Too Late CEO: The Runaway Wife Returns

Damon pushed the heavy metal door open.

The sharp click of his leather dress shoes hitting the sterile tile floor echoed in the windowless room. On the hospital bed, Corrie flinched. Her body shrank back against the thin mattress, an involuntary reaction to the sound of his approach.

She tried to sit up, desperate to explain. The thick leather restraints secured to the metal bedrails jerked her wrists back. The rough material bit into her pale skin, leaving angry red marks.

Damon walked straight to the side of the bed. He didn't look at her face. Instead, he raised his hand and threw a piece of fabric directly at her.

The ruined evening gown landed on her face, blocking her vision.

The heavy, metallic smell of fresh blood instantly filled Corrie's nose. Her stomach cramped violently. She shook her head side to side, fighting to get the fabric off her face.

"I didn't push her," Corrie gasped, her voice raw. "Damon, I swear I didn't push Kara."

Damon ripped the bloody dress away. His large hand clamped around her jaw. His fingers pressed hard into her bones, forcing her to look up at him. His blue eyes were entirely black with disgust.

"You stole her life," Damon said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You stole her identity as my savior, and now you tried to kill her. You are a liar, Corrie."

Corrie's eyes burned red. Tears pooled, blurring his harsh features. She stared right back into his eyes.

"Why?" she choked out, her throat tight. "Why would you rather believe a stranger over your own wife?"

Damon let out a cold, sharp laugh. He released her jaw, wiping his hand on his slacks as if touching her made him dirty. He turned his back to her and looked at the man standing quietly in the corner of the room.

"Draw one thousand milliliters of her Rh-null blood," Damon ordered Head Nurse Evans.

Head Nurse Evans shifted his weight, his face pale. "Mr. Holloway, that volume exceeds the safe limit. Taking that much blood at once will induce hypovolemic shock. She could go into cardiac arrest."

Damon didn't even blink. His jaw clenched tight. "As long as she doesn't die, keep drawing. Kara needs that blood. Kara's life is worth a hundred of hers."

The words hit Corrie physically. It felt like a heavy stone dropping straight through her chest.

The light completely died in her eyes. Her struggling stopped. Her body went as stiff and cold as a corpse.

Head Nurse Evans swallowed hard. He picked up a thick, terrifyingly large needle from the metal tray. He walked over to the bed and wiped a cold alcohol pad over the crook of Corrie's pale arm.

The needle pierced her vein.

Corrie sucked in a sharp breath. The pain was a hot slice through her skin. She curled her fingers inward, her nails digging so deeply into her palms that the skin broke.

Dark red blood rushed through the clear plastic tube, pooling into the empty bag.

Damon stared at the blood bag. As the red liquid filled the plastic, the tight line of his jaw finally relaxed.

Minutes dragged on. Corrie's chest began to heave. Her breathing turned short and shallow. The heart monitor beside the bed started to beep in a fast, frantic rhythm.

Damon pulled his gaze away from the blood bag and looked at Corrie's face. Her lips were completely white. A flash of irritation flared in his chest. He hated seeing her look so weak.

A wave of intense dizziness crashed over Corrie. The bright surgical lights above her spun. Damon's face blurred into a dark shadow.

"I curse the day I married you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Damon's phone vibrated in his pocket, shattering the heavy silence. He pulled it out and answered.

Kara's weak, crying voice drifted through the speaker. Damon's eyes instantly hardened again.

"I'm coming," Damon said softly into the phone. "I have the blood. You're going to be fine."

His gentle tone was a physical knife twisting in Corrie's heart.

The blood bag was nearly full. The monitor let out a continuous, high-pitched warning. Corrie's blood pressure dropped past the critical line.

Head Nurse Evans rushed forward, pulling the needle out of her arm and pressing a thick piece of gauze over the bleeding hole.

Damon grabbed the temperature-controlled cooler containing her blood. He turned toward the door, his steps fast and urgent. He didn't look back.

Corrie used the very last ounce of energy in her body.

"Divorce," she whispered to his retreating back.

Damon's footsteps stopped. He didn't turn around.

"You don't have the right to make demands," he said coldly.

He walked out and slammed the heavy metal door behind him.

The room fell dead silent. Head Nurse Evans quickly injected a bag of saline into Corrie's IV line. His pager beeped urgently. He looked at Corrie with pity, then hastily tossed his clipboard onto the rolling metal cart near the foot of her bed to free his hands. The sudden movement dislodged a pair of stainless steel medical scissors clipped to the board, leaving them resting dangerously close to the edge. He gathered the rest of his tools and rushed out of the room to answer the emergency call.

The heavy lock on the outside of the door clicked into place.

Corrie lay alone in the dim room. A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracing a cold path down her temple.

The despair slowly drained away, leaving behind a freezing, hard determination. She turned her head. Her eyes locked onto the pair of stainless steel medical scissors that had fallen from the nurse's clipboard, now resting precariously on the rolling metal cart near the foot of her bed.

She fought through the crushing dizziness. She stretched her right leg out, pointing her toes. Her muscles screamed in protest.

She hooked her bare toes around the metal edge of the cart.

She pulled. The wheels let out a soft squeak against the tile. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She pulled again. The cart rolled closer to her hand.

Her numb fingers reached out. The tips of her fingers brushed the freezing metal of the scissors. She grabbed them, holding them tight in her fist.

Corrie brought the scissors to her right wrist. She began to saw at the thick leather restraint. Sweat poured down her forehead, stinging her eyes. Her breathing was ragged.

With a loud snap, the leather broke. Just as her right hand came free, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. They were coming straight toward her door.

Corrie's heart exploded in her chest. She twisted her body, her freed right hand gripping the scissors and sawing frantically at the leather binding her left wrist. The thick restraint resisted, the blades slipping against the tough material. Sweat and tears blurred her vision. The footsteps stopped right outside the door. A key scraped against the lock.

Snap. The second restraint broke.

The doorknob turned.

The doorknob turned.

Corrie ripped the IV needle from her arm with a sharp gasp, a bright bead of blood welling up instantly. She gripped the scissors tight. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor, and pressed her back against the wall behind the door. She held her breath.

The metal door pushed open. A night-shift nurse walked in, holding a plastic tray of medications. The nurse looked at the empty bed and froze.

Corrie stepped out from the shadows. She pressed the sharp point of the scissors hard against the nurse's lower back.

"Don't make a sound," Corrie whispered, her voice rough.

The nurse shook violently. Her hands slipped. The plastic tray hit the floor, scattering pills and shattering a glass vial.

"Take off the coat," Corrie ordered.

She quickly stripped the white lab coat off the trembling nurse and pulled it over her own hospital gown. She snatched the security keycard clipped to the nurse's scrubs.

Corrie pushed the nurse into the bathroom and locked the door from the outside.

Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. The blood loss was making her head spin. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, using the pain to stay awake.

She swiped the keycard and slipped into the maze of underground hallways. She kept her head down, avoiding the glowing red lights of the security cameras.

She reached the heavy iron fire exit door. She pushed it open with both hands.

A violent gust of wind and freezing rain slammed into her. The storm instantly soaked through the thin lab coat.

Corrie stumbled out into the pitch-black woods surrounding the private clinic. Sharp thorns tore at her bare calves, leaving bloody scratches, but she didn't stop running. Her lungs burned.

She broke through the tree line and hit the rough asphalt of a deserted interstate highway.

Headlights pierced the heavy rain. A yellow taxi with its roof light on was speeding down the road.

Corrie ran right into the middle of the lane, waving her arms frantically.

The taxi's tires screeched against the wet pavement. The car skidded to a halt just inches from her knees.

Corrie yanked the back door open and threw herself onto the leather seat. She unclasped the diamond watch from her wrist-a wedding gift from Damon-and tossed it into the front seat.

"Manhattan. Now," she ordered, gasping for air.

The driver glanced at her soaked, pale figure in the rearview mirror. He didn't say a word. He stepped on the gas.

The heater in the car blasted hot air. The warmth seeped into Corrie's freezing bones. Her adrenaline crashed. Her eyelids grew incredibly heavy. She leaned her wet head against the cold window, her consciousness slipping.

In the front seat, the driver's phone screen lit up. An encrypted text message appeared.

The driver read the message. His eyes shifted in the mirror, turning cold and deadly.

His finger moved to the driver's side panel.

Click.

The central locking system engaged. The sound was quiet, buried under the noise of the thunder, but it made Corrie's eyes snap open.

She looked out the window. The car was moving way too fast. The road signs were wrong. They were veering off the main highway heading toward the city.

"This isn't the way to Manhattan," Corrie said, her heart rate spiking.

"Roadwork ahead," the driver said, his voice flat. "Taking the Hudson River Bridge."

Corrie reached for the door handle. She pulled it. It didn't budge.

Panic exploded in her chest. She pulled harder, rattling the plastic handle. Locked.

"Let me out!" she screamed.

She grabbed the heavy red fire extinguisher strapped to the floor behind the driver's seat. She swung it with all her remaining strength, smashing it against the side window.

The impact jolted her arms, but the reinforced glass only spider-webbed with thin cracks. It didn't break.

The taxi sped onto the massive Hudson River Bridge. The rain lashed against the windshield.

Suddenly, the driver jerked the steering wheel hard to the right. The car swerved violently, heading straight for the concrete and steel guardrail.

Realizing the deadly speed, the driver slammed on the brakes just enough to unlock his door, but not enough to stop the heavy vehicle's momentum. A split second before the inevitable impact, he kicked his door open and threw his body out onto the wet asphalt. He rolled violently to a stop, quickly scrambling up and disappearing into the dark storm as the runaway car continued its deadly trajectory.

The sound of tearing metal was deafening. The taxi smashed through the guardrail.

Gravity vanished. The car plummeted toward the raging black water of the Hudson River.

The impact was a brutal explosion of force. Corrie's head slammed forward into the back of the front seat. Warm blood poured down her forehead, blinding her left eye.

Freezing water violently flooded into the cabin through the cracked windows.

The water rose with terrifying speed. It swallowed her knees, then her waist.

Corrie gasped, fighting the rising panic. She unbuckled her seatbelt and pushed herself toward the front seat. The windshield was shattered from the impact.

She kicked at the broken glass, creating a hole just big enough to squeeze through. The water reached her chest.

She pulled her upper body through the broken windshield, the freezing river shocking her system.

Just as her hips cleared the glass, something grabbed her.

A hand wearing a thick black glove clamped down on her right ankle.

Corrie screamed underwater, a stream of bubbles escaping her lips. She kicked wildly with her free leg.

The hand didn't let go. The grip was inhumanly strong. It yanked her backward, dragging her down into the crushing, black depths of the river.

Her lungs screamed for oxygen. The freezing water rushed into her mouth, filling her chest with liquid fire.

As her vision faded to black, the last thing she saw in her mind was Damon's cold, unfeeling face.

Miles away, in a glass-walled penthouse high above Manhattan.

Damon stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a crystal glass of amber whiskey in his hand. He watched the lightning tear across the sky.

The heavy oak door to his office burst open.

His personal assistant, Brad Kirk, stood in the doorway. Brad was out of breath, his face completely drained of color.

"Sir," Brad panted. "Corrie is missing from the clinic. And the taxi she got into... it just crashed through the guardrail on the Hudson River Bridge."

Damon's fingers went numb.

The crystal glass slipped from his hand. It hit the Persian rug, the heavy glass shattering with a dull, heavy thud. Whiskey splashed across the expensive wool.

Damon's pupils shrank to tiny pinpricks. His heart stopped beating.

Five years later.

The arrival board at John F. Kennedy International Airport flipped rapidly, displaying flights from Paris.

Corrie walked out of the VIP terminal. She wore a sharp, camel-colored trench coat and oversized black sunglasses. The terrified, broken girl from five years ago was gone. Her spine was straight, her aura untouchable.

Five years. Sometimes Corrie still woke up gasping, the phantom sensation of that black glove dragging her into crushing darkness. She never found out who had attacked her that night-only that someone else, someone she never saw, had pulled her from the Hudson's freezing grip and left her at the door of a Parisian charity hospital. She had woken up three days later to a doctor telling her two things: she had lost nearly forty percent of her lung function, and she was seven weeks pregnant with twins. Those twins were the reason she had forced her shattered body to heal. They were the reason she had built an empire in the shadows.

She pushed a luggage cart with one hand. Sitting on top of the suitcases was a four-and-a-half-year-old boy.

Leo wore a custom-tailored miniature navy suit. His small fingers flew across the screen of an iPad, lines of complex code reflecting in his piercing blue eyes.

Beside Corrie, a little girl clutched the hem of the trench coat. Stella had big, timid eyes. She hugged a worn-out stuffed rabbit tightly to her chest, hiding slightly behind her mother's leg.

A black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the curb. Mael Corbin jumped out of the driver's seat. He grinned widely and pulled Corrie into a tight hug.

Leo didn't look up from his iPad. He simply raised one small, firm hand and pushed against Mael's chest. "Uncle Mael, three seconds. You're over the limit."

Mael laughed awkwardly and stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. He quickly loaded the heavy suitcases into the trunk.

The SUV merged onto the highway, heading toward a high-end, secure art loft in Brooklyn.

As soon as they arrived and the kids were settled in the living room, Corrie walked into the master study. She shut the heavy wooden door and locked it.

She sat at the desk and opened her laptop. Her fingers typed in a complex password, logging into an offshore, encrypted bank account. She stared at the long string of zeros on the screen. Her tense shoulders finally dropped a fraction of an inch.

She opened a new tab and navigated to the billing portal of a premier nursing home in New Jersey. She paid the massive monthly invoice for her comatose mother's life support without blinking.

A third email popped up, this one from Mael: Studio's lease is signed. The SoHo space is ours. Ready when you are, boss.

An email notification popped up. It was from Yara, the executive assistant at Nova magazine.

Reminder: Editorial pitch meeting tomorrow at 9 AM, Aria.

A second email arrived immediately after. This one was from a top literary agent in Manhattan.

IX, the publisher is begging for the final outline of the new thriller. Please advise.

Corrie rubbed her temples. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. Juggling the identities of 'Aria', the ruthless magazine editor, and 'IX', the bestselling mystery author, was exhausting. But the money and the power were the only armor she had to protect her family. The jewelry studio was her own-not a pseudonym, not a mask. A place where she could create with her hands and breathe, if only for a few stolen hours a week.

The doorknob rattled. The door pushed open slightly.

Leo walked in, balancing a warm mug of milk in his small hands. He walked to the desk, stood on his tiptoes, and placed the mug carefully next to her laptop.

He looked at the banking screen before she could minimize it.

"My stock portfolio made twenty thousand dollars today," Leo said, his voice completely serious. "I can help pay the bills, Mom."

Warmth flooded Corrie's chest. She pulled her genius son into her lap and pressed a long kiss to his forehead.

"Adult problems are for adults to solve, baby," she whispered.

Leo rested his head against her chest. "Why did we have to come back to New York?"

Corrie's body went completely rigid.

The memory of the freezing Hudson River water rushing into her lungs hit her. The phantom sensation of Damon's hand crushing her jaw made her breath hitch.

She forced her lungs to expand. "Because New York has the best pediatric specialists in the world. We need them to help Stella talk."

Leo looked up at her. His eyes, sharp and far too observant for a child, studied her face. He knew she was lying. But he didn't push. He just slowly clenched his small hands into tight fists.

That night, Corrie tossed and turned in the large bed.

She was trapped underwater. The black glove was pulling her down. She couldn't breathe.

Corrie shot up in bed, gasping for air. Cold sweat soaked her pajamas. Her hand flew to her chest, her fingers trembling as they traced the long, raised surgical scar hidden beneath her shirt.

The next morning, Corrie stood in front of the mirror. She applied a bold red lipstick, masking the pale exhaustion on her face. She stepped into a pair of sharp stilettos.

She drove the twins to the Upper East Side. She parked in front of the wrought-iron gates of the Golden Leaf Academy.

Corrie knelt on the sidewalk. She straightened Leo's tie and smoothed Stella's hair.

"Watch out for your sister," Corrie told him.

Leo's eyes darkened with a fierce, protective glare. "I won't let anyone touch her."

Corrie smiled softly and watched them walk through the heavy security doors. She turned around, pulling her car keys from her purse, ready to head to the Nova office.

She reached for her car door handle.

A sleek, black Maybach turned the corner and rolled slowly down the street.

Corrie's peripheral vision caught the custom license plate.

Her heart literally stopped beating for a full second. The blood drained from her face, leaving her dizzy.

She ripped her car door open, threw herself into the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut. She ducked down, pressing her chest hard against the steering wheel, making herself as small as possible.

The Maybach glided past her parked car.

The rear passenger window was rolled halfway down. Through the glass, Corrie saw the sharp, cold profile of Damon Holloway's face.

They were less than three feet apart.