Too Late, CEO: Regret Your Arrogance

Alya stared at the glowing screen of her iPhone.

The harsh light illuminated her pale face in the dim hospital corridor.

The TMZ headline screamed in bold, black letters across the top of her screen. Below it was a high-definition photograph of Cole Vanderbilt-Sterling, her husband of three years.

His hand was resting possessively on the lower back of Angelle Navarro, the principal ballerina of the New York City Ballet. They were walking through the gilded revolving doors of the Plaza Hotel.

It was 2:00 AM.

Alya's fingers began to tremble. The shaking started in her wrists and traveled up her arms, violent and uncontrollable.

The phone slipped from her sweaty palms. It clattered loudly against the sterile, white linoleum floor, the sound echoing down the empty hallway.

Before she could bend down to retrieve it, a sharp, continuous screech pierced the quiet air.

It was the heart monitor inside the ICU.

Alya's head snapped up. The sound was a flatline.

Dr. Evans burst through the double doors of the intensive care unit. His face was grim, his scrubs wrinkled.

"Crash cart! Now!" he shouted down the hall, physically brushing past Alya without looking at her.

Alya lunged toward the door frame. Her hands gripped the cold metal casing. Her knuckles turned stark white from the pressure.

Through the glass, she watched the nurses swarm her grandfather's bed. One nurse climbed onto the mattress, locking her elbows and starting brutal, rhythmic chest compressions on Arthur's frail body.

Alya's throat closed up. She couldn't breathe. The air in the hallway felt thick, like wet cotton.

Hot tears blurred her vision, spilling over her eyelashes and burning her cold cheeks.

She forced her stiff fingers to dig into her pocket and pull out her backup phone. She dialed Cole's private number. She pressed the cold plastic hard against her ear, praying for him to pick up.

The call went straight to voicemail.

"You have reached Cole Vanderbilt-Sterling. Leave a message." The automated voice echoed mockingly in her ear.

His phone was turned off. He never turned his phone off. Unless he didn't want to be disturbed.

Alya's knees buckled. She slid down the cold, painted wall, her expensive silk skirt catching on the baseboard.

She pulled her knees tightly to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. Through the crack in the door, she heard the terrifying, electric hum of the defibrillator charging.

"Clear!"

Alya squeezed her eyes shut, her fingernails digging into her own forearms until they left crescent-shaped indentations.

Forty agonizing minutes passed. The screeching monitor finally settled into a weak, erratic beep.

The ICU doors pushed open. Dr. Evans stepped out, pulling down his surgical mask. He wiped a layer of sweat from his forehead.

"We barely stabilized him, Alya," the doctor said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "It's hour by hour now."

Alya exhaled a shaky, ragged breath. She tried to stand, but her legs gave out completely.

Before she hit the floor, a strong, familiar hand gripped her elbow.

The grip was firm, pulling her upright with effortless strength.

Alya looked up. Cole Vanderbilt-Sterling stood over her.

His tailored Tom Ford suit was slightly wrinkled at the waist. His tie was missing. His top two buttons were undone, revealing the strong column of his throat.

And then, the smell hit her.

It wasn't his usual sandalwood cologne. It was Chanel No. 5. Heavy, floral, and sickeningly sweet. Angelle's signature scent.

It coated the back of Alya's throat, making her stomach violently heave.

Alya recoiled instantly. She jerked her arm out of Cole's grip with so much force her shoulder popped.

She backed away as if his touch had physically burned her skin.

Cole's thick brow furrows in immediate irritation. His dark, calculating eyes narrowed as he shoved his hands into his suit pockets.

"What is wrong with you?" Cole asked, his voice a low, smooth baritone that showed zero panic.

Alya pointed a shaking finger at the ICU doors.

"Where were you?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "I called you ten times. He was dying, Cole. He was dying!"

Cole scoffed lightly. He rolled his broad shoulders, looking entirely unbothered by the sterile hospital environment.

"Arthur is eighty-two, Alya," Cole dismissed casually. "This is the natural decline of old age. Me standing in a hallway won't change his medical chart."

Alya's jaw clenched so hard her back teeth ached. Her eyes, usually soft and accommodating, flashed with a mix of profound, soul-crushing grief and sudden, burning anger.

Cole didn't like that look, he stepped closer, invading her personal space.His towering, six-foot-three frame cast a dark, suffocating shadow over her trembling body.

Alya stepped back again, but her shoulder blades hit the hard wall. She turned her face away, desperate to avoid inhaling the foreign perfume clinging to his collar.

Cole's jaw tightened at her blatant defiance and he reached out, his large hand grabbing her chin roughly.His fingers dug into her soft skin, forcing her to look directly into his cold, gray eyes.

Alya glared back. She refused to blink, she refused to shed a single tear in front of him.

Her silent, rigid rebellion sparked a flicker of dark, twisted amusement in Cole's gaze. He leaned down quickly. He forced a bruising, punishing kiss onto her lips.It wasn't a kiss of comfort, it was a display of absolute ownership. His teeth scraped against her bottom lip.

Alya kept her lips tightly sealed, she raised her hands, pushing frantically against his solid, immovable chest.She fought the degrading intimacy, her palms sliding against his expensive shirt.

Cole pulled back abruptly, his breathing was slightly heavier now. He wiped his thumb across his lower lip, glaring down at her stubborn, flushed face.

Before he could speak, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.

He pulled it out. Alya's eyes darted to the screen.

The name "Angelle Navarro" flashed brightly on the screen.

Cole's cold, hard demeanor instantly softened, the sharp lines of his face relaxed. He answered the call, turning slightly away from Alya. His voice dropped an entire octave, becoming a gentle, soothing whisper.

"I'm here. Don't worry, I'll handle it," Cole murmured into the receiver.

Alya watched his gentle expression, a sharp, physical pain twisted in the center of her chest, like a knife turning between her ribs.She realized, with absolute clarity, that she had never received that look from him in three years of marriage.

Cole hung up the phone. He turned back to Alya with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"I have urgent business to attend to," Cole stated flatly, already stepping away.

Alya lunged forward and grabbed the sleeve of his suit jacket.

"Stay," she begged, her voice breaking, stripping away her pride. "Just in case Arthur wakes up. He might ask for you."

Cole looked down at her hand clutching his sleeve. He pried her fingers off the fabric, one by one, with cold precision.

"Have Linden handle the hospital bills," Cole tossed over his shoulder, not looking back. He walked down the hallway, his expensive leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the floor.

Alya stood completely alone in the sterile corridor.

She raised the back of her hand to her mouth and aggressively wiped her lips, scrubbing the feeling of his kiss away.

She scrubbed until the delicate skin of her lips cracked and bled, tasting copper on her tongue.

The frantic beating of her heart slowed down. The warmth drained from her veins.

Her heart turned completely to ice.

Alya turned away from the empty hallway.

She walked with stiff, mechanical steps toward the nearby hospital restroom. Pushing the heavy wooden door open, she went straight to the sink.

She turned the faucet to the coldest setting, cupped her hands and splashed the freezing water onto her face.

The icy shock made her gasp, but it cleared the fog in her brain.

She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink, staring at her pale reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot. A thin smear of blood stained her lower lip where she had scrubbed it raw.

She grabbed a rough paper towel, wiped her face dry, and threw it into the trash bin with a sharp flick of her wrist.

Alya walked back out into the waiting area.

The elevator doors at the end of the hall pinged open.

Linden Pierce, Cole's executive assistant, stepped out. He wore a pristine gray suit, his posture stiff and professional.

He walked toward Alya, his eyes deliberately avoiding hers. He stopped a few feet away and opened his sleek leather briefcase.

Linden pulled out a heavy, leather-bound checkbook. He ripped a check from the binding and held it out to her.

"Mr. Vanderbilt-Sterling requested I give this to you, ma'am," Linden said, his voice monotone.

Alya looked down at the paper. It was a blank check. Cole's bold, arrogant signature was already scrawled at the bottom.

"He said you should buy a new dress," Linden added, shifting uncomfortably. "To cheer yourself up."

Alya stared at the signature. The ultimate insult washed over her, a wave of cold disgust settling in the pit of her stomach.

Her grandfather was fighting for his life fifty feet away, and Cole thought he could pay off her grief with shopping money.

Alya reached out. Her fingers gripped the top and bottom edges of the thick paper.

With a sharp, decisive motion, she tore the check straight down the middle.

The sound of the tearing paper was loud in the quiet hallway. She put the pieces together and tore them again, reducing the blank check to confetti.

Linden's eyes widened in genuine shock. His professional, emotionless mask slipped completely.

He watched as the torn pieces of paper fluttered from Alya's hands, landing on the sterile hospital floor.

"Please tell Mr. Vanderbilt-Sterling," Alya said, her voice a quiet, hollow whisper that barely carried over the hum of the hospital ventilation, "that I appreciate the thought, but I don't need it."

Linden swallowed hard. He nodded nervously, quickly snapping his briefcase shut.

He retreated to the elevator, practically running, clearly eager to escape the freezing wrath radiating from her.

Alya sat heavily on the hard plastic chair against the wall. She pulled out her phone again.

She opened Twitter. The screen exploded with trending hashtags. ColeAndAngelle VanderbiltSterlingRomance PlazaHotelNights.

Alya scrolled through the comments. Her fingernails dug so deeply into her palms that the skin broke.

"Angelle is his true love," one comment read.

"Who even is his wife? The invisible Hayes girl?" another mocked.

The click-clack of designer heels echoed down the hall, cutting through the hum of the hospital ventilation.

Alya looked up.

Angelle Navarro was walking toward her. She wore a tight, black designer dress that hugged her dancer's figure. Her makeup was flawless.

In her arms, she held a massive, extravagant bouquet of white lilies.

Alya stood up instantly. Her body moved instinctively, blocking the pathway that led to the ICU doors.

Her eyes locked onto Angelle's smug, perfectly contoured face.

Angelle stopped a few feet away. She offered Alya a sickly sweet, pitying smile.

"Alya, darling," Angelle cooed. "I heard the terrible news.Out of concern I came to pay my respects to the ailing Mr. Hayes. "

Alya glanced down at the lilies. White lilies. Flowers exclusively associated with funerals and death.

The blatant, malicious provocation made Alya's blood boil. The heat rushed to her face, her pulse pounding in her ears.

"Leave," Alya ordered coldly. "This is a restricted family floor. Mistresses aren't on the visitor list."

Angelle's sweet smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Her dark eyes narrowed into slits.

She stepped closer, invading Alya's space.

"Cole was so exhausted last night," Angelle whispered, her voice dripping with venomous intent. "He could barely wake up when your calls started coming through."

Alya's breath hitched. The vivid mental image of Cole sleeping in Angelle's bed hit her like a physical blow to the stomach.

A wave of nausea rolled through her. But she forced her spine to remain rigidly straight, she refused to let this woman see her break.

Angelle smirked, sensing the hit. She reached out a manicured hand, pretending to brush a speck of dust off Alya's shoulder.

As her hand moved, the heavy diamond bracelet on her wrist caught the fluorescent light. It was a limited-edition Cartier piece, Alya knew exactly how much Cole had paid for it.

Alya didn't think. She reacted.

She swung her arm and slapped Angelle's hand away violently.The sharp smack of skin against skin echoed loudly in the quiet corridor.

Angelle stumbled backward. She let out a dramatic, high-pitched gasp, clutching her hand to her chest.

Her eyes darted quickly toward the elevator banks, as if checking to see if she had an audience for her performance.

The elevator doors pinged and slid open.

Haylee Hayes, Alya's older sister, stepped out. She took in the scene in a split second.

Haylee's eyes blazed with protective fury. She marched over, her boots stomping on the linoleum. She positioned her body directly in front of Alya, shielding her completely.

"Take your damn funeral flowers and get the hell out of here," Haylee snarled at Angelle, pointing a finger at the elevator.

Angelle bit her lower lip, instantly playing the victim.

"I was only trying to be nice," Angelle muttered, her voice trembling artificially. "The Hayes sisters are so ungrateful."

She turned on her heel, her heels clicking rapidly as she retreated to the elevator.

Alya watched Angelle's retreating back until the doors closed. The adrenaline that had kept her standing suddenly crashed.

Her legs began to tremble uncontrollably.

Haylee turned around. She wrapped her arms tightly around Alya, pulling her into a fierce, crushing embrace.

"I've got you," Haylee whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears for her sister's pain.

Alya buried her face in Haylee's shoulder. The smell of her sister's familiar vanilla perfume broke the last of her defenses.

She let out a single, broken sob that tore painfully from her throat.

Haylee held her tighter, letting her cry for exactly one minute. Then, Haylee pulled back slightly.

She gripped Alya's shoulders firmly, forcing Alya to look her in the eye.

"Are you finally ready to leave that toxic marriage?" Haylee asked, her voice soft but absolute.

Alya looked down at the floor. The torn pieces of Cole's blank check were still scattered near her feet.

It was the ultimate symbol of her worthless status in his eyes.

Alya lifted her chin, her tear-stained eyes hardened into cold steel.

She looked at Haylee and gave a slow, definitive nod.

Haylee didn't waste a single second.

She pulled her phone from her pocket, her thumb flying across the screen. She immediately dialed the Hayes family's trusted corporate lawyer.

"Start drafting the divorce papers for Alya," Haylee ordered into the phone, her voice all business. "Extreme urgency. I want them ready today."

Alya turned away from her sister. She walked to the glass window of the ICU.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Arthur's chest. The mechanical hiss of the ventilator was the only proof he was still alive.

Suddenly, the heavy ICU door creaked open.

A nurse stepped out, her eyes wide. "He's awake briefly. He's looking for you."

Alya's heart leaped into her throat. She and Haylee rushed into the anteroom, frantically pulling sterile yellow gowns over their clothes.

They pushed into the room. The smell of antiseptic and sickness was overwhelming.

Arthur weakly opened his eyes. The skin around them was bruised and sunken. His frail, trembling hand reached out from under the thin blanket.

His lips moved soundlessly around the breathing tube, his eyes locked onto Alya with desperate intensity.

Alya leaned in close, her chest aching. She grabbed his cold, papery hand in both of hers.

"I'm here, Grandpa," Alya whispered, her voice shaking. "Everything will be fine. I promise. I will take care of the family."

Just outside the slightly ajar door, a shrill, carrying voice suddenly echoed down the hallway.

"Please, don't be so rough," a soft, trembling voice pleaded. It was Angelle. She hadn't left. She was speaking to the hospital security guard, her tone dripping with feigned distress.

"I only wanted to check on Mr. Hayes," Angelle murmured, her voice pitching perfectly to slip through the crack of the ICU door. "Cole would be devastated if I didn't pay my respects... he always tells me how important family is to our future together. Please don't make me leave."

Inside the room, Arthur's eyes snapped wide open in sheer horror.

He heard it.

The heart monitor beside the bed instantly spiked. The steady, rhythmic beeping turned into an erratic, frantic screech.

Arthur clutched his chest with his free hand. His mouth opened around the tube in a silent, agonizing scream. His body began to convulse violently on the hospital bed.

"Grandpa!" Alya screamed, panic tearing at her throat like barbed wire.

Haylee slammed her fist into the emergency Code Blue button on the wall.

Alarms blared. Doctors and nurses rushed into the room, physically pushing the sisters backward.

"Get them out!" Dr. Evans yelled, grabbing the defibrillator paddles.

Alya stumbled backward, her feet tangling. She fell through the doorway and out into the hallway, hyperventilating.

She looked up.

Angelle was standing near the nurses' station. A feigned look of innocence was plastered across her perfectly contoured face, but her eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction.

Unadulterated rage consumed Alya. The blood roared in her ears, drowning out the hospital alarms.

She charged at Angelle, raised her hand high and putting her entire body weight behind the motion, ready to deliver a devastating slap to that smug face.

Before Alya's hand could connect, a massive force gripped her wrist mid-air.

The grip was brutal. It was tight enough to bruise the bone.

Alya gasped, the air knocked from her lungs. She looked up.

Cole stood there. His eyes were blazing with dark fury as he forcibly yanked her arm down.

He had returned.

Without a word, Cole shoved Alya backward with substantial force. He prioritized Angelle's physical safety over his wife's balance.

Alya's high heels caught on the slippery linoleum tile.

She crashed hard onto the floor. Her elbow struck the unforgiving ground with a sickening, loud thud. Pain shot up her arm, numbing her fingers.

"Alya!" Haylee screamed, rushing out of the ICU and glaring venomously at Cole.

Cole didn't look at his wife on the floor. He immediately wrapped a protective, heavy arm around Angelle's waist. He pulled the ballerina behind his broad back, physically shielding her from Alya.

Alya sat on the cold floor. The physical pain in her elbow was completely eclipsed by the agonizing, final shatter of her heart.

He chose the mistress. In public. While her grandfather was dying.

Cole looked down at Alya, his voice dripping with icy disdain.

"Have you lost your mind?" Cole scolded, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "Acting like a hysterical lunatic in a public hospital? Get up."

Alya slowly pushed herself up. She ignored Haylee's outstretched, helping hand.

She stood up. Her spine was unnaturally straight. Her shoulders were locked.

The chaotic noise of the hospital-the alarms, the shouting doctors, Haylee's crying-all faded into a dull hum.

Alya looked dead into Cole's eyes. Her voice didn't make a sound, but the words echoed with deafening clarity in her own mind. It's over. She didn't scream, she didn't demand a divorce in front of the gathering crowd of nurses and security guards. She simply stared at the man she had loved for a decade, feeling the last, pathetic ember of that love turn to ash.

Cole froze.

The protective grip he had on Angelle's waist slackened slightly. A flicker of genuine, unfiltered shock crossed his stoic, arrogant features.

He hadn't expected that. Not in public. Not with that tone.

Behind Cole's back, Angelle smirked triumphantly. But she quickly hid it, burying her face into the back of Cole's suit jacket, playing the terrified victim.

Before Cole could formulate a response, the ICU doors swung open.

Dr. Evans stepped out. His face was ashen. He looked directly at Alya.

"He's slipped into a coma," Dr. Evans announced, his voice heavy, but steady. "The shock was severe, but we've managed to stabilize his vitals. The next forty-eight hours are crucial, but he is holding on."

The devastating news hit Alya like a physical blow to the head.

The adrenaline that had fueled her rage drained from her body in a split second.

Alya's vision tunneled, the bright fluorescent lights above began to spin violently. The edges of her sight turned black.

Her knees buckled. She collapsed forward, plunging into total, silent darkness.