Too Late For Regret: The Betrayed Heiress

ther of the town car's passenger door, watching the rain-streaked skyscrapers of Manhattan blur past. Each

o, occasionally glancing over at her with that same

makeup, their cheerful chatter a jarring counterpoint to the silent scream trapped in her

behind her, flipping through a copy of Forbes. He looked complet

u on set," a young

ring against the floor. She walked into the glare of th

as electric, but not with passion. It was the jolt of revulsion. Her body

booming. "Devon, I want you to lean in, whisper something i

e irony was

a scent she once associated with comfort, now smelled like deceit. The urge to vomit was overwhelming.

nt vibration emanated

ossing his features before he smoothed it away. He

on a point just past the photographer's head, b

t was second nature to him. But he made a mistake. As he raised his wrist to check the time

second, it became a

istakable image of his phone screen. She couldn't make out the words, but she didn't n

as O

ved the phone back into his pocket and turned around, hi

oulders. His grip was firm, meant to convey sincerity. "That was my office. There's an emer

flicker of truth, any hint of conflict. Th

ile picture. She didn't scream. She didn

, her voice unnervingly

y to control her. "You're the best," he said, leaning in to press a quick, dry kiss to h

strides eating up the concrete floor. The heavy studio door cl

er and his assistants exchanged a

grapher asked gently. "Shou

ead slowly. "Just

own trailing behind her like a shroud. Inside, she unzipped

s and a silk blouse. Sitting on the small bench, she pulle

r for weeks. It was from a boutique, independent design studio in Los Angeles. An

no hesit

precision, tapping the "Reply" butto

can start

ecision was made. T