Too Late For Regret: Watch Me Shine

The brass elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Fiona stepped out into the dimly lit corridor of the Manhattan private club, the vintage wall sconces casting long, distorted shadows across the heavy wallpaper. She gripped the velvet gift box in her right hand, her fingers cramping from holding it too tight during the ride up.

She looked down, using her free hand to smooth the silk of her skirt. She forced her lungs to take in a slow, deep breath, trying to push down the exhaustion that had settled in her chest from staying up three nights straight to finish his gift.

Her stilettos sank into the thick Persian carpet with each step. The dense physical material swallowed the sound of her footsteps completely, allowing her to approach in absolute silence.

At the far end of the hallway, the heavy mahogany door to the VIP suite stood slightly ajar. A gap of yellow light spilled out onto the floor, accompanied by the thumping bass of the music and the overlapping hum of male voices.

Fiona slowed her pace. A small, genuine smile touched the corners of her lips as she imagined the look on Kevon's face when he opened the box and saw the antique watch she had tracked down for months. She adjusted her grip on the velvet box, her thumb stroking the soft fabric.

She reached the door, her hand extending toward the brass handle. Before her fingers made contact, the music inside the suite abruptly cut out. The sudden silence was deafening, and the void of sound made the voices inside shockingly clear.

"Seriously, man," Preston's voice drifted through the crack, carrying the lazy tone of someone half-drunk. "When are you actually going to tie the knot with Fiona? The society pages are getting impatient."

Fiona's hand froze an inch from the brass. Her breath hitched in her throat. She waited, her pulse suddenly pounding in her ears, desperate to hear the reassurance she had been fed for three years.

A cold, dismissive scoff echoed from inside. The sound was painfully familiar. It was Kevon.

"Marriage?" Kevon's voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. "It's just a necessary transaction. The Baxter family needs a presentable, obedient PR billboard, and she fits the description. For now."

Fiona's heart seized in her chest. It felt like a physical clamp had been tightened around her ribs, stopping the blood flow. Her fingers turned to ice, hovering uselessly in the air. Her mind went completely blank, wiped clean of the fantasy she had constructed.

"Come on," Preston pressed, his tone shifting to something more serious. "She's poured everything into your career, Kev. She even signed over the patent rights to the 'Starlight' series. That was worth millions."

Kevon cut him off with an irritated click of his tongue. "That was the price of admission. She's a nobody from Brooklyn who wanted to latch onto a top-tier family. Handing over those patents was the least she could do for the privilege of wearing my name."

A violent spasm clenched Fiona's stomach. Acid burned the back of her throat. She staggered sideways, her shoulder hitting the cold, hard wall of the corridor. The plaster was rough against her bare arm, the only thing keeping her upright as her knees threatened to buckle.

Another voice chimed in-Lachlan, sounding amused. "Speaking of privileges... what about Kayla? You've been keeping her pretty well hidden away."

At the sound of Kayla's name, Fiona's pupils dilated. A rapid-fire montage played behind her eyes: the canceled dinners, the unreturned calls, the weekends Kevon spent claiming to be out of town while she sat alone in the penthouse.

Kevon's tone underwent an instant transformation. The coldness vanished, replaced by a soft, protective warmth that made Fiona's skin crawl. "Kayla is different. She's the only woman I've ever actually wanted to marry. She's real."

"Real?" Lachlan laughed. "Fiona is standing right by your side at every gala."

"Fiona is arrogant and controlling," Kevon snapped, the warmth evaporating back into disdain. "Every time I look at her, I see the reason Kayla suffered so much back then. She suffocates me."

The words struck Fiona like a physical blow to the sternum. She gasped, her lungs refusing to expand. A sharp, stinging pressure built up behind her eyes, threatening to spill over.

She lowered her gaze to the velvet box in her hand. She had spent three months negotiating with a collector in Geneva for this watch. She had customized the engraving. She had thought it was a symbol of their future. Now, it just looked like a pathetic offering to a god that didn't exist.

From the far end of the corridor came the soft, distant chime of the elevator arriving. Fiona snapped upright. She blinked rapidly, forcing the moisture back into her tear ducts. She smoothed her expression, erasing every trace of vulnerability. When she looked up, her face was a mask of cold, unyielding stone. The sound had been a necessary jolt-a reminder that she could not stand here forever, hiding in the shadows like a ghost.

She turned back to the crack in the mahogany door. The burning in her chest had been extinguished, replaced by a freezing, absolute clarity. The grief was gone. In its place was a sharp, biting fury. Three years. Three years of her life, her talent, her resources, drained to feed an ungrateful parasite.

She looked at the velvet box. She didn't hesitate. She turned to the antique porcelain vase sitting on the console table beside the door. She shoved the box deep into the mouth of the vase, pushing it down until it disappeared into the dry decorative branches. It hit the bottom with a dull, satisfying thud.

She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone. Her thumb moved swiftly across the screen, navigating to Kevon's contact. She tapped the settings, selecting "None" for his ringtone, and then blocked his notifications entirely.

Fiona drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold, recycled air of the corridor. She straightened her spine, her shoulders pulling back. There was no hesitation in her stance now.

She didn't turn around to leave. She reached out, her fingers wrapping around the cold brass handle. She pushed the door with all her strength, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a thunderous crash.

The crash of the mahogany door against the wall echoed through the VIP suite, instantly drowning out the murmurs. Every head in the room snapped toward the entrance.

Fiona crossed the threshold, her face a picture of icy composure. The harsh spotlights from the suite's ceiling beat down on her, highlighting the sharp angles of her jaw and the absolute void of emotion in her eyes.

Kevon jumped in his leather seat. The crystal tumbler in his hand jerked, sending a splash of amber whiskey splashing onto the thigh of his tailored trousers. His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his features before he could mask it.

Beside him, Preston shifted awkwardly on the sofa. He cleared his throat, his body angling to block the small cake box on the table behind him-a box with "Kayla" written in elegant script on the ribbon.

Fiona ignored Preston's clumsy attempt at concealment. She walked straight toward the seating area, her heels striking the exposed wooden floor around the carpet with a sharp, rhythmic click. Click. Click. Click.

Kevon recovered quickly, his features rearranging into his usual expression of arrogant disdain. He straightened his tie-a nervous habit he thought made him look authoritative. "What the hell are you doing here? Don't you know how to knock?"

Fiona stopped two feet in front of him. She looked down at him, her gaze so devoid of warmth that it felt like a physical chill. She didn't answer his question.

"A presentable, obedient PR billboard," she repeated, her voice perfectly level, echoing his exact words back at him.

The temperature in the suite seemed to drop ten degrees. Lachlan and the other men exchanged uneasy glances, slowly setting their drinks down on the glass table, trying to make themselves as small as possible.

Kevon's face flushed a deep, mottled red. He scrambled to his feet, using his height to try and loom over her. "You were eavesdropping? Are you stalking me now?"

"It doesn't take a stalker to hear you when you're shouting your business to the whole room," Fiona said, her tone laced with a venomous calm. "You talk about me like I'm a burden, yet you've had no problem spending the money my designs brought in."

"You suffocate me!" Kevon roared, his pride stung by her lack of tears. "You're always hovering, always trying to control every aspect of my life. You drove me to this. If you weren't so cold, maybe I wouldn't need someone like Kayla to remind me what warmth is."

Fiona let out a short, harsh laugh. It was a sound completely devoid of humor. "That's a neat trick. You cheat, and somehow it's my fault because I'm too cold. You're pathetic."

Kevon's hands balled into fists at his sides. He was losing face in front of his friends, and that was the one thing he couldn't stand. He leaned in, his eyes narrowing. "You want to talk about being pathetic? Let's talk about that night in Brooklyn."

Fiona's expression didn't change, but a muscle in her jaw twitched.

"You ran," Kevon spat, his voice rising. "When that guy pulled a knife, you ran like a coward. Kayla stepped in front of you. She took that blade for you. And what did you do? You went crying to the family, trying to ruin her reputation out of pure jealousy."

The memory flashed behind Fiona's eyes-the dark alley, the glint of steel, Kayla's sudden smirk before the knife appeared. The cold, hard truth of that night was a stark contrast to the fairy tale Kevon had constructed.

"Kayla didn't step in front of me," Fiona said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "She led me into that blind spot. There were no cameras, Kevon. She set it up."

"Liar!" Kevon shouted, his face contorting with rage. He waved his arm dismissively. "I saw the scar on her arm! I saw her tears! You're just trying to smear her because you know you can't compete with a genuinely good person."

Preston stood up, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Guys, come on. It's your birthday, Kev. Let's not drag up ancient history. Have a drink."

Fiona turned her head slowly to look at Preston. The sheer force of her glare made him take an involuntary step backward, his hands dropping to his sides.

She looked back at Kevon. The anger was still there, but it was rapidly being replaced by a profound sense of exhaustion. Looking at him, at his blind, arrogant certainty, she realized that arguing with him was like trying to explain color to someone born blind. He didn't want the truth; he wanted his victim narrative.

Kevon misread her silence. A smug smile crept back onto his face. "Look, I get it. You're upset. But I'm willing to be the bigger person. Apologize to Kayla, and we can put this behind us. The wedding is still on."

He paused, letting the words sink in before delivering the final insult. "She can stay on as my personal assistant. You'll just have to learn to share the space. It's a generous offer."

Fiona's stomach roiled. The nausea was physical, a wave of revulsion that washed over her. She stared at him, this man she had almost married, and felt nothing but disgust.

She reached into her clutch and pulled out the heavy, metal black credit card she used for Baxter family expenses. She held it between her index and middle finger, her arm drawn back.

With a sharp, whipping motion, she flicked her wrist. The black card flew through the air, its solid metal edge catching the light before it struck Kevon square across the cheek.

A sharp crack echoed in the room, and a vivid red welt immediately bloomed on his skin. The card clattered to the floor, landing face-up on the expensive rug.

Kevon clutched his face, his eyes wide with shock. He stared at her as if she had suddenly grown a second head.

Fiona lifted her chin, looking down her nose at him with absolute authority. "The game is over, Kevon. I quit."

She didn't wait for a response. She pivoted on her heel, her posture rigid, and walked toward the door, leaving the silence of the room to swallow the sound of her departure.

Fiona's heels clicked against the floor as she headed for the exit. She didn't look back. She didn't need to.

Behind her, the shock wore off. Kevon hissed in a breath, the stinging pain on his cheek fueling a rage that snapped his last shred of control.

The sound of glass shattering exploded behind her. Kevon had kicked the coffee table, sending crystal decanters and ashtrays crashing to the floor.

"Who do you think you are?" he bellowed.

Heavy, rapid footsteps pounded on the wood floor. Kevon was charging toward her.

Fiona didn't break her stride. She sensed the movement, her body reacting before her mind could process the threat. As Kevon's hand reached out to grab her shoulder, she shifted her weight to her left foot and spun sideways.

Kevon's fingers closed on empty air. His momentum carried him forward, and he stumbled, looking clumsy and foolish.

Fiona turned to face him, her eyes sharp enough to cut glass. "Touch me," she said, her voice low and lethal, "and the headline tomorrow will be about the Baxter heir's assault charge. I guarantee it."

Kevon froze, his hand still hovering in the air. The fury in his eyes warred with the instinct for self-preservation. He slowly lowered his arm, but his jaw was clenched tight.

"You're nothing without me," he sneered, trying to regain his footing. "Without Baxter money backing you, your little jewelry line is worthless. Those designs are just scrap metal."

Fiona tilted her head, a mocking smile playing on her lips. "You have a famous last name, Kevon. That's it. Without it, you're just a mediocre trust fund baby who can't even run a charity division without his daddy's help."

She took a step closer, forcing him to look her in the eye. "The position of the future Mrs. Baxter? Whoever wants it can have it. I find it dirty."

The insult struck home. Kevon's face turned purple. "You'll be back," he snarled, his voice trembling with rage. "You'll come crawling back when you realize no one else will put up with your ego. This is just some manipulative game to get my attention."

Fiona looked at him-really looked at him. She saw the petty, spoiled boy who had never been told 'no' in his life. She felt no desire to defend herself or to prove him wrong. He was a closed book, and she was done trying to read him.

She turned away. This time, she didn't pause. She stepped through the doorway and grabbed the edge of the heavy door. With a forceful pull, she slammed it shut. The sound was a solid, final boom that sealed his raging screams inside.

The corridor was dead quiet. Fiona leaned against the wall for a second, taking a long, shuddering breath. The air outside the suite felt cooler, cleaner.

She pushed off the wall and walked briskly to the elevator. As she walked, she pulled her phone from her clutch. Her thumbs flew across the screen. She didn't just block his number; she went into every social media app, every messaging platform, and severed the digital cord. Block. Block. Block.

The elevator dinged open. She stepped inside and watched the stainless-steel doors slide shut. In the distorted reflection, her face was pale, but her eyes were hard and unyielding.

The elevator deposited her in the opulent lobby. The club manager, a man with a practiced smile, saw her walking alone and moved to intercept her. "Miss Paul, is everything alright? Can I arrange a car for-"

Fiona raised a hand, a simple, sharp gesture that stopped him in his tracks. The manager swallowed his words and stepped back, recognizing the look of a woman who would not be trifled with.

She pushed through the revolving glass doors. The New York winter hit her immediately. The wind off the avenue was biting, carrying fat, wet snowflakes that stung her cheeks. The cold was a shock to her system, but it felt good. It felt real.

A valet rushed over, his breath pluming in the frigid air. "Miss Paul! Should I bring Mr. Baxter's car around?"

"No," Fiona said flatly. She walked past him, stepping off the carpet and onto the slush-covered curb. She raised her arm, flagging down a passing yellow taxi.

The cab screeched to a halt. She yanked the door open and slid into the backseat, the vinyl cold against her legs. "Manhattan, West 54th Street," she said, giving the address of the apartment she had bought before she ever met Kevon.

The taxi merged into the traffic on Fifth Avenue. Fiona turned her head to look out the window. The neon signs of the city blurred into streaks of light. For the first time in three years, the tightness in her chest loosened. She felt light.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Zara, her best friend and lawyer, lit up the screen. "How did the surprise go? Is he crying tears of joy?"

Fiona stared at the words. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she typed back: "The surprise was a success. I'm single."

The response was instantaneous. Her phone rang, Zara's name flashing on the screen. Fiona answered, holding the phone to her ear.

"What do you mean you're single?" Zara's voice was a mix of a scream and a whisper. "Fiona, what happened?"

"I walked in on him bragging about how I'm just a PR billboard," Fiona said, leaning her head against the cold glass of the taxi window. She recounted the events with the detachment of a surgeon describing an operation. "He thinks Kayla is a saint. He thinks I'm going to crawl back."

"That son of a bitch," Zara hissed. The sound of rustling papers came through the speaker. "I'm switching to work mode. Do you want me to start the termination process for the endorsements?"

Fiona watched her own reflection in the window. The woman staring back at her looked tired, but her eyes were those of a predator. "Draft the papers to terminate all commercial backing. Every single one. Do it now."

"Consider it done," Zara said, her tone grim and professional. "I'll have the initial docs in your inbox within the hour."

The line went dead. Fiona dropped the phone into her lap and watched the city fly by. The war had just begun.