Too Late: The Secret Heiress Strikes Back

Serena POV:

"Vanessa..."

The hoarse whisper cut through the quiet hotel suite. My eyes snapped open. A brutal hangover pounded against my temples as bright Boston morning light blinded me. Beside me on the tangled sheets lay the wide, muscular back of my husband, Harrison Kensington. My fingers curled tightly into the edge of the duvet, and the air locked in my throat.

Harrison shifted restlessly in his sleep. His heavy arm was draped over my waist, pinning me down. That single name hanging in the air turned my blood to ice water, drenching me from head to toe.

My hands shook as I shoved against his forearm. His dense athlete's muscles offered massive physical resistance, like trying to push a concrete wall. I bit down hard on my back teeth, forced my weight against his grip, and wrenched myself free. Scrambling backward, I yanked the silk sheet up to my collarbone, clutching it against my chest.

The sudden movement woke him. Harrison slowly opened his ice-blue eyes, squinting against the harsh glare from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Thick irritation darkened his face as he looked at me.

His gaze dropped from my pale face down to the wrecked bedsheets between us. Within half a second, the groggy haze vanished from his eyes, replaced by a wall of pure disgust and cold hostility.

"You drugged my drink?"

Harrison bolted upright, his towering frame leaning into my space with suffocating pressure. His voice dripped with revulsion, completely ignoring the blood draining from my face.

I opened my mouth to tell him I had only sipped the exact same champagne the waiter handed us at the gala last night. My throat felt rubbed raw with sandpaper. The sound that came out was a broken rasp I could barely hear myself, leaving me staring at him with a hollow chest.

He let out a harsh laugh and grabbed the pillow beside him, slamming it onto the carpet.

"Vanessa warned me you'd do anything to keep the Mrs. Kensington title. I didn't fully believe her until right now."

I stared blankly at the man I had humbled myself to love for three years. Listening to Boston's star NHL captain defend the woman who claimed she saved his life thirteen years ago, the last fragile thread holding my chest together snapped clean in two.

Without a word, I threw back the covers and swung my legs out of bed. My bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor. With numb, stiff fingers, I bent down and gathered my crumpled evening gown from the floor, holding the fabric against my stomach.

Harrison stood up, snagging a white towel from the chair and wrapping it around his waist. He looked down at me from his full height, his ice-blue eyes devoid of any warmth.

"Don't think pulling a stunt like this changes anything. Our three-year PR contract is up at the end of the week."

He dropped the words and strode toward the bathroom.

I didn't look up. I pulled the wrinkled gown over my head. The zipper snagged at my lower back, and I yanked it hard until the metal teeth forced their way up.

The bathroom door slammed shut. The heavy thud echoed through the empty suite like a final gavel strike on our farce of a marriage.

I rubbed the back of my neck, then walked over to the mahogany desk. Pulling open the top drawer, I took out a stack of hotel stationery and a black fountain pen. My fingers didn't tremble anymore.

At the very top of the page, I wrote Divorce Agreement in bold strokes. The nib scratched sharply across the paper.

In three brief lines, I drafted a full waiver of all Kensington family assets and his nine-figure hockey fortune. Aside from my signature at the bottom, I asked for nothing.

I slipped the cheap diamond-chip wedding band-a ring he had bought without even checking my size three years ago-off my ring finger and set it squarely in the center of the page.

Grabbing my clutch from the sofa, I stepped into my heels. The sharp clicks echoed against the floorboards as I walked straight to the suite door.

My palm closed around the cold brass handle. I glanced back one last time at the shut bathroom door, my eyes completely dry.

"Goodbye, Harrison."

I spoke to the empty room, pushed down the handle, and pulled the door open.

The hallway was deserted. Thick carpeting swallowed my footsteps as I kept my spine straight and walked to the elevators.

I pressed the down button. Watching the red floor numbers drop on the display.

The doors slid open to the grand lobby. The noisy chatter of morning guests washed over me, pulling me out of last night's nightmare.

I walked straight across the marble floor, ignoring the concierge staff staring at my wrinkled evening dress.

Pushing through the heavy revolving glass doors, the damp, freezing air of a Boston autumn morning hit my face.

I stood alone on the top granite step outside the hotel, wrapping my arms around my ribs as I watched commuters rush past on the wet asphalt.

Through the mist, a jet-black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided silently down the street and pulled up to the curb, stopping less than two feet from the tips of my heels.

The rear bulletproof window rolled halfway down, revealing the stern, wrinkled face of an elderly man in a tailored three-piece suit.

He bowed his head slightly, his deep voice cutting through the rain.

"Lady Serena. Your three-year trial is over. It is time to come home."