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.