Too Late For Regret: The Genius Heiress

Frieda Scott stepped out of the Maybach into the biting, sleet-heavy Manhattan rain.

The freezing November gale whipped through her wool coat, pressing the wet fabric against her swollen, agonizingly heavy stomach. Her body felt entirely alien, ravaged by eighteen months of high-dose hormone injections and late-stage pregnancy. Every step sent sharp pain radiating through her spine, yet her swollen fingers remained locked around the thermal flask. Inside was chicken broth she had simmered for four hours over a low flame to soothe his husband-Kenneth's chronic ulcer. Despite five years of neglect, the habit of caring for him still dictated her movements.

She climbed the stairs of the St. Regis private club.

"Private event tonight, ma'am. Members only," the young doorman snapped, blocking her. His gaze flicked over her unpowdered face, swollen ankles, and shapeless coat with undisguised disgust.

Frieda didn't waste her breath.

She raised her left hand. Under the crystal chandelier, the seven-carat pigeon-blood ruby ring-the heirloom bestowed only upon the official mistress of the Sharp dynasty-flared with sharp brilliance.

The doorman blanched. He stepped back instantly, bowing low. "My apologies, Mrs. Sharp. Please go right in."

Frieda stepped onto the plush crimson carpet. The scent of aged leather and Cuban tobacco filled the air. Down the hall, the carved mahogany doors of the VIP lounge were cracked open an inch.

Through the gap, she saw him. Kenneth Sharp sat on the Chesterfield sofa, long legs crossed, radiating the cold, untouchable supremacy of an empire's king.

Tucked into his side was Clarabelle Schroeder, delicate in silk.

Clarabelle giggled, peeling a green grape and holding it to Kenneth's lips. Kenneth leaned down and took the fruit between his teeth, his gray eyes softening with an indulgent tenderness Frieda had never seen in five years of marriage.

A guest chuckled from an armchair. "Kenneth, keeping Clarabelle tucked away like this... isn't that plain, frumpy wife of yours going to throw a tantrum?"

Kenneth tapped the ash from his cigar. His voice cut through the air, icy and flat: "Her? She's an expensive surrogate who traded her dignity for a check. She knows her place. She wouldn't dare make a sound."

The words hit Frieda like a physical blow.

Her balance slipped on the slick parquet. Her hip bumped against a brass pedestal, rattling an antique bronze vase with a loud clatter.

The laughter inside cut off instantly.

"Who's out there?" Kenneth barked.

Frieda pushed the doors open.

A dozen Wall Street elites turned toward her, their eyes sweeping over her puffy face and wet coat with cruel amusement.

Kenneth's gaze locked onto her, the lingering warmth vanishing behind a wall of frost. "What are you doing here? Haven't you embarrassed me enough at home?"

Clarabelle gasped with practiced terror, eyes welling with tears. "Frieda... don't misunderstand. Kenneth was just keeping me company because my wrists flared up..."

Frieda kept her spine rigid against a dull uterine cramp. "Your ulcer flared up this morning. I brought soup."

Kenneth let out a mocking laugh, not sparing the flask a glance. "Gavin, get her out of here. She's ruining the room."

Gavin Hayes stepped forward with an extended hand. "Mrs. Sharp, please leave."

Frieda watched Kenneth pull Clarabelle close to soothe her. Five years of silent sacrifice broke without a whimper. She set the soup container on the console table and met Kenneth's icy stare directly.

"Closure is all I owe the past," she said, her voice dropping into a lethal, dead calm. "Enjoy your evening."

She walked out into the freezing rain.

A violent contraction ripped through her lower abdomen. She gasped, leaning against a stone pillar, and called the Sharp family chauffeur.

The automated voice clicked in: "The line is busy."

Right then, the Sharp family's black Rolls-Royce glided out of the garage. The driver hopped out with an umbrella, bowing low as he escorted Clarabelle into the heated interior. Neither spared a single glance for the pregnant woman shivering in the sleet ten yards away.

Frieda flagged down a yellow cab. "Long Island. The Sharp estate."

At the estate, head housekeeper Martha Kowalski stood at the stairs with crossed arms. "Madam, Mr. Sharp ordered that you sleep in the ground-floor guest room tonight. The damp air you bring in ruins the house."

Frieda clutched her aching belly. "Move. Call the family doctor right now. I'm having contractions."

Martha rolled her eyes. "The doctor was sent an hour ago to attend to Miss Schroeder's migraine. Stop using the pregnancy to beg for attention."

Frieda didn't argue. She forced herself up the stairs step by agonizing step, swallowed two fetal-protection tablets dry, and sat before the mirror.

She opened her encrypted phone. A Stanford quantitative finance PhD offer sat in her inbox.

She replied without hesitation: "Karson, I accept. I will settle my affairs in New York as quickly as possible."

"Kenneth Sharp," she whispered. "We're done."

A sudden, violent hammering shook her bedroom door.

Frieda locked her screen and slid the encrypted phone into her robe.

The dull contractions in her abdomen began to ease as the medication took effect. She walked to the heavy door. "Who is it?"

"Madam," Martha's impatient voice came through the panel. "Mr. Winston Sharp is on the London video line. The family office demands you report to the study immediately to submit the fetal growth markers."

Frieda did not touch the handle. "Inform my grandfather-in-law that I am unwell and have gone to sleep. I will speak with him in the morning."

"The Sharp family rules do not bend for your convenience, Madam," Martha scoffed, rattling the brass knob. "If Mr. Winston suspects you are neglecting the heir-"

Frieda yanked the door open with sudden force.

Martha stumbled forward, her sneer freezing.

Frieda stood tall, her amber eyes cutting like scalpels. "If you want Winston to know that Kenneth left his pregnant wife stranded in a freezing downpour tonight to drink with another woman, you are welcome to keep banging on this door."

The absolute authority in Frieda's voice sucked the air from the hall. Martha blanched, took an involuntary step back, and scurried down the stairs in silence.

Frieda locked the door.

At eight the next morning, Frieda washed the exhaustion from her face and pulled on a sharply tailored black wool coat. She unclasped the ruby heirloom ring, left it beside her plain wedding band on the vanity, and slipped out through the estate's rear garden gate.

By nine, she pushed open the door of a quiet coffee shop in Lower Manhattan.

In a corner booth, Karson Jackson looked up from his Wall Street Journal. At the sight of Frieda's pale face, sorrow crossed his features, quickly smoothed over by aristocratic restraint.

Frieda slid into the booth. "Hot water with lemon, please."

Karson retrieved an embossed manila dossier bearing the Stanford University crest. "Welcome back, Evelynn," he said softly. "Your official doctoral matriculation package."

Frieda picked up the thick envelope, tracing the crest. "Thank you, Karson. If you hadn't kept my deferred slot open with the dean, I would have rotted away in that house."

Karson removed his gold-rimmed glasses with a sigh. "You were the sharpest quantitative risk modeler Columbia had seen in half a century. The Sharp family's drawing rooms were never big enough for your mind."

Frieda reviewed the terms. She had roughly three months before delivery, and the legal knot with Kenneth was still tight.

"Kenneth requires a legitimate female heir to unlock the multi-billion-dollar discretionary trust Winston established," Frieda noted, her tone cold. "Until that child is born, his attorneys will not release me."

"Do you want Jackson Capital's legal division to intervene?"

"No," Frieda replied with a faint smirk. "This is my war. But before I leave for California, I need an operational cover in New York to restructure my personal liquidity."

Respect flared in Karson's eyes. He slid a matte-gold business card across the table.

"R&E Capital, New York branch," Karson said. "Senior Executive Assistant to the Managing Director. Unrestricted terminal access, Bloomberg feeds, and your compensation will be paid directly into an offshore blind trust."

"Deal." Frieda slipped the card into her purse.

They spent the next forty minutes structuring capital transfers in the high-frequency trading shorthand they had shared at Columbia.

When she left, Karson held her coat with quiet respect.

Neither noticed the black Range Rover parked fifty yards away, its telephoto lens clicking silently through tinted glass.

By noon, Frieda returned to the Long Island estate.

The atmosphere in the grand foyer was suffocatingly heavy. Kenneth sat on the Italian sofa, legs crossed, radiating pure violence.

At the sound of the door, his slate-gray eyes pinned her. "Where were you?"

Frieda slipped off her flat shoes. "Walking in Central Park for delivery prep."

Kenneth let out a harsh laugh. He snatched a thick stack of glossy photographs and slammed them onto the marble floor.

The pictures scattered, showing Frieda and Karson sitting close together in the sunlit cafe.

Kenneth rose, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over her. "You walk all the way to the private table of the Jackson Capital heir? Frieda, have you forgotten whose name is on your marriage certificate?"

Frieda looked at the photos with complete indifference. "We discussed quantitative models. If you believe this damages the Sharp name, call your legal team and draft the divorce settlement right now."

Kenneth's pupils contracted.

In five years, Frieda had never once spoken the word divorce. The sudden, absolute detachment hit him like a physical blow.

He lunged forward, his hand clamping around her wrist like iron, yanking her hard against his chest. "You think playing hard to get is going to make me care about you?"

Frieda twisted her arm with calculated leverage, breaking his grip with unexpected force. A red mark bloomed on her pale skin.

She met his glare with cold pity. "Kenneth, you flatter yourself."

She turned toward the stairs. Kenneth stood frozen, an inexplicable panic clenching his gut.

Just as Frieda reached the landing, the credenza telephone shrieked.

Martha snatched the receiver. Seconds later, her face turned paper-white.

"Mr. Sharp..." Martha gasped. "It's the hospital... Miss Schroeder was just pushed down the grand staircase at Carnegie Hall!"

The air in the grand foyer turned instantly to ice.

Kenneth didn't ask a single question. He whipped his head toward the stairs, his eyes locking onto Frieda with pure venom.

"If anything happens to Clarabelle," Kenneth snarled, his voice trembling with unchecked fury as he strode toward the doors, "I will make sure the bastard in your stomach pays for it in full."

The oak front door slammed shut with a concussive boom that rattled the chandelier. Outside, the Maybach's engine roared and tore down the private driveway.

Frieda stood on the landing, her hand resting over her belly. A slow, mocking smile touched her lips.

Kenneth did not return that night.

Frieda spent the evening in her suite, methodically backing up her university quantitative algorithms onto an encrypted drive, completely indifferent to the storm raging across town.

By three the following afternoon, a black Lincoln bearing the Sharp family corporate seal pulled up the driveway. Kenneth stepped out, flanked by Alek Vance, the chief family trust attorney.

Martha hurried upstairs to fetch Frieda, her face glowing with malicious delight. "Madam, Mr. Sharp and the family counsel are waiting below. Time to settle yesterday's accounts."

Frieda smoothed down her gray cashmere sweater and walked down the grand staircase.

Kenneth sat in the master armchair. Dark shadows circled his bloodshot eyes and his silk tie was loosened-clear evidence of an all-night vigil at Clarabelle's bedside.

Alek slid a heavy, blue-bound legal folio across the coffee table toward the empty sofa. "Mrs. Scott, these are the supplemental postnuptial dissolution terms drafted by Mr. Sharp."

Kenneth lit a cigar, blowing thick smoke into the space between them. "Clarabelle was traumatized by your little stunt yesterday. I don't have time to indulge your pathetic jealousy anymore. Deliver the child, take the trust payout, and get the hell out of my life."

Frieda sat down and picked up the thick document. Her eyes scanned the clauses with practiced speed.

The terms were brutal: Upon delivering a healthy female heir carrying the Sharp bloodline, Frieda would receive a two-hundred-million-dollar irrevocable trust fund. In exchange, she would walk away with zero claims on marital assets, sign a lifetime non-disclosure agreement, and permanently forfeit all legal custody and visitation rights.

Permanent forfeiture of all visitation.

Frieda drew in a slow, deep breath, burying the sharp pang deep inside her ribs.

Kenneth leaned back, taking her silence for hesitation. "What, not enough money for you? That's more capital than your bankrupt family could make in three lifetimes. Sign it. It's the best deal you'll ever get."

Martha snickered behind the sofa, whispering, "As if a woman looking like that could ever hope to keep the mistress title anyway."

Frieda set the document flat on the glass table.

She did not cry. She unscrewed the cap of the Montblanc fountain pen.

With a smooth, fluid stroke, Frieda signed her full legal name across the execution line.

No hesitation. No trembling.

Alek blinked in shock. Kenneth's smug sneer froze entirely, his cigar lingering motionless halfway to his lips.

Frieda capped the pen with a crisp click and slid the document back across the table. She met Kenneth's eyes, her amber gaze crystal-clear. "As you wish, Kenneth. The moment the baby is delivered, we meet at Manhattan Family Court to finalize the decree."

Kenneth stared at the bold, sweeping signature.

His chest tightened with a strange, suffocating pressure. He had prepared for tears, for begging, for her to rip the paper in half. He had never prepared for her to sign away her life with him as if approving a routine utility bill.

The sudden loss of control made his blood boil. He crushed his cigar out in the ashtray with violent force. "You'd better keep that attitude! Don't come crawling back on your knees when the time comes!"

"Don't worry," Frieda said smoothly. "I look forward to that day far more than you do."

Before Kenneth could speak, the double doors of the foyer swung open.

Beatrice Sharp, the formidable matriarch of the Sharp family's second generation and Kenneth's mother, swept into the room flanked by three security guards.

Dressed in a pristine Chanel suit, Beatrice slammed the document hard against Kenneth's chest. "Kenneth! Have you lost your mind? Winston's condition in London has barely stabilized! If Wall Street gets wind of a high-profile divorce right before earnings, our stock will plummet! Are you trying to make this family a laughingstock?"

Kenneth's jaw clenched. "Grandmother, this is my private matter. The market won't know."

"You think the board members are blind?" Beatrice snapped. "Until that child turns one year old, there will be no divorce. You two will play the devoted couple in public, or I will call an emergency shareholder vote myself."

Beatrice turned to Frieda. There was no warmth in her eyes, only the clinical assessment of a valuable breeding asset. She unclasped a heavy Colombian emerald bracelet from her wrist and shoved it into Frieda's lap.

"This is your advance reward for carrying the heiress. Keep your head down, nourish the baby, and don't embarrass the family name."

Frieda bowed her head with submissive obedience. "Thank you, Grandmother."

Beatrice turned back to her grandson. "Ship that little piano player of yours to Europe immediately. She is banned from New York for six months. If you don't have the discipline to handle her, I will."

Kenneth's face darkened to iron, but he remained silent under the elder's authority.

Once Beatrice swept out, the room fell into heavy silence. Kenneth stepped toward Frieda, roughly pinching her chin. "You think you're safe just because my grandmotherstepped in?"

Frieda met his gaze with absolute detachment. "I only care about when this baby arrives, and when that trust fund clears."

Kenneth felt as though he had struck solid ice. He shoved her face away in disgust.

Before he could speak, Gavin burst through the front door, panting and pale.

"Mr. Sharp! Come quickly!" Gavin shouted. "Miss Schroeder... she just slit her wrists in the hospital bathroom!"