Too Late Mr CEO: I Am Gone

The snip of the shears was the only sound in the vast, silent living room.

Eleanore Beaumont trimmed the last white rose, its petals a stark, perfect white against the dark wood of the table. Three years. Three years of arranging these flowers, his favorite.

The front door opened and closed.

Heavy, expensive footsteps echoed on the marble floor. Donovan Sterling's tall frame filled the arched doorway. He wore the same custom suit he'd left in this morning, the dark gray a perfect match for the coldness in his eyes. There was no warmth there. There never was.

He didn't loosen his tie. He never did, not until he was in his study, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

But today was different.

He walked past her, his gaze sweeping over her without seeing her, and stopped at the glass coffee table. A black leather folder landed on the surface with a sharp crack.

Eleanore's hand froze, the shears still poised over a green stem. A tremor started in her fingers, a cold wave washing up her arm. She forced it down.

She lifted her head, her green eyes meeting his. The air in her lungs felt thin, sharp. Three years of waiting, and judgment day had finally arrived.

"Sign it." Donovan's voice was as cold and hard as the metal clasp on the folder. "Our agreement is over."

Her gaze dropped to the folder. The divorce papers. She didn't move to touch them.

"Is it because she's back?" The question was quiet, barely a whisper.

Donovan's brow furrowed, a flicker of annoyance. He hated explanations.

"Chanel is back," he said, his tone clipped. "I don't want her to be wronged."

Wronged. The word was a punch to the gut. Eleanore let out a small, bitter laugh that she quickly swallowed. She set the shears down with deliberate care and stood up.

"Fine. I'll sign."

Her quick agreement seemed to surprise him. She could see it in the slight widening of his eyes; he had expected tears, hysterics. She had none left to give.

She walked to the coffee table, her reflection a pale ghost on its polished surface. She didn't reach for the pen.

"According to the original agreement," she said, her voice steady, "half the market value of the Sterling estate and one percent of Sterling Group stock will be transferred to my name."

A cold sneer touched his lips. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out another, thinner document. "That was the price for an heir, Eleanore. You didn't deliver."

He tossed it on top of the first folder. "This is the new agreement. Ten million dollars. For three years of your time."

The words were a slap. Ten million dollars. An insult. A dismissal. A paltry sum for three years of her life, three years she could have spent building her own empire. A cold fist clenched around her heart, squeezing until she couldn't breathe. But her face remained a calm, placid mask.

She reached for the glass of red wine on the table, the one she poured for him every evening. She raised it to her lips, the rim cold against her skin, then stopped. She put it back down, untouched.

Donovan's eyes tracked the small, defiant movement. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his gaze.

Night fell. Eleanore went back to their bedroom-his bedroom-to pack.

She slipped out of the restrictive dress and stood before the full-length mirror. Her hand moved on its own, a slow, unconscious journey to her flat stomach. She pressed her palm against the silk of her slip, a gesture she'd found herself making more and more these past few weeks. A secret she barely dared to admit even to herself.

The bathroom door slammed open.

Donovan stood there, reeking of alcohol, his tall body blocking the only exit. He loomed over her, a predator in his own home.

"Where do you think you're going?" he growled, grabbing her from behind. His hot breath seared her neck.

Her body went rigid. She tried to pull away. "Donovan, we're getting a divorce."

"You haven't signed the papers," he slurred, his voice a low command. "Legally, you are still my wife."

His hands began to roam, coarse and demanding. A wave of nausea and humiliation washed over her.

"Don't touch me!" The words were torn from her throat, sharp with revulsion.

Her resistance only fueled his anger. He shoved her against the cold marble of the vanity, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. The sound of tearing silk was like a scream.

Tears pricked her eyes, hot and sharp, but she refused to let them fall. She would not give him the satisfaction.

She stopped fighting. Her body went limp, a soulless doll in his arms.

He noticed her surrender, and his movements became rougher, more brutal, a punishment for her earlier defiance.

When it was over, he rose without a word, straightening his disheveled clothes. In an instant, he was the CEO again, untouchable and remote.

"My lawyer, Patrick, will be here in the morning," he said, his voice flat. He turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Eleanore lay on the cold tile floor, the torn fragments of her slip clinging to her skin. She stared up at the ornate crystal chandelier, its light fracturing into a thousand brilliant, meaningless pieces. Her world was dead.

Slowly, she sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. Her shoulders began to shake, silent, wracking sobs that tore through her.

After a long time, she lifted her head. The vulnerability in her eyes was gone. The grief was gone. In its place was something new, something hard and cold and sharp as broken glass.

Hate.

The next morning, Eleanore did not wear the soft, pliant dresses Donovan preferred.

She chose a cream-colored suit, the jacket sharply tailored, the skirt falling to a precise, professional line at her knee. She twisted her long hair into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. She looked less like a discarded wife and more like a corporate negotiator ready for war.

When she entered the study, Donovan and his lawyer, Patrick Sullivan, were already waiting. Patrick, a man whose face was as bland and gray as his suit, let a flicker of surprise show in his eyes before schooling his features back into neutrality.

Eleanore ignored them both. She walked directly to the large mahogany desk and picked up the ten-million-dollar agreement.

She scanned it for a single second before pushing it aside.

She looked directly at Donovan. "I don't accept this price."

Donovan raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his cold eyes. "You're not in a position to bargain, Eleanore."

"Am I not?" She took out her phone, her movements calm and deliberate. She tapped the screen.

Donovan's own voice filled the silent room, captured three years ago. "... as long as you play your part, be Mrs. Sterling until the day I need you to leave, the estate and the stocks are your compensation."

Patrick's professional mask slipped. He shot a nervous glance at his client. This was clearly not part of the official record.

Donovan's face darkened. The air in the room grew heavy, cold. He had forgotten. He had never imagined she would be so calculating.

"Are you threatening me?" His voice was a low growl.

"I'm simply reminding you of your promise, Donovan," Eleanore said, her tone even. "Unless you'd prefer this recording appeared on the front page of tomorrow's paper? I've already thought of a headline. 'Sterling Group CEO Breaks His Word, Throws Out Substitute Wife With Nothing.'"

"You wouldn't dare!" He shot to his feet, his sheer size and anger meant to intimidate.

Eleanore rose as well, meeting his furious gaze without flinching. "Try me. I have nothing left to lose."

The two of them stood locked in a silent battle across the desk. Patrick cleared his throat, a nervous sound in the tense silence. "Mr. Sterling, Mrs. Sterling, perhaps we can find a more amicable solution."

Finally, Donovan gave a stiff, barely perceptible nod. He had lost. He gestured for Patrick to redraft the agreement.

Eleanore stated her final terms. "Fifty million dollars. A single payment. And I want you to personally drive me away from this estate."

Donovan stared at her, his eyes searching her face for a crack in her composure, for the weeping, broken woman he expected. He found nothing.

"Fine," he bit out from between clenched teeth.

Patrick, ever efficient, had the new agreement and a non-disclosure agreement of terrifying length and complexity ready in minutes. Eleanore read every single word. Then, with a flourish, she signed her name. Eleanore Beaumont.

As she turned to leave the study, she heard Donovan's low voice on the phone. He must have thought she was out of earshot.

"Chanel, baby, don't worry... She's just a substitute, it's been handled... No, she won't cause any trouble. The money shut her up."

Her hand was on the doorknob. Her knuckles turned white. She won't cause any trouble. The phrase was a poisoned dart, piercing the last soft part of her heart.

She took a deep breath, released the doorknob, and turned around. A brilliant, cold smile spread across her face.

"Thank you for your generosity, Donovan," she said, her voice sweet as venom. "I wish you and Miss York a long and happy life together."

The smile seemed to bother him. He looked away, a flash of irritation on his face.

Eleanore didn't give him a second glance. She walked out of the study with her head held high.

Her phone buzzed. A wire transfer notification. A one followed by a dizzying number of zeros. Fifty million dollars.

She stared at the number. A stepping stone, not a prize. There was no joy, only a vast, hollow emptiness.

She went to the bedroom and opened the walk-in closet. Racks of designer dresses. Shelves of handbags. Velvet-lined drawers filled with jewels. Gifts from him. She didn't touch a single one.

She packed her own things into a single, small suitcase.

As she pulled the suitcase out of the bedroom, she knew. From this moment on, she had no connection to this place. She was free.

Donovan leaned against the side of his Bentley, his face a thundercloud as Eleanore walked out of the grand entrance of the Sterling estate, pulling a small suitcase behind her.

"Is that all?" he asked, his voice laced with scorn as he looked at the single, modest bag.

"I don't take what isn't mine," Eleanore replied calmly, placing the suitcase in the trunk herself.

The drive was silent, the air inside the luxury car thick with unspoken resentment. He pulled up in front of a plain, three-story apartment building, a world away from the manicured lawns of the Sterling estate. This was where she had lived before him.

Eleanore got out, retrieved her luggage, and walked away without a word of goodbye.

Donovan watched her go, her back straight and unyielding. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the horn blaring in the quiet street.

He drove back to the mansion. It was empty. The scent of white roses, a scent he had always taken for granted, was gone. The house felt sterile, lifeless.

The housekeeper, Maria, informed him that Miss Chanel York had paid a visit earlier that morning while he was at the office.

"Miss York spoke with the madam in the living room," Maria reported, her eyes downcast. "The madam had her bags packed by the time you returned."

Donovan understood immediately. The $50 million settlement wasn't just a cold calculation; Chanel's visit had been the final straw that pushed Eleanore to demand the exit. He tried calling Chanel, but the call went straight to voicemail.

Meanwhile, in Eleanore's small apartment, her best friend Skylar White held her tight.

"You're right to leave that bastard!" Skylar fumed, her voice full of righteous anger. "You deserve so much better! Come on, I'm taking you out. We are not sitting here and moping."

Skylar dragged Eleanore to The Crimson Key, a new, painfully chic lounge downtown. The lights were low, the music a throbbing pulse. Skylar ordered them the strongest cocktails on the menu.

Eleanore barely sipped hers, her eyes vacant as she stared at the dance floor.

"Stop thinking about him," Skylar said, nudging her. "Look around. This place is full of hot young guys."

As if on cue, a figure appeared at the entrance that made Eleanore's stomach clench. Chanel York, a vision in a stunning red dress, clinging to the arm of a powerful film producer. She was holding court, a circle of admirers hanging on her every word.

Chanel spotted her. A flicker of triumph crossed her face. She deliberately steered her group towards their table.

"Well, well, if it isn't Mrs. Sterling," Chanel said, her voice dripping with mock surprise, just loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

She put a hand to her mouth in a parody of shock. "Oh, that's right. I forgot. You were kicked out."

Skylar started to rise, ready to fight, but Eleanore placed a restraining hand on her arm.

Eleanore stood up. She was shorter than Chanel in her heels, but somehow, she seemed to tower over her.

She picked up her drink, her eyes locking with Chanel's. A slow, cold smile touched her lips.

"You have a terrible memory, Miss York," Eleanore said, her voice smooth as silk. "But that's understandable. After all, you're just picking up my leftovers."

The words hung in the air, sharp and deadly. Chanel's smile froze on her face.

The people around them went silent, their eyes darting between the two women.

Chanel's face went from red to white. "What... what did you say?"

"I said," Eleanore took a step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper only Chanel could hear, "does he still like it from behind?"

The color drained completely from Chanel's face. She looked as if she'd been struck.

At that exact moment, a cold, furious voice sliced through the air from behind them.

"Eleanore!"

It was Donovan.