Ex-Wife Rising: The CEO's Regret

Corbin turned his head slightly, looking over his shoulder. His dark eyes locked onto Fallon. The look was heavy, complicated-a violent mixture of raw anger and a sudden, unexpected flicker of scrutiny.

He didn't say another word. He pushed the heavy lounge door open and walked out, his long strides carrying him straight back to Ashely's hospital room. He didn't look back.

Fallon stood alone in the center of the empty VIP lounge. She stood there for a long time, staring at the space where he had just been. She didn't move until a sharp, prickling numbness began to spread up her legs.

She walked slowly toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The sprawling, glittering nightscape of New York City stretched out before her. The vibrant, pulsing life of the city outside stood in brutal contrast to the dead, hollow silence inside her chest.

Deep in her pocket, her phone vibrated.

She pulled it out. The screen lit up with a text from her best friend, Jaxson "Jax" Vance.

Jesus Fallon! I just saw the news alerts! Are you okay? Where are you?

Fallon's thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Her joints felt stiff and uncooperative. She typed back a slow, exhausted reply: I'm fine. At the hospital.

Ten minutes later, there was a soft knock on the lounge door. Corbin's executive assistant stepped inside. His face was a mask of polite, professional distance.

"Mrs. Terrell," the assistant said smoothly. "Mr. Mcgowan has instructed me to take you home."

Fallon felt a bitter taste in her mouth. She knew exactly what this was. It wasn't a ride. It was an eviction notice.

"That won't be necessary," she said, her voice flat. "I can get a car."

The assistant shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. "Sir's orders were very specific. I must ensure you arrive at your residence safely. There is still a large press presence outside the main entrance."

Fallon closed her eyes for a second. She understood. Corbin didn't care about her physical safety. He cared about the Mcgowan Group's stock price. He was terrified she would walk out the front door, say the wrong thing to a reporter, and cause another PR disaster.

The fight drained out of her. Her bones felt like they were made of lead.

She nodded once. She followed the assistant out of the lounge, down a sterile service corridor, and out through the hospital's underground loading dock, completely bypassing the media circus.

A sleek, black Maybach was idling in the shadows.

The assistant opened the rear door for her. Fallon climbed in. As she settled into the plush leather seat, she looked up at the rearview mirror.

Corbin was in the driver's seat.

Fallon's breath caught in her throat. Her heart gave a pathetic, involuntary flutter, but she quickly crushed it. He was driving himself. That meant he had something to say to her that he didn't want his driver or his assistant to hear.

The doors locked with a heavy, final thunk. The temperature inside the car was freezing.

Corbin shifted the car into drive without a word. The heavy vehicle glided smoothly out of the garage and merged into the Manhattan traffic.

"Our prenuptial agreement states that in the event of a divorce, I retain two percent of the Mcgowan Group shares and remain a permanent beneficiary of the family trust," Fallon said. She stared straight at the back of his headrest, her voice eerily calm.

"Assuming you haven't violated the morality clause," Corbin replied instantly. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, his voice a low, threatening hum.

"I haven't," Fallon repeated.

"Will a judge believe you? Or will they look at the evidence and see a spoiled, jealous heiress who finally snapped and deliberately tried to permanently eliminate her husband's so-called competition?" Corbin asked suddenly. His tone dripped with thick, corrosive sarcasm.

Fallon blinked, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. She hadn't been to a club. She was sitting right here. How could he-

Then it hit her. He was baiting her. Or worse, he was projecting. He was building a hypothetical profile of the kind of shallow, heartless socialite he believed her to be.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, refusing to engage with his trap.

The car fell back into a suffocating silence.

The rhythmic hum of the tires on the asphalt and the soft orange glow of the streetlights passing over her face began to act like a sedative. The adrenaline crash hit her body all at once. An overwhelming, crushing wave of exhaustion pulled her eyelids down. She rested her head against the cool glass, closing her eyes. She wasn't asleep, but adrift in a numb, silent space, too exhausted to think or feel.

Somewhere in the hazy space between sleep and waking, she thought she heard Corbin mutter a low, harsh curse. The car seemed to slow down slightly, the turns becoming less aggressive.

The Maybach rolled to a smooth stop outside her penthouse building on Park Avenue.

The assistant, who had followed in a separate SUV, opened her door and gently woke her. Fallon blinked against the harsh streetlights. She felt disoriented and entirely drained. She dragged herself out of the car, mumbled a quiet "Thank you" to the air, and walked straight toward the glass doors of her building. She didn't look back.

She just wanted to strip off the ruined Chanel suit and submerge herself in a boiling hot bath.

Corbin sat in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the leather steering wheel. He watched her retreating back until she disappeared into the lobby. His eyes were dark and stormy. He shifted the car into gear, ready to pull away.

As he turned his head to check his blind spot, his eyes caught a flash of color in the back.

Sitting perfectly still on the dark leather of the rear seat was a slim, pink smartphone.

It was Fallon's. She had left it behind.