Too Late For Regret: My Hidden Billionaire

"Blow them out, Grandma."

Cassie clapped her small hands together, her bright voice echoing off the mahogany walls of the private dining room in the Ritz-Carlton.

Daryl Bush smiled, holding the long lighter away from the cake. He looked at his mother. Marlene sat in her wheelchair, her hands rough and calloused from decades of hard labor, resting on her lap. She stared at the flickering candles on her sixtieth birthday cake, but her eyes kept darting toward the heavy double doors.

"Make a wish, Mom," Daryl said softly.

He reached out and covered her rough hand with his own. He knew what she was looking for. He squeezed her fingers, his voice steady.

"Blaire said she would come after finishing her board meeting. She is on her way."

Cassie tugged at the hem of Daryl's cheap, off-the-rack suit jacket. Her lower lip trembled.

"Did Mommy forget Grandma's birthday?"

Daryl crouched down. He pushed the dark thoughts to the back of his mind and forced a warm smile, ruffling his daughter's soft hair.

"Mommy is very busy, but she promised she would try. We just have to wait a little longer."

A sudden flurry of rushed, arrogant footsteps echoed from the hallway outside, accompanied by the hotel manager's overly eager, fawning voice.

The heavy mahogany doors were pulled open from the outside by two waiters who bowed their heads.

Blaire Doyle stepped into the room. She wore a razor-sharp Chanel haute couture suit. Her face was a mask of frost, her posture rigid and perfect.

Daryl stood up. The breath of relief he was about to exhale died in his throat. His muscles locked.

Right behind Blaire walked a man in a bespoke Savile Row suit. Estevan Montgomery. His mixed-heritage features were striking, his chin tilted up in a display of pure arrogance.

Estevan placed his hand on the small of Blaire's back. It was a light touch, but it screamed of territorial claim.

The smile on Marlene's face vanished. Her fingers gripped the armrests of her wheelchair so hard her knuckles turned white.

"Mommy!" Cassie cheered, running toward Blaire.

Blaire looked down. Her eyes were so cold and empty that Cassie stopped dead in her tracks, shrinking back.

Daryl closed the distance in three long strides. He positioned his body firmly between his daughter and his wife. He kept his voice low, his chest tight.

"Why is he here?"

Blaire did not look at Daryl. She stepped around him, walking straight to the dining table. She stared down at the simple fresh cream cake with utter disdain.

She opened her Hermes Birkin bag, pulled out a thick stack of documents, and dropped them onto the porcelain plate next to the cake. The heavy thud rattled the silverware.

The bold black letters on the cover burned into Daryl's retinas. Marriage Dissolution and Asset Division Agreement.

Marlene let out a choked gasp. She pressed her hand hard against her chest, her breathing turning shallow.

Daryl snapped his head toward Blaire. The blood rushed to his ears, a deafening roar. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw clamped so tight his teeth ground together.

"This marriage is a negative asset," Blaire said. Her voice sounded like she was reading a quarterly earnings report. "It is a liability to my entry into high society. We are done."

Estevan let out a dry, mocking chuckle. He lifted his wrist, casually twisting the sapphire cufflink on his sleeve.

"The Doyle family is merging with the Montgomery financial group," Estevan said, his tone dripping with fake pity. "Bottom-feeders like you need to be cleaned out, Daryl. You are a stain."

Daryl's hands dropped to his sides. His fingers curled inward, digging into his palms. The Draconic blood deep within his veins began to boil, sending waves of scorching heat against his skin. His chest expanded as he fought for air.

Cassie burst into tears. The heavy, suffocating tension in the room terrified her. She wrapped her small arms around Daryl's leg and buried her face in his trousers.

Daryl took a ragged breath. He forced the burning heat back down into his core. He could not lose control here. Not in front of his daughter. Not in front of his mother.

He looked at Blaire. The warmth that had lived in his eyes for five years was gone, replaced by a dead, hollow chill.

"Did you have to do this today?" Daryl asked, his voice scraping like sandpaper. "Right now?"

"It is a timely commercial stop-loss," Blaire said, adjusting the cuffs of her Chanel jacket. "Sign it now."

Daryl closed his eyes. The image of the woman he loved shattered into a million pieces. He opened his eyes.

"I will sign," Daryl said. "On one condition."

He took a step forward, his shadow falling over the documents.

"I get absolute custody of Cassie. The Doyle family will never touch her."

Blaire frowned. The tiny crease between her eyebrows made it look as if she had just heard the most absurd business proposal of her life.

"You are unemployed," Blaire stated, her voice devoid of any fluctuation. "You cannot even afford the tuition for a Manhattan private kindergarten."

Daryl reached down and scooped Cassie into his arms. He pressed her head against his shoulder and covered her ears with his large hand. He stared at Blaire, his gaze sharp enough to draw blood.

Estevan stepped out from behind Blaire. He wanted to show who owned the room. He picked up the divorce agreement from the table and flipped it open.

"Let us see," Estevan said, projecting his crisp, aristocratic accent across the room.

He began to read the asset division clauses aloud. The terms were brutal.

"The party of the second part, Daryl Bush, having made zero financial contribution during the marriage, shall leave with zero assets. He is permanently barred from approaching any core properties of the Doyle family."

Marlene began to shake. Her frail body trembled violently in the wheelchair. She pointed a shaking finger at Blaire.

"How can you be so heartless?" Marlene gasped, her voice cracking.

Blaire looked at the wall, avoiding the old woman's eyes.

"My legal team drafted this based on the prenuptial agreement," Blaire said coldly. "It is a legal assessment."

Estevan walked over to Marlene's wheelchair. He leaned down, bringing his face close to hers. A malicious smile twisted his lips.

"It is not just the assets, old woman," Estevan whispered, making sure Daryl could hear. "That little apartment in Queens you live in? The bank is taking it back next week."

The words hit Marlene like a physical blow. Her pupils dilated instantly. Her chest heaved as she tried to suck in air, but nothing came.

Marlene's hands clawed at the fabric over her heart. Her face drained of all color, turning a sickly, ashen gray. A terrible hissing sound rattled in her throat.

Daryl's stomach dropped. He shoved Estevan backward with his free hand and dropped to his knees beside the wheelchair.

Marlene's eyes rolled back. Her body went completely limp, sliding off the leather seat and collapsing into Daryl's arms.

Cassie screamed. The piercing sound shattered the air in the room.

Blaire took a sudden step back. Her high heel caught on the carpet. A flash of genuine panic crossed her face, but her arms remained glued to her sides. She did not move to help.

Daryl laid his mother flat on the floor. He ripped open the collar of her blouse and locked his hands over the center of her chest, beginning rapid compressions.

"Call an ambulance!" Daryl roared over his shoulder, his voice tearing his throat.

Estevan brushed off the sleeve of his suit where Daryl had touched him. He looked down at the scene with utter disgust.

"What a pathetic, lower-class circus," Estevan muttered.

The words hit Daryl's ears. His hands stopped moving for exactly one second.

Daryl slowly lifted his head. Deep within his dark pupils, a terrifying, dark-gold light flared to life.

The temperature in the private dining room plummeted. The air grew heavy, thick, and freezing. Above them, the massive crystal chandelier began to vibrate, emitting a low, eerie hum.

An invisible, crushing pressure exploded from Daryl's body. The Draconic aura surged forward like a tidal wave of pure violence, slamming directly into Estevan.

Estevan's lungs seized. He could not breathe. His knees buckled instantly as a primal terror gripped his spine. It felt as if a prehistoric beast had just wrapped its jaws around his throat.

Estevan stumbled backward in blind panic. His back slammed into the dining table. The impact sent a dozen wine glasses crashing to the floor, shattering into a sea of red liquid and broken glass.

Blaire stared at Estevan in shock. She could not comprehend why he was suddenly acting like a terrified madman.

Daryl's mind teetered on the edge of a bloodbath. But the faint, fading pulse beneath his hands pulled him back.

He forced the dark-gold light out of his eyes. He sucked the terrifying pressure back into his bones and resumed the chest compressions, pushing down hard.

Estevan leaned against the table, gasping for air. Sweat soaked through his custom shirt. He tried to glare at Daryl, masking his inexplicable terror with forced anger.

The heavy doors banged open. Hotel paramedics rushed into the room with a stretcher, breaking the suffocating silence.

Daryl helped the medics lift his mother's lifeless body onto the stretcher. As he stood up, he turned his head and looked at Estevan. It was the look a butcher gives a dead piece of meat.

The red light above the emergency room doors burned like a warning sign.

Daryl sat slumped on the hard plastic chair in the hallway of New York-Presbyterian Hospital. His hands rested on his knees, stained with the dried blood from his mother's cracked lips during the compressions.

Cassie huddled against his chest. She was sobbing quietly, her tiny fists gripping the fabric of his cheap shirt so tightly her knuckles were white.

A chaotic, aggressive march of footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor.

Beatrice Doyle, Blaire's mother, led the charge. She wore an expensive mink shawl draped over her shoulders. Her husband, Preston, and her son, Jaxon, flanked her like bodyguards.

The moment Beatrice saw Daryl, her face twisted in disgust. She pulled a silk handkerchief from her purse and pressed it against her nose, as if the very air around him was contaminated.

Jaxon walked straight up to Daryl and kicked the metal trash can next to the plastic chairs. The loud crash echoed down the hall. Several nurses poked their heads out of nearby rooms, glaring at the noise.

"Nice trick," Jaxon sneered, looking down at Daryl. "Having the old lady fake a heart attack to stall the divorce. Real classy."

Daryl snapped his head up. The pure, unfiltered violence in his eyes hit Jaxon like a physical blow. Jaxon swallowed hard and instinctively took a step back, his shoulders hitting the wall.

Preston stepped forward, puffing out his chest. He adopted the tone of a corporate dictator.

"Do not try to intimidate the heir of the Doyle family with your thuggish behavior," Preston warned sternly. "The Doyle Group rings the bell at the New York Stock Exchange next month. We will not tolerate any negative PR involving a spouse."

Blaire walked down the hallway from the opposite direction. She held a fresh cup of black coffee in her hand. Her face was perfectly composed, the mask of absolute rationality firmly back in place.

Cassie saw her mother. She wriggled out of Daryl's arms and ran toward Blaire, wrapping her arms around Blaire's legs.

"Mommy, please don't let them send Grandma away," Cassie begged, tears streaming down her face.

Blaire looked down at her daughter's wet, pleading face. Her hand trembled. A single drop of hot black coffee spilled over the rim of the cup and landed on the toe of her designer heel.

For a fraction of a second, the Aethelred Method cracked. A sliver of human hesitation showed in her eyes.

Beatrice saw it instantly. She lunged forward, grabbed Cassie by the arm, and roughly shoved the child back toward Daryl.

"Think about the Montgomery family, Blaire," Beatrice hissed sharply. "Think about the billions Estevan brings to the table."

The words acted like a switch. The crack in Blaire's mind sealed shut. Her eyes turned back to stone.

She handed the coffee to her assistant and walked over to Daryl, looking down at him from her high heels.

"The resuscitation fees here are astronomical," Blaire stated, her voice flat. "Without my signature and my insurance, you cannot even afford the deposit for tonight."

Daryl let out a low, dry laugh. He looked at her, his chest rising and falling slowly.

"Are you holding my mother's life hostage to make me sign?"

Preston chimed in from the side. "It is called commercial leverage. Something a bottom-feeder like you will never understand."

The heavy doors of the emergency room pushed open. The attending physician walked out, his face grim, scanning the hallway for family.

"Marlene Bush is stabilized, but she suffered a severe panic-induced cardiac event," the doctor announced. "She needs to be moved to the ICU immediately."

The doctor handed Daryl a long, printed estimate. The total at the bottom was hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Daryl glanced at the numbers, his expression unchanging. He had a supplementary credit card from Blaire in his wallet, but using it meant accepting her twisted charity. More importantly, he possessed his own hidden resources that could buy this entire hospital in a heartbeat. He refused to bend his spine for her manipulative games.

Jaxon whistled loudly. He crossed his arms, a sickening grin on his face, waiting for Daryl to break down and beg.

Daryl did not even look at the paper again. He kept his eyes locked on Blaire. The look he gave her was completely devoid of anger. It was just an endless, freezing void of absolute disappointment.

Daryl stood up. He gently pushed Cassie toward a passing nurse. "Watch her for one minute, please."

He walked right up to Blaire. He stopped so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

Daryl leaned in. His voice was a deadly whisper, meant only for her ears.

"Your commercial empire," Daryl said, the words vibrating in his chest, "is nothing but a pile of trash I can crush whenever I want."

Blaire felt a sharp prick of unease at the absolute dominance in his tone. She quickly pushed the feeling down, convincing herself it was just the pathetic bluff of a desperate man.