Too Late, Billionaire: Watch Me Leave

The heavy glass door of the Upper East Side clinic pushed back against Ciara, a blast of early winter wind fighting her exit. She instinctively wrapped an arm around her flat stomach, a protective gesture that was already becoming second nature.

A nurse with a kind, tired smile handed her a sealed manila envelope. Her eyes held a flicker of envy that Ciara had seen in a thousand other women since she'd married Jordon Webb.

Ciara's fingers trembled as she took it.

She found an empty sofa in a quiet corner of the waiting room, the plush velvet doing nothing to soothe the frantic thrumming beneath her ribs. The seal of the envelope resisted for a moment before tearing. She pulled out the single sheet of paper, the scent of fresh ink filling her senses.

Her eyes scanned past the medical jargon, locking onto two words: Positive. And below that, Estimated Gestational Age: 6 weeks.

A sharp, sudden intake of breath. Her heart didn't leap; it contracted, a painful, powerful squeeze that stole the air from her lungs. A wave of heat rushed to her face, blurring the crisp black letters.

Her phone vibrated in her coat pocket. A message from Paige. Well? Don't leave me hanging.

Ciara's thumb moved over the screen, typing a single word. Pregnant. A smile, real and unforced, finally touched her lips.

Stepping out of the clinic's warmth, a cold Manhattan rain began to fall. The doorman rushed forward with an umbrella, but she waved him off, refusing the bodyguard's offered arm as she pulled open the door to the waiting black car herself.

The silence inside the Maybach was absolute. She traced the outline of the massive diamond on her ring finger, a cold, heavy weight that was supposed to signify a union. Tonight, she would break the protocol. Tonight, she would tell Jordon.

The car slipped into the private garage of their Fifth Avenue penthouse. She took a deep, steadying breath, trying to slow a heart that was beating far too fast.

She stepped into the private elevator, the scent of Jordon's expensive, sterile world enveloping her. The fingerprint scanner glowed green, and the elevator began its silent, rapid ascent. The feeling of weightlessness made her stomach churn.

The doors slid open to darkness. The apartment was a cavern of shadows and silence, the only light coming from the sprawling city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She slipped off her damp trench coat, hanging it with care. She walked toward the open-plan kitchen, a sudden idea taking root. A surprise. She would make his favorite-truffle pasta.

She pulled the ingredients from the cavernous Sub-Zero refrigerator. The sharp, clean sound of the knife hitting the cutting board echoed in the quiet. Her movements were light, hopeful.

The pasta had just hit the boiling water when a heavy thud came from the foyer. The electronic chime of the fingerprint lock sounded, followed by the heavy click of the door.

Ciara immediately turned off the stove, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wiped her hands on a towel and walked quickly toward the living room.

Jordon stood in the entryway, bringing a gust of cold air with him. His tall frame cast a long, imposing shadow that stretched across the marble floor.

He loosened his silk tie, tossing the expensive fabric onto a sterile-looking sofa. His brow was furrowed, his blue eyes clouded with a weariness that went bone-deep.

"Jordon," she said softly, stepping forward with a glass of water. She tried to break through the corporate armor he wore even at home.

He took the glass, his fingers brushing against hers. His skin was ice-cold. The brief contact sent a shiver through her.

"Thanks," he murmured, his voice low and rough. He turned away, heading for the wet bar to pour himself a whiskey. The gesture was a wall, built brick by brick between them.

Ciara bit her lip. Her right hand slipped into her pocket, her fingers closing around the folded lab report. She took a step forward.

"I have something important to tell you," she said. Her voice sounded small and shaky in the vast, empty space.

Jordon paused, the amber liquid halfway to the crystal glass. He turned his head, his gaze pinning her in place. Those deep blue eyes were cold, expectant.

Just as she was about to pull the paper from her pocket, a shrill ringtone shattered the silence. It wasn't his business phone. It was his private one.

Jordon's expression changed instantly. The weariness vanished, replaced by a sharp, sudden tension. He slammed the glass down, pulling the phone from his pocket.

One glance at the screen and his jaw tightened. He answered without a second of hesitation.

A faint, muffled crying sound bled from the earpiece. Jordon's entire demeanor shifted from cold indifference to a raw, urgent concern she had never seen him direct at her.

"I'm on my way," he said into the phone, his voice a low, soothing rumble. He hung up, turned, and grabbed the suit jacket he'd just taken off.

Ciara stood frozen, her hand still outstretched, the words caught in her throat. She watched in disbelief as he strode toward the door.

"What is it? What's wrong?" she asked, a note of panic in her voice. She took a step after him, a desperate attempt to make him stay, to make him listen.

Jordon paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He didn't turn around.

"Company emergency," he said, the words clipped and cold.

The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the silent, empty penthouse.

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