Too Late CEO: I Am Taking Everything

Eleonora struck a long match. The flame flared, casting a warm, flickering glow across the darkened Upper East Side penthouse.

She touched the fire to the wick of the Jo Malone Red Roses candle. The heavy, romantic scent began to fill the dining room.

The walnut table was set perfectly for two. Crystal wine glasses caught the candlelight. It was their third wedding anniversary. Her chest felt full, expanding with a warm, steady anticipation.

A sharp buzz vibrated against the solid wood of the table.

The sudden noise shattered the quiet romance of the room. Eleonora glanced down. The screen of her iPhone lit up, displaying an iMessage from an unknown number. It was a video file.

Her stomach gave a strange, hollow flutter. She reached out and tapped the screen.

The chaotic, muffled sound of a crowd spilled from the phone's speakers. The camera angle was shaky, clearly recorded secretly from a VIP seat.

Eleonora frowned. The screen showed the grand, brightly lit stage of a Sotheby's auction.

"Sold for two million dollars," the auctioneer's voice boomed through the phone's tiny speakers.

The camera lens abruptly zoomed in, blurring for a second before focusing sharply on the winning bidder.

Eleonora's breath stopped. Her lungs simply ceased to function.

It was Julian.

His sharp, aristocratic side profile was unmistakable. He was supposed to be in Seattle for a board meeting. But there he was, sitting in a velvet chair, dipping his head to smile warmly at a woman sitting next to him.

The woman was wearing a pristine white dress.

Julian reached out. He took the heavy, glittering blue sapphire necklace from an auction house attendant. He leaned over and carefully draped the two-million-dollar jewels around the white-clad woman's pale neck.

The woman turned her head slightly, revealing a shy, delicate side profile.

Eleonora's fingers began to shake. The tremor started in her wrists and traveled violently down to her fingertips.

The phone slipped from her grip. It hit the edge of her porcelain dinner plate with a loud clatter.

She bit down hard on her lower lip. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth, keeping the scream locked in her throat.

She grabbed the phone again, her thumb frantically pinching the screen to zoom in. She needed a flaw. She needed it to be a lookalike.

But the camera caught Julian's left wrist as he fastened the necklace. The Patek Philippe watch gleamed under the auction house lights.

It was the watch she had given him for his thirtieth birthday.

A heavy, suffocating weight crashed down on her chest.

The electronic chime of the front door's fingerprint lock echoed through the hallway.

The sharp sound pierced through her frozen state. Panic spiked in her veins. She slammed the phone face-down on the walnut table.

She stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Footsteps approached. Julian walked into the living room.

He was wearing his tailored Tom Ford suit. The cool, crisp air of the New York autumn clung to his broad shoulders.

In his hands, he held a massive bouquet of deep red Ecuadorian roses. His dark eyes locked onto hers, soft and completely flawless.

He closed the distance between them with long, confident strides. He held the roses out to her.

Eleonora forced her stiff arms to lift. She took the bouquet.

A sharp thorn pierced the skin of her index finger. A sharp sting of pain shot up her arm.

She didn't flinch. She used the physical pain to ground herself, forcing the corners of her mouth to curve upward into a pale, rigid smile.

Julian's thick eyebrows pulled together. He immediately reached out and grabbed her hand, turning it over to inspect her finger.

"Careful," his deep voice rumbled, carrying a faint, almost undetectable edge of tension. He rubbed his thumb over her uninjured skin. "Why are you so distracted tonight? What's on your mind?"

Eleonora stared into his dark, calm eyes. A violent wave of nausea hit her stomach. Bile rose in the back of her throat.

She yanked her hand out of his grip.

"I'm fine," she said. Her voice sounded thin and brittle.

She turned her back to him, walking over to a crystal vase on the sideboard. She shoved the roses into the water, putting physical space between them.

"How was the meeting in Seattle?" she asked. She dug her fingernails so deeply into her palms that the skin nearly broke.

Julian walked over to the bar cart. He calmly unbuttoned his suit jacket and loosened his silk tie.

"Exhausting," he lied smoothly. "The flight was delayed for two hours on the tarmac."

Eleonora stared at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. The coldness in her blood spread to her fingertips.

She picked up her glass of ice water and took a slow sip. The cold liquid burned her tight throat.

"I saw the news today," she said, keeping her eyes locked on his reflection. "There was a massive jewelry auction at Sotheby's."

Julian's hand froze over the crystal decanter. It was a fraction of a second, but she saw it. The amber liquor rippled inside the glass.

He recovered instantly. He turned around, holding his drink, his expression completely relaxed.

"Yes," he said. "I was actually there."

Eleonora didn't take the drink he offered. She just stared at him. The silence in the room grew thick and suffocating.

Julian let out a soft, helpless laugh.

"Jax Mercer begged me to go," Julian explained, his voice smooth and convincing. "He needed me to bid on a necklace for his new girlfriend. I barely made it back in time for dinner."

He stepped forward. He wrapped his large, warm hand around her waist and pulled her flush against his chest.

He rested his chin on the top of her head. "I'm so sorry I didn't have time to pick out a proper anniversary gift for you," he murmured.

Eleonora's entire body turned to stone. Her muscles locked up, rejecting his touch.

As her face pressed against his suit lapel, she inhaled. Beneath his usual cedarwood cologne, there was something else.

Tuberose.

It was a faint, lingering floral scent. It was not her perfume.

The realization hit her like a physical blow to the stomach. The ice in her veins froze solid.

Eleonora shoved her hands against his chest and pushed him away.

"I need to get the soup from the kitchen," she blurted out.

Julian's arms dropped. His hands hung in the air for a second. A flash of dark irritation crossed his eyes before he masked it.

Eleonora practically ran into the kitchen.

She gripped the edge of the cold marble island. She gasped for air, her chest heaving. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. She stared blankly at her own pale reflection in the stainless steel sink.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Julian leaned against the kitchen doorframe.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture relaxed and dominant.

"Are you distracted tonight, Nora?" he asked. His eyes narrowed slightly, probing her.

Eleonora spun around. She plastered a perfect, flawless smile on her face.

She picked up the heavy porcelain bowl of hot soup. The steam rose, hiding the redness in her eyes.

"I'm just tired," she lied back. "The new project at work is draining me."

Julian stepped forward immediately. He reached out to take the heavy bowl from her hands.

His warm fingers brushed against hers against the porcelain.

The heat of his skin felt like a burn. Eleonora flinched violently, jerking her hands back.

The bowl tilted. Hot soup splashed over the edge, staining the pristine white tablecloth.

Julian grabbed a napkin. He slowly wiped up the spill, his movements deliberate. He lifted his head and stared directly into her eyes. The air in the kitchen grew heavy and oppressive.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked. His voice was low, demanding.

Eleonora's mind flashed to the master bathroom upstairs. Hidden in the bottom drawer was a folded piece of paper-the positive pregnancy test report from her doctor. She had planned to give it to him tonight as an anniversary surprise. But that was before the video. Now the secret felt like a weight she couldn't carry.

She forced herself to stay calm. "I'll go get a towel," she said, but Julian caught her wrist.

"I'll get it," he said, and walked toward the pantry. The moment his back was turned, Eleonora saw her chance. She slipped out of the kitchen, her heart pounding. She took the stairs two at a time, ran into the master bathroom, and yanked open the bottom drawer. The paper was there. She folded it small and pressed it deep into the pocket of her silk robe. Then she hurried back downstairs, her breath shallow.

When Julian returned with the towel, she was already standing by the table, her hands behind her back, hiding the slight bulge in her pocket.

"No," she whispered.

Julian studied her face. He seemed satisfied with her submission.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "I'm going to take a quick shower and change," he said.

He turned and walked out of the kitchen.

Eleonora listened to his heavy footsteps fade down the hall. She heard the solid click of the master bathroom door locking.

The moment the lock clicked, her spine collapsed.

She stumbled back to the dining chair and collapsed into it. Her hands shook violently as she reached for her phone.

She flipped it over. The video was still looping on the screen.

The blurry side profile of the woman in the white dress stabbed into her eyes. Her brain raced, frantically sifting through every woman in Julian's circle.

The sound of running water echoed from the bathroom.

The noise covered the sound of Eleonora's ragged, choking sob. She grabbed the massive bouquet of Ecuadorian roses and shoved them hard off the table.

The crystal vase shattered against the hardwood floor. Red petals scattered everywhere like drops of blood.

Eleonora took a deep, shuddering breath. She wiped the wetness from her eyes with the back of her hand.

She pressed the power button, turning the phone screen black.

The despair in her chest settled into a heavy, cold stone, weighing down her racing thoughts. She didn't know what to believe yet, and a pathetic, lingering part of her still desperately wanted to trust him. She would bury this doubt deep down for now, but she knew, eventually, she had to find out exactly who that woman was.

The hot steam billowed out into the hallway as Julian pushed the bathroom door open. He was rubbing a towel through his damp hair, a white bath towel slung low around his waist. He walked barefoot toward the open-concept kitchen.

Eleonora stood at the marble island. She picked up the plates of cold, untouched filet mignon and scraped them directly into the trash can.

The ceramic plate clattered harshly against the rim of the bin.

Julian stepped up behind her. His bare chest pressed flush against her back. He wrapped his strong arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against him.

Eleonora's entire body went rigid. Her lungs seized. The silver fork slipped from her trembling fingers and clattered loudly onto the marble countertop.

The heat radiating from his damp skin seeped through the thin silk of her robe. And then, she smelled it again.

The hot water of the shower had washed away his cologne, but the faint, sickeningly sweet scent of tuberose still clung to his skin.

Julian let out a low chuckle. He bit down softly on her earlobe.

"Throwing away our anniversary dinner?" he murmured. The vibration of his voice against her neck made her skin crawl.

Eleonora locked her knees to keep from shoving him away.

"It was ice cold," she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

Julian let go of her waist. He stepped back and walked around the island. He pulled a dark apron from a hook and tied it around his waist.

He opened the pantry and pulled out a box of linguine and a jar of imported tomato sauce.

"I'll make it up to you," he said, his tone dripping with practiced affection. "I'll cook."

Eleonora leaned against the counter. Her eyes tracked his movements. He chopped an onion with precise, practiced efficiency.

A cold, desolate wind blew through her chest. Julian Sinclair, the ruthless CEO of Sinclair Group, only knew how to cook one dish. Pasta pomodoro.

She knew, with absolute, sickening certainty, that he had not learned to cook this dish for her.

The water in the copper pot began to boil, sending thick white steam into the air. Julian turned his head and flashed her a devastatingly handsome, indulgent smile.

Eleonora shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her silk robe. Her fingers brushed against the folded piece of paper-the pregnancy test report she had hidden there twenty minutes ago. She gripped it tightly, the sharp edges cutting into her fingertips. The pain kept her grounded. She would not tell him. She would protect this secret with her life.

Julian plated the pasta. He slid a steaming bowl across the marble island toward her and handed her a fork.

The heavy, acidic smell of cooked tomatoes and garlic hit her face.

Eleonora's stomach violently contracted. A massive wave of nausea surged up her throat.

She slapped her hand over her mouth. She shoved herself away from the island. The heavy barstool screeched horribly against the floorboards.

She sprinted across the living room and threw open the door to the first-floor powder room.

She dropped to her knees in front of the toilet and dry-heaved. Her chest burned as her stomach cramped painfully.

Footsteps pounded against the floor outside. Julian slammed his fist against the bathroom door.

"Nora!" he shouted. "Are you sick? Did you eat something bad?"

His voice sounded frantic. The panic in his tone sounded so real it made her want to scream.

Eleonora flushed the toilet. She stood up on shaking legs and turned on the cold water in the sink. She splashed the freezing water onto her pale face.

She looked at her reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot. She took a deep breath, forcing her facial muscles to relax.

She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Julian stood there, his chest heaving. He reached out to press the back of his hand against her forehead.

Eleonora jerked her head back, dodging his touch.

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "It's just my stomach. I've been pulling all-nighters for the Sinclair Group's new design pitch. My digestion is a mess."

Julian's hand hung in the empty air. His jaw tightened in a brief flash of annoyance, but he quickly masked it with a look of deep concern.

Without a word, he stepped forward, bent down, and scooped her up into his arms.

Eleonora gasped, her hands automatically flying to his bare shoulders to steady herself.

He carried her up the sweeping staircase to the second-floor master bedroom. He laid her down gently on the center of the massive king-size bed.

He pulled the heavy silk duvet up over her legs.

Eleonora immediately closed her eyes. She turned her head away, feigning absolute exhaustion. She wanted to build a wall between them.

The mattress dipped heavily beside her.

Julian slid under the covers. His large, scorching hot body pressed against her side. His hand slid under the hem of her silk robe, his rough palm gliding up her bare thigh.

His touch was possessive, demanding.

Eleonora's eyes snapped open. She grabbed his wrist, her fingernails digging into his skin.

She stared into his dark eyes, her breathing shallow and fast.

"Julian, please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I feel sick."

Julian's hand stopped moving. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast harsh shadows across his face. He stared down at her pale, rigid features.

The air in the bedroom grew thick and heavy with dangerous sexual tension. He was a man who rarely heard the word no.

Eleonora's heart pounded against her ribs. She braced herself, terrified he would force the issue.

Suddenly, Julian let out a heavy sigh.

He pulled his hand out from under her robe. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tightly against his chest.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Go to sleep, Nora," he murmured.

His heart beat steadily against her back. Thump. Thump. Thump.

To Eleonora, the sound was repulsive. She lay completely frozen in his arms. She didn't dare move a muscle, terrified he would feel the slight, protective tension in her lower abdomen.

Hours passed. The room grew pitch black.

Julian's breathing eventually deepened into a slow, rhythmic snore.

Eleonora waited another twenty minutes to be absolutely sure. Then, moving inch by agonizing inch, she slid out of his embrace.

She stepped barefoot onto the plush wool rug. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out at the glittering skyline of Manhattan.

The neon lights reflected in her cold, dead eyes.

She pulled her phone from her robe pocket. She turned the brightness all the way down.

She opened her messages and tapped on Sloane's name.

I need a favor. Can you access the Sotheby's buyer registry from tonight? I need a name.

A few seconds later, Sloane replied: "Give me ten minutes." Eleonora waited, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Exactly eleven minutes later, a new message lit up the screen. Sloane had sent a screenshot of the internal bidding log and a grainy photo pulled from event security footage.

"The buyer is Julian Sinclair. But the guest-the woman in white-I ran facial recognition through our industry database. Her name is Seraphina Sinclair. Julian's stepsister. Just got back from a Swiss psychiatric facility last week. Be careful, Nora."

Eleonora stared at the name. Seraphina. A ghost from Julian's past that he never spoke about. Her blood ran cold. She typed back: "Thank you." Then locked the screen.

She let out a bitter, silent laugh. She didn't reply further. She locked the screen.

She walked silently into the massive walk-in closet. She opened the bottom drawer of her vanity and pulled out an old, leather-bound diary with a small metal lock.

She took the crumpled pregnancy test report from her pocket. She smoothed out the creases and placed it flat between the pages.

She snapped the small padlock shut. The metallic click sounded loud in the quiet closet.

With that sound, she locked away the last shred of hope she had for this marriage. She rested her hand flat against her stomach.

I'm sorry, she whispered in her mind.

She walked back into the bedroom. She stood by the bed, looking down at Julian's sleeping face.

The man she had loved fiercely for three years now looked like a terrifying stranger. A violent shiver racked her body.

She carefully lifted the edge of the duvet and slid back into bed. She stayed as close to the edge of the mattress as possible, keeping a safe physical distance from him.

She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow.

Suddenly, Julian's arm shot out across the bed.

He grabbed her waist and yanked her backward. He pinned her tightly against his chest, his grip like a steel vice.

Eleonora's eyes flew open in the dark. She gritted her teeth, her body stiff with resistance.

"Don't leave..." Julian mumbled into her hair, his voice thick with sleep.

Eleonora squeezed her eyes shut. She lay trapped in the dark, her heart cold as ice, waiting for the sun to rise.

The darkness of the night finally broke. Bright, piercing autumn sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stabbing into Eleonora's swollen eyes.

She woke up alone in the center of the king-size bed. The sheets on Julian's side were cold to the touch.

She sat up, her body aching from a night of rigid tension. She pulled a cashmere shawl tightly around her shoulders and walked slowly out of the bedroom.

As she descended the sweeping spiral staircase, the murmur of voices drifted up from the first floor.

Eleonora's bare feet stopped dead on the marble steps.

Down in the living room, Mrs. Gable was setting a tray of Wedgwood bone china teacups on the coffee table. The housekeeper looked up, her expression strained and deeply apologetic. "Ma'am, I am so sorry. I told her to wait in the lobby, but Mr. Sinclair had given her the private elevator bypass code," Mrs. Gable murmured nervously.

Sitting on the plush velvet sofa was a woman wearing a beige trench coat.

The woman had her back to the stairs. Her shoulders were narrow, her posture delicate.

Eleonora's breath caught. Even in a different coat, the familiar tilt of the head, the delicate curve of the shoulders-it was the same posture from the video. Her mind flashed to the name Sloane had sent her last night: Seraphina Sinclair.

It was her.

Eleonora's pupils contracted violently. Her fingernails dug so hard into the wooden banister that her knuckles turned white.

The woman in the white dress. The two-million-dollar necklace. The tuberose perfume. It all slammed together in her brain with the force of a physical explosion.

The woman turned her head.

It was Seraphina Sinclair. Julian's stepsister, who had supposedly just returned from a psychiatric facility in Switzerland.

Seraphina stood up. A flawless, sickeningly sweet smile spread across her perfectly made-up face.

"Good morning, Eleonora," Seraphina chirped. Her voice was soft, coated in a layer of sugary poison.

Eleonora took a deep, jagged breath. She forced the raging fire in her chest down into her stomach.

She walked down the remaining steps, her slippers slapping quietly against the floor. She gave Seraphina a curt, dismissive nod and sat down in the single armchair opposite the sofa.

Seraphina didn't seem to mind the cold reception. She reached into her Hermès Birkin bag and pulled out a dark blue velvet jewelry box.

She pushed the box across the glass coffee table.

With a sharp snap, the box sprang open.

The massive blue sapphire necklace lay nestled against the white satin. The morning sun hit the jewels, sending blinding, fractured light dancing across the walls.

Eleonora's breath hitched. The visual confirmation felt like a physical blow to the ribs.

"I just came to return this," Seraphina said softly. "Julian bought it last night, but I just wanted to try it on for the evening to keep up appearances. I brought it back for you."

Seraphina's eyes gleamed with a hidden, vicious triumph.

Bile rose in Eleonora's throat. She stared at the necklace as if it were a coiled viper ready to strike.

"If Julian bought it for me," Eleonora said, her voice dripping with ice, "why would his stepsister need to try it on for him?"

Seraphina's eyes instantly filled with tears. She bit her lower lip, looking like a terrified, cornered animal. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could formulate a lie, the heavy oak doors of Julian's study swung open.

Julian strode out into the living room. He was wearing a dark grey dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

His eyes bypassed Eleonora completely and locked onto Seraphina. A deep crease formed between his brows.

He crossed the room in three long strides and stopped right in front of Seraphina.

"What are you doing here?" Julian demanded, his voice thick with panic and anger. "You haven't recovered yet. Why aren't you resting at the hotel?"

Seraphina reached out and grabbed the cuff of Julian's shirt. She tilted her head up, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

"I was just afraid Eleonora would misunderstand about the necklace," Seraphina whimpered. "I wanted to bring it to her myself."

Julian immediately grabbed Seraphina's wrist. He turned her arm over, checking her pulse, inspecting her skin. The movement was so natural, so deeply ingrained, it looked like muscle memory.

He completely ignored his pregnant wife sitting less than three feet away.

The sight of his large hand wrapped around Seraphina's delicate wrist felt like a knife twisting in Eleonora's gut. The last, pathetic shred of hope she had held onto shattered into dust.

Eleonora let out a short, harsh laugh.

The sound cut through the room like a gunshot.

Julian flinched. He dropped Seraphina's wrist as if he had been burned. He turned to look at Eleonora, a flash of raw panic crossing his face. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly.

Eleonora leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. She stared at them, her eyes burning with contempt.

"So," Eleonora said, her voice dangerously quiet. "You told me you were bidding on this necklace for Jax Mercer. How exactly did it end up around your sister's neck?"

Julian's jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck stood out tight and rigid. His lie had been dragged out into the light, and he had nowhere to hide.

He opened his mouth, but Seraphina beat him to it.

Seraphina gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh my god," she whispered, looking at Julian with wide, innocent eyes. "Julian, you didn't tell her? You lied to her about me?"

The words were a calculated, lethal strike. She had just nailed Julian to the cross of his own deception.

"Shut up, Seraphina!" Julian roared. The volume of his voice shook the windows.

He turned to the hallway. "Mrs. Gable! Get the driver. Take Seraphina back to her hotel immediately."

Seraphina knew she had won. She stood up obediently. She gave Julian a tearful nod, then shot Eleonora a look of pure, unadulterated malice before turning and walking out the front door.

The heavy door clicked shut. The living room fell into a suffocating, dead silence.

Julian ripped his tie loose from his collar. He walked toward Eleonora, reaching his hand out to touch her shoulder.

Eleonora shot up from the chair. She took a massive step backward, putting the coffee table between them.

"Don't touch me," she hissed. "Explain. Now."

Julian took a deep, ragged breath. He ran a hand through his hair.

"You know what my family owes her mother," Julian said, his voice dropping into a low, pleading register. "Her mother was crippled in that car accident saving my life. Seraphina just went through a brutal divorce. She's mentally fragile. I have a responsibility to take care of her."

Eleonora stared at the velvet box on the table. The absurdity of his words made her physically dizzy.

"You need to take care of her?" Eleonora repeated, her voice rising. "So you buy her a two-million-dollar necklace and lie to your wife's face?"

Julian's face hardened. His guilt quickly morphed into defensive anger.

"You're being overly sensitive, Nora," he snapped. "You are the wife of the Sinclair family heir. You need to show some grace. She is just my sister."

The sheer audacity of his words ignited a blinding rage in Eleonora's brain.

She lunged forward. She grabbed the heavy velvet jewelry box off the table and hurled it directly at Julian's chest.

The box slammed into his sternum with a heavy thud. The necklace flew out, hitting the floor and skidding across the hardwood.

"Pay your own debts, Julian," Eleonora spat, her chest heaving. "Don't use my marriage as a stepping stone to ease your guilt."

She turned on her heel and marched toward the stairs. She didn't look back at the pale, furious man standing amidst the scattered jewels.