Too Late CEO: The Runaway Wife Returns

The doorknob turned.

Corrie ripped the IV needle from her arm with a sharp gasp, a bright bead of blood welling up instantly. She gripped the scissors tight. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor, and pressed her back against the wall behind the door. She held her breath.

The metal door pushed open. A night-shift nurse walked in, holding a plastic tray of medications. The nurse looked at the empty bed and froze.

Corrie stepped out from the shadows. She pressed the sharp point of the scissors hard against the nurse's lower back.

"Don't make a sound," Corrie whispered, her voice rough.

The nurse shook violently. Her hands slipped. The plastic tray hit the floor, scattering pills and shattering a glass vial.

"Take off the coat," Corrie ordered.

She quickly stripped the white lab coat off the trembling nurse and pulled it over her own hospital gown. She snatched the security keycard clipped to the nurse's scrubs.

Corrie pushed the nurse into the bathroom and locked the door from the outside.

Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. The blood loss was making her head spin. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, using the pain to stay awake.

She swiped the keycard and slipped into the maze of underground hallways. She kept her head down, avoiding the glowing red lights of the security cameras.

She reached the heavy iron fire exit door. She pushed it open with both hands.

A violent gust of wind and freezing rain slammed into her. The storm instantly soaked through the thin lab coat.

Corrie stumbled out into the pitch-black woods surrounding the private clinic. Sharp thorns tore at her bare calves, leaving bloody scratches, but she didn't stop running. Her lungs burned.

She broke through the tree line and hit the rough asphalt of a deserted interstate highway.

Headlights pierced the heavy rain. A yellow taxi with its roof light on was speeding down the road.

Corrie ran right into the middle of the lane, waving her arms frantically.

The taxi's tires screeched against the wet pavement. The car skidded to a halt just inches from her knees.

Corrie yanked the back door open and threw herself onto the leather seat. She unclasped the diamond watch from her wrist-a wedding gift from Damon-and tossed it into the front seat.

"Manhattan. Now," she ordered, gasping for air.

The driver glanced at her soaked, pale figure in the rearview mirror. He didn't say a word. He stepped on the gas.

The heater in the car blasted hot air. The warmth seeped into Corrie's freezing bones. Her adrenaline crashed. Her eyelids grew incredibly heavy. She leaned her wet head against the cold window, her consciousness slipping.

In the front seat, the driver's phone screen lit up. An encrypted text message appeared.

The driver read the message. His eyes shifted in the mirror, turning cold and deadly.

His finger moved to the driver's side panel.

Click.

The central locking system engaged. The sound was quiet, buried under the noise of the thunder, but it made Corrie's eyes snap open.

She looked out the window. The car was moving way too fast. The road signs were wrong. They were veering off the main highway heading toward the city.

"This isn't the way to Manhattan," Corrie said, her heart rate spiking.

"Roadwork ahead," the driver said, his voice flat. "Taking the Hudson River Bridge."

Corrie reached for the door handle. She pulled it. It didn't budge.

Panic exploded in her chest. She pulled harder, rattling the plastic handle. Locked.

"Let me out!" she screamed.

She grabbed the heavy red fire extinguisher strapped to the floor behind the driver's seat. She swung it with all her remaining strength, smashing it against the side window.

The impact jolted her arms, but the reinforced glass only spider-webbed with thin cracks. It didn't break.

The taxi sped onto the massive Hudson River Bridge. The rain lashed against the windshield.

Suddenly, the driver jerked the steering wheel hard to the right. The car swerved violently, heading straight for the concrete and steel guardrail.

Realizing the deadly speed, the driver slammed on the brakes just enough to unlock his door, but not enough to stop the heavy vehicle's momentum. A split second before the inevitable impact, he kicked his door open and threw his body out onto the wet asphalt. He rolled violently to a stop, quickly scrambling up and disappearing into the dark storm as the runaway car continued its deadly trajectory.

The sound of tearing metal was deafening. The taxi smashed through the guardrail.

Gravity vanished. The car plummeted toward the raging black water of the Hudson River.

The impact was a brutal explosion of force. Corrie's head slammed forward into the back of the front seat. Warm blood poured down her forehead, blinding her left eye.

Freezing water violently flooded into the cabin through the cracked windows.

The water rose with terrifying speed. It swallowed her knees, then her waist.

Corrie gasped, fighting the rising panic. She unbuckled her seatbelt and pushed herself toward the front seat. The windshield was shattered from the impact.

She kicked at the broken glass, creating a hole just big enough to squeeze through. The water reached her chest.

She pulled her upper body through the broken windshield, the freezing river shocking her system.

Just as her hips cleared the glass, something grabbed her.

A hand wearing a thick black glove clamped down on her right ankle.

Corrie screamed underwater, a stream of bubbles escaping her lips. She kicked wildly with her free leg.

The hand didn't let go. The grip was inhumanly strong. It yanked her backward, dragging her down into the crushing, black depths of the river.

Her lungs screamed for oxygen. The freezing water rushed into her mouth, filling her chest with liquid fire.

As her vision faded to black, the last thing she saw in her mind was Damon's cold, unfeeling face.

Miles away, in a glass-walled penthouse high above Manhattan.

Damon stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a crystal glass of amber whiskey in his hand. He watched the lightning tear across the sky.

The heavy oak door to his office burst open.

His personal assistant, Brad Kirk, stood in the doorway. Brad was out of breath, his face completely drained of color.

"Sir," Brad panted. "Corrie is missing from the clinic. And the taxi she got into... it just crashed through the guardrail on the Hudson River Bridge."

Damon's fingers went numb.

The crystal glass slipped from his hand. It hit the Persian rug, the heavy glass shattering with a dull, heavy thud. Whiskey splashed across the expensive wool.

Damon's pupils shrank to tiny pinpricks. His heart stopped beating.