to the vanity, her movements deliberate. Before Eleanor could react, Hadley snatched the velvet box from her hand.

"Ow!" Eleanor cried out as the lid snapped shut on her fingers. She cradled her hand, her face instantly crumpling into a mask of pain.

Julian lunged forward, shoving Hadley hard against the closet door. The impact sent a jolt of pain through her shoulder blade. "What is wrong with you?" he snarled, turning to fuss over Eleanor's hand.

Hadley clutched the box to her chest, her knuckles white. The pain in her shoulder was a dull throb, nothing compared to the cold fury that was solidifying inside her.

"Give it to me, Hadley," Julian commanded, his voice dangerously low. "It's a Sinclair heirloom. It doesn't belong to you anymore."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Your mother gave this to me on our wedding day," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "She gave it to me. Her last words to me were to never let it fall into the wrong hands. It's a personal gift, Julian, not corporate property."

"My sister can't even borrow a necklace?" Eleanor whimpered from the sidelines, tears streaming down her face. "If you're like this now, how am I supposed to live in this family?"

Julian's face hardened. He took a threatening step toward Hadley. "Don't push me. Don't make this uglier than it has to be."

"Uglier?" Hadley's voice rose. "You want to talk about ugly? You're giving your mother's legacy to your mistress while your wife is standing right here. That's ugly, Julian."

The word 'mistress' hung in the air, toxic and undeniable.

He saw red. He raised his hand, his arm tensing to strike. The air crackled, thick with the promise of violence.

Hadley didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She tilted her chin up, meeting his furious gaze with an expression of pure, unadulterated contempt. She was daring him.

His hand stopped, frozen in mid-air. The look in her eyes-it wasn't fear. It was pity. It was disgust. It was the look you give something pathetic you find crawling on the bottom of your shoe. It wounded his pride more than any physical blow could.

With a roar of frustration, he lowered his arm and kicked a nearby floor lamp. The glass shade exploded, showering the carpet with glittering shards.

"Fine!" he yelled, his voice raw. "You want the divorce? You'll get it! I'm calling my lawyer right now. I want you out of my house. Out of my life. Get out!"

That was all she needed to hear.

While he seethed, Hadley calmly walked to her suitcase, opened a special compartment, and locked the velvet box inside. She zipped up her bags, the sound loud in the tense room.

She pulled up the handle of the largest suitcase. The plastic wheels crunched over the broken glass on the floor, a grating, final sound.

At the bedroom door, she paused. She looked over her shoulder at Eleanor, who was now clinging to Julian's arm, the picture of fragile innocence.

"You know, Julian," Hadley said, her voice light and conversational, "since you're so concerned about her place in the family, you should just marry her after we're divorced. It would be so much cleaner that way."

The comment struck home, ripping away their last shred of plausible deniability. Eleanor's face went from pale to a blotchy, furious red. Julian looked like he'd been slapped.

He grabbed a water glass from the bedside table and hurled it against the wall. It shattered, spraying water and glass everywhere.

Hadley didn't wait to see more. She turned and walked out of the bedroom, out of the apartment, and pulled the heavy door shut behind her.

The slam echoed down the empty hallway. She pressed the button for the elevator, and as the doors slid open, she took her first breath of free air. It was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted.