Too Late For Regret, Mr. Mckinney

Everleigh Conway scanned the crowded room, her eyes skipping over the glittering diamonds and designer gowns. They were just noise. Her targets were the men in tailored suits, the ones whose quiet conversations could make or break a company like hers.

The air in the Met's gala was thick with perfume and power. It made her stomach clench.

She spotted Cristian Fernandez near the Temple of Dendur exhibit. He was a legend in the tech venture capital world, the kind of investor who didn't just write checks but built empires. This was her shot.

She took a deep breath, a familiar habit to center herself. Her hand, holding a flute of champagne, was steady. It had to be. She smoothed the fabric of her simple black dress, a stark contrast to the opulence around her, and began to move through the crowd.

Each step was calculated. She offered a polite nod here, a small smile there, her path a direct line to Fernandez.

She was almost there, close enough to see the thoughtful expression on his face as he listened to another guest. She raised her glass, ready to catch his eye, to deliver the opening line she had rehearsed a hundred times.

Then, a large hand closed around her wrist.

It wasn't rough, but it was firm, an inescapable cage of flesh and bone. The champagne flute was plucked from her fingers and placed silently on a passing waiter's tray.

A voice, low and cold and terrifyingly familiar, spoke directly beside her ear.

"Mrs. Mckinney's tolerance for alcohol was never this high, as I recall."

The name felt like a brand on her skin. A name she hadn't used, hadn't heard directed at her, in two years.

Every muscle in Everleigh's body went rigid. The air froze in her chest. She didn't have to turn to know who it was. The scent of cedar and expensive wool, the sheer heat radiating from his body—it was him.

Brice Mckinney.

Her husband.

She turned slowly, a mechanical movement. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, were fixed on her. They held the same chilling intensity, the same unwavering look of ownership that had suffocated her for years. He hadn't changed. Taller than everyone around them, his presence sucked all the air out of the space he occupied.

Cristian Fernandez glanced over, his eyes registering Brice. He gave a respectful, almost imperceptible nod to the man holding her arm, then excused himself with a practiced ease, melting back into the crowd.

Her opportunity vanished. Just like that.

A cold fury, sharp and clean, cut through her shock. She kept her voice low, a tight wire of sound.

"Mr. Mckinney. I don't believe we have anything to discuss."

His gaze swept over her face, lingering for a fraction of a second on the hollows beneath her cheekbones. His grip on her wrist tightened, the pressure of his thumb a painful reminder of his strength.

"Two years, and you've become so formal?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He began to pull her through the throng of people, his long strides forcing her into a clumsy half-jog to keep up. The polite smiles of the New York elite followed them, their eyes full of unspoken questions.

"Let go of me, Brice," she hissed, trying to wrench her arm free. The effort was useless. It was like pulling against granite.

He didn't stop until they were through a set of glass doors and onto a deserted stone terrace. The cool night air hit her skin, a welcome shock after the stuffy heat of the gala. The distant sounds of city traffic were a low hum beneath the music drifting from inside.

She yanked her arm again, and this time, he released her. A raw, red mark was already forming on her skin where his fingers had been.

She took a step back, putting space between them. She reached into her small clutch, her movements precise and steady, and pulled out a folded document.

She didn't hand it to him. She slapped it against his chest.

"These are the divorce papers. I've already signed them."

Brice didn't even glance down. The crisp white pages fluttered from his tailored suit, landing silently on the dark stone at his feet. His eyes never left hers.

"Give me a reason."

His voice was flat. A command, not a question. The CEO demanding an explanation for a failed merger.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "We were never in love. Is that reason enough for you?"

He took a step forward, and she instinctively took one back. He was a predator closing in, his shadow swallowing her whole.

"Marriage is a contract, Everleigh. A binding agreement. Your reason is not acceptable."

Her back hit the cold, ornate balustrade of the terrace. There was nowhere left to retreat. The city lights glittered behind him, a beautiful, indifferent backdrop to her personal nightmare.

"I'm not negotiating, Brice. I'm informing you." She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze without flinching.

Her eyes flickered to his wrist. He was still wearing it. The Patek Philippe watch she had given him on their wedding day. The polished silver gleamed under the faint light from the ballroom.

A small, ironic smile touched her lips. She pushed off the railing, sidestepping him to leave.

"Everleigh."

His voice stopped her, a low warning that vibrated through the air. He didn't turn around.

"Don't force me to make you stay."

She didn't pause. She didn't look back. She walked through the glass doors, her back straight, and disappeared into the warmth and noise of the party, leaving him alone in the cold.

For a long moment, Brice stood motionless on the terrace. The wind tugged at his black tie. He finally looked down at the divorce papers lying on the ground. He bent, his movements stiff, and picked them up.

He unfolded the document. Her signature, elegant and decisive, was at the bottom of the last page.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb swiping across the screen. He found the contact and pressed call. It was answered on the first ring.

"Jamey."

He stared out at the city skyline, at the empire he commanded.

"She's back."

The silence on the other end of the line was absolute. Jamey Beasley, his chief of staff, knew better than to speak.

"Use every resource we have," Brice's voice was devoid of all emotion, a flat, chilling command. "I want to know where she's been for the last two years. What she's done. Who she's seen."

He paused, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone.

"Everything. I want a full report on my desk before sunrise."