Don't Beg Me Now, Your Arrogance Ruined Everything

Alya stared at the glowing screen of her iPhone.

The harsh light illuminated her pale face in the dim hospital corridor.

The TMZ headline screamed in bold, black letters across the top of her screen. Below it was a high-definition photograph of Cole Vanderbilt-Sterling, her husband of three years.

His hand was resting possessively on the lower back of Angelle Navarro, the principal ballerina of the New York City Ballet. They were walking through the gilded revolving doors of the Plaza Hotel.

It was 2:00 AM.

Alya's fingers began to tremble. The shaking started in her wrists and traveled up her arms, violent and uncontrollable.

The phone slipped from her sweaty palms. It clattered loudly against the sterile, white linoleum floor, the sound echoing down the empty hallway.

Before she could bend down to retrieve it, a sharp, continuous screech pierced the quiet air.

It was the heart monitor inside the ICU.

Alya's head snapped up. The sound was a flatline.

Dr. Evans burst through the double doors of the intensive care unit. His face was grim, his scrubs wrinkled.

"Crash cart! Now!" he shouted down the hall, physically brushing past Alya without looking at her.

Alya lunged toward the door frame. Her hands gripped the cold metal casing. Her knuckles turned stark white from the pressure.

Through the glass, she watched the nurses swarm her grandfather's bed. One nurse climbed onto the mattress, locking her elbows and starting brutal, rhythmic chest compressions on Arthur's frail body.

Alya's throat closed up. She couldn't breathe. The air in the hallway felt thick, like wet cotton.

Hot tears blurred her vision, spilling over her eyelashes and burning her cold cheeks.

She forced her stiff fingers to dig into her pocket and pull out her backup phone. She dialed Cole's private number. She pressed the cold plastic hard against her ear, praying for him to pick up.

The call went straight to voicemail.

"You have reached Cole Vanderbilt-Sterling. Leave a message." The automated voice echoed mockingly in her ear.

His phone was turned off. He never turned his phone off. Unless he didn't want to be disturbed.

Alya's knees buckled. She slid down the cold, painted wall, her expensive silk skirt catching on the baseboard.

She pulled her knees tightly to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. Through the crack in the door, she heard the terrifying, electric hum of the defibrillator charging.

"Clear!"

Alya squeezed her eyes shut, her fingernails digging into her own forearms until they left crescent-shaped indentations.

Forty agonizing minutes passed. The screeching monitor finally settled into a weak, erratic beep.

The ICU doors pushed open. Dr. Evans stepped out, pulling down his surgical mask. He wiped a layer of sweat from his forehead.

"We barely stabilized him, Alya," the doctor said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "It's hour by hour now."

Alya exhaled a shaky, ragged breath. She tried to stand, but her legs gave out completely.

Before she hit the floor, a strong, familiar hand gripped her elbow.

The grip was firm, pulling her upright with effortless strength.

Alya looked up. Cole Vanderbilt-Sterling stood over her.

His tailored Tom Ford suit was slightly wrinkled at the waist. His tie was missing. His top two buttons were undone, revealing the strong column of his throat.

And then, the smell hit her.

It wasn't his usual sandalwood cologne. It was Chanel No. 5. Heavy, floral, and sickeningly sweet. Angelle's signature scent.

It coated the back of Alya's throat, making her stomach violently heave.

Alya recoiled instantly. She jerked her arm out of Cole's grip with so much force her shoulder popped.

She backed away as if his touch had physically burned her skin.

Cole's thick brow furrows in immediate irritation. His dark, calculating eyes narrowed as he shoved his hands into his suit pockets.

"What is wrong with you?" Cole asked, his voice a low, smooth baritone that showed zero panic.

Alya pointed a shaking finger at the ICU doors.

"Where were you?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "I called you ten times. He was dying, Cole. He was dying!"

Cole scoffed lightly. He rolled his broad shoulders, looking entirely unbothered by the sterile hospital environment.

"Arthur is eighty-two, Alya," Cole dismissed casually. "This is the natural decline of old age. Me standing in a hallway won't change his medical chart."

Alya's jaw clenched so hard her back teeth ached. Her eyes, usually soft and accommodating, flashed with a mix of profound, soul-crushing grief and sudden, burning anger.

Cole didn't like that look, he stepped closer, invading her personal space.His towering, six-foot-three frame cast a dark, suffocating shadow over her trembling body.

Alya stepped back again, but her shoulder blades hit the hard wall. She turned her face away, desperate to avoid inhaling the foreign perfume clinging to his collar.

Cole's jaw tightened at her blatant defiance and he reached out, his large hand grabbing her chin roughly.His fingers dug into her soft skin, forcing her to look directly into his cold, gray eyes.

Alya glared back. She refused to blink, she refused to shed a single tear in front of him.

Her silent, rigid rebellion sparked a flicker of dark, twisted amusement in Cole's gaze. He leaned down quickly. He forced a bruising, punishing kiss onto her lips.It wasn't a kiss of comfort, it was a display of absolute ownership. His teeth scraped against her bottom lip.

Alya kept her lips tightly sealed, she raised her hands, pushing frantically against his solid, immovable chest.She fought the degrading intimacy, her palms sliding against his expensive shirt.

Cole pulled back abruptly, his breathing was slightly heavier now. He wiped his thumb across his lower lip, glaring down at her stubborn, flushed face.

Before he could speak, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.

He pulled it out. Alya's eyes darted to the screen.

The name "Angelle Navarro" flashed brightly on the screen.

Cole's cold, hard demeanor instantly softened, the sharp lines of his face relaxed. He answered the call, turning slightly away from Alya. His voice dropped an entire octave, becoming a gentle, soothing whisper.

"I'm here. Don't worry, I'll handle it," Cole murmured into the receiver.

Alya watched his gentle expression, a sharp, physical pain twisted in the center of her chest, like a knife turning between her ribs.She realized, with absolute clarity, that she had never received that look from him in three years of marriage.

Cole hung up the phone. He turned back to Alya with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"I have urgent business to attend to," Cole stated flatly, already stepping away.

Alya lunged forward and grabbed the sleeve of his suit jacket.

"Stay," she begged, her voice breaking, stripping away her pride. "Just in case Arthur wakes up. He might ask for you."

Cole looked down at her hand clutching his sleeve. He pried her fingers off the fabric, one by one, with cold precision.

"Have Linden handle the hospital bills," Cole tossed over his shoulder, not looking back. He walked down the hallway, his expensive leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the floor.

Alya stood completely alone in the sterile corridor.

She raised the back of her hand to her mouth and aggressively wiped her lips, scrubbing the feeling of his kiss away.

She scrubbed until the delicate skin of her lips cracked and bled, tasting copper on her tongue.

The frantic beating of her heart slowed down. The warmth drained from her veins.

Her heart turned completely to ice.