Too Late, Billionaire: Watch Me Leave

The heavy glass doors of the Upper East Side clinic blocked Thea's view, a gust of early winter wind resisting her departure. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around her flat stomach, feeling both fear and anticipation.

A nurse with a kind but tired smile handed her a sealed manila envelope. A hint of envy flashed in the nurse's eyes, the same envy Thea had seen in the eyes of thousands of other women since marrying Jordan Webb.

Thea's fingers trembled as she took the envelope.

She found an empty sofa in a quiet corner of the waiting room; the soft velvet couldn't calm the frantic throbbing in her ribs. The envelope's seal was torn open after a slight resistance. She pulled out the paper, the scent of fresh ink filling her senses.

Her gaze swept past the medical jargon, settling on two words: positive. Below that were: estimated gestational age: 6 weeks.

A sudden, rapid gasp. Her heart didn't race; it contracted, a painful, intense squeezing robbed her lungs of air. A wave of heat washed over her cheeks, blurring the clear black writing.

Her phone vibrated in her coat pocket. A message from Paige. How are you? Don't keep me in suspense.

Thea swiped her thumb across the screen and typed a word: Pregnant. A genuine, natural smile finally appeared on her lips.

Stepping out of the clinic's warmth, a cold rain began to fall in Manhattan. The doorman hurriedly approached with an umbrella, but she waved it off, refusing the bodyguard's outstretched arm, and opened the door of the waiting black sedan herself.

The Maybach was silent. She traced the outline of the enormous diamond on her ring finger, a cold, heavy weight that should have symbolized union. Tonight, she would break the rules. Tonight, she would tell Jordan.

The car slid into the private garage of their penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart.

She stepped into the private elevator, enveloped by the scent of Jordan's expensive, sterile world. The fingerprint scanner glowed green, and the elevator began to ascend silently and rapidly. The feeling of weightlessness made her stomach churn.

The elevator doors slid open, plunging the apartment into darkness. It was a cave filled with shadows and silence, the only light coming from the city lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She took off her damp trench coat and carefully hung it up. She walked towards the open kitchen, a sudden idea taking root in her mind. A surprise. She was going to make his favorite-truffle pasta.

She took ingredients from the enormous Sub-Zero refrigerator. The knife slicing across the cutting board made a crisp, clean sound that echoed in the silence. Her movements were quick and hopeful.

Just as the pasta hit the boiling water, a dull thud echoed from the foyer. The fingerprint lock's electronic beep sounded, followed by a heavy click from the door.

Thea immediately turned off the stove, her heart pounding in her chest. She dried her hands with a towel and hurried to the living room.

Jordan entered the foyer with a gust of cold air. His tall figure cast a long, imposing shadow across the marble floor.

He loosened his silk tie and tossed the expensive fabric onto a seemingly sterile sofa. His brow was furrowed, and his blue eyes held a deep-seated weariness.

"Jordan," she said softly, stepping forward with a glass of water. She was trying to break down the corporate armor he wore even at home.

He took the water glass, his fingers brushing against hers. His skin was cold. The brief contact sent a chill down her spine.

"Thank you," he mumbled in a low, hoarse voice. He turned and walked to the wet bar to pour himself a whiskey. This action was like a wall, being built brick by brick between them.

Thea bit her lip. Her right hand slid into her pocket, her fingers gripping the folded lab report tightly. She took a step forward.

"I have something important to tell you," she said. In the vast, empty space, her voice sounded weak and trembling.

Jordan stopped, pouring the amber liquid halfway into the crystal glass. He turned his head, his gaze fixed on her. Her deep blue eyes were cold yet full of expectation.

Just as she was about to take the paper out of her pocket, a shrill ring broke the silence. It wasn't his official phone. It was his personal phone.

Jordan's expression changed instantly. The fatigue vanished, replaced by a sharp and sudden tension. He abruptly put down his glass and pulled his phone from his pocket.

His jaw tightened after just one glance at the screen. He answered the phone without hesitation.

A faint, suppressed sob came through the receiver. Jordan's entire demeanor shifted from indifference to a raw and urgent concern she had never seen him show towards her before.

"I'm coming right now," he said into the phone, his voice low and reassuring. He hung up and turned to grab the suit jacket he had just taken off.

Thea stood frozen, her hand still outstretched, words stuck in her throat. She watched incredulously as he strode toward the door.

"What's wrong? What happened?" she asked, a hint of panic in her voice. She took a step behind him, desperately trying to keep him there and make him listen to her.

Jordan stopped at the door and placed his hand on the doorknob. He didn't turn around.

"It's a company emergency," he said, his tone brief and cold.

Before she could react.

He slammed the door shut, the sound echoing in the silent, empty penthouse.

Ciara remained seated on the sofa, like a sculpture in the darkness, until the gray light of dawn seeped through the window, stinging her dry, tired eyes.

She reached for the glass of water on the coffee table. The water was cold. She took a sip, trying to calm the nausea churning in her stomach.

Her phone screen lit up.

It's a shocking piece of gossip news.

She swiped the screen. The image immediately loaded: a high-resolution photo of Jordan at JFK airport, protecting a woman as she evaded paparazzi.

He wrapped her in his coat, his posture full of protectiveness and possessiveness. The headline read: "Jordon Webb Rekindles Old Flame in Late Night Rush."

Shia gasped. It was the same coat he'd worn last night. The air in her lungs seemed to freeze.

Her trembling fingers zoomed in on the photo. She saw a unique and vintage Cartier bracelet on the woman's wrist.

Jasmine's bracelet.

The world spun around her. Her phone slipped from her numb fingers and fell silently onto the thick carpet.

She stood up abruptly, a sharp pain shooting through her stomach. She bent over, covered her mouth with her hand, and fought back nausea.

She took a deep breath. She forced herself to calm down. She picked up her phone stiffly and found Jordan's number in her contacts.

She pressed the dial button. The long, rhythmic beeping in her ears was pure torture, each second stretching into eternity.

Finally, someone answered. But it wasn't Jordan's deep, familiar voice. Instead, it was a soft, feminine sigh.

"Hello?" Jasmine's voice was languid, heavy with sleepiness. In the background, Shiara could faintly hear the weak but steady beeping of the hospital monitor.

A pure and chilling shock struck Chiara like lightning. "Where is Jordan?" she demanded, her voice shrill, unrecognizable even to herself.

Jasmine chuckled softly, her voice slightly guttural. "Jorden stayed up all night with me. He just fell asleep. I don't want to disturb him."

Ciara felt as if her chest was being crushed. "Let him answer the phone, Jasmine," she roared, her last shred of composure crumbling completely.

"Oh my God," Jasmine feigned surprise. "You don't have to be so aggressive. I was just too scared after my...outburst. Jordan was the only person I could call." The unspoken message was clear: he chose me.

In the background, Chiara hears Jordan's indistinct voice asking who it is.

"It's nothing, darling," Jasmine said sweetly, her voice low and intimate. "I'll handle it."

The call ended.

The dial tone was buzzing in her ears. A wave of intense nausea washed over her, and she rushed to the bathroom.

She leaned over the sink, dry heaving, but nothing came out. Hot, silent tears streamed down her cheeks, splashing onto the cold marble.

She turned on the tap and splashed the cold water on her face. She looked up and saw her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were bloodshot. She looked pitiful.

A distant love affair that lasted ten years. This humiliating, contractual, expedient marriage that lasted three years played the role of a perfect, silent shadow.

For what? Just for this betrayal?

The tenderness in her eyes hardened. The sadness receded, replaced by a cold, sharp anger. She straightened up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

She strode into their enormous walk-in closet, past rows of soft cashmere dresses and "dignified wife" style flats. She pulled out a custom-made black power suit.

The sharp lines of her suit jacket resembled armor. She wore a pair of dangerously high stilettos.

She put on a pair of large sunglasses, concealing the tear tracks at the corners of her eyes and the vulnerability in them.

She grabbed her handbag, took the folded lab report out of her coat pocket, and stuffed it deep into an inner zippered compartment.

In the entryway, she pressed a button on the smart home system. "Get the car ready," she commanded, her voice devoid of emotion. "I'm going to Wall Street."

She pushed open the heavy apartment door and walked towards the elevator, her high heels making a purposeful sound on the marble floor. She was no longer the woman who had been waiting.

She slid into the back seat of the waiting car.

"Webb Capital," she said, looking straight ahead. "Don't skimp on the power."

The sedan pulled up to the curb in front of the Webb Capital building on Wall Street. Ciara stepped out, the cold, drizzling rain hitting her face.

She walked up the marble steps, her sunglasses a mask of indifference, and pushed through the revolving glass doors.

The lobby was an ocean of polished granite and quiet, expensive ambition. She walked to the reception desk. "I'm here to see Jordon Webb. Top floor."

The receptionist, a young woman with a perfectly polite and impenetrable smile, looked her up and down. "Do you have an appointment, ma'am?"

Ciara's jaw tightened. Before she could produce an ID that would prove she was, in fact, Mrs. Webb, a man rushed out from the elevator bank.

It was Marcus Cross, Jordon's executive assistant.

"Mrs. Webb," he said, his voice a mixture of surprise and carefully controlled professionalism. He dismissed the receptionist with a flick of his wrist. His eyes, however, held a hint of suspicion.

Ciara felt it instantly, the subtle shift in the air. He was guarding something. "Take me to Jordon," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Cross swiped his keycard for the executive elevator. The ride up was silent, the air thick with unspoken questions.

The doors opened onto the top floor. The sound of a hundred keyboards clicking in unison filled the air, the hum of a billion-dollar hive.

She followed Cross down a long hallway toward the corner office, her heels sinking into the plush, ridiculously expensive carpet.

Halfway there, a frantic analyst stopped Cross, pointing at a screen filled with cascading red numbers. Cross shot her an apologetic look. "One moment, Mrs. Webb."

Ciara didn't wait. She continued walking toward the massive, double mahogany doors of Jordon's office. She noticed one of the doors was slightly ajar.

She reached for the handle, but a voice from inside stopped her. It was Preston, Jordon's best friend and a notorious playboy.

"So you spent the whole night playing nurse to Jasmine," Preston said, his voice laced with amusement. "Doesn't your little charity case wife from the Rust Belt ever get jealous?"

Ciara froze. Her fingers dug into the cool wood of the doorframe, her knuckles turning white. She held her breath.

The flick of a lighter. Then Jordon's voice, cold and devoid of any emotion.

"She's a protocol wife, Preston. She knows her place. I don't have to explain anything to her. She's replaceable."

The words were a physical blow. They knocked the air from her lungs, the strength from her legs. She stumbled backward, her elbow lightly brushing against a large, framed abstract painting on the wall. The frame made a barely audible, soft scrape against the wallpaper, a sound completely swallowed by the hum of the office.

Panic seized her. She had to get out. She turned to flee, to escape the suffocating reality of his words, and ran straight into a group of people emerging from a conference room.

At the head of the group was Taryn, Jordon's cousin. Her perfectly styled dress and arrogant expression were a Webb family signature. She looked Ciara up and down, a slow, insulting appraisal.

"Well, well," Taryn sneered, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "Look what crawled out of the woodwork. I didn't know Webb Capital gave tours to the homeless."

The executives behind her chuckled. Their eyes, filled with the casual cruelty of the elite, raked over Ciara.

She was trapped in the middle of the hallway, a specimen under a microscope. Her sunglasses couldn't hide the sudden pallor of her face.

Taryn took a step closer, her voice dripping with venom. "Everything you're wearing, from that suit to the shoes on your feet, was paid for by my family. A gift. You should be more grateful."

The whispers of the executives were like snakes, slithering into her ears, poisoning her. She felt her breath shorten, the air growing thin.

Her hand instinctively went to her purse, her fingers pressing against the thin paper of the lab report hidden inside. A surge of protective instinct, fierce and primal, shot through her.

Ciara took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and met Taryn's gaze. "Get out of my way," she said, her voice low and steady.

Taryn looked momentarily stunned by her defiance, then her expression twisted into a mask of rage. She raised the paper cup of coffee she was holding, blocking Ciara's path.

The air in the hallway crackled with tension. A battle of wills, of class, of dignity, was about to erupt in the heart of Wall Street.

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