Ex-Wife Rising: The CEO's Regret

The rough texture of the hospital wall scraped against Fallon Terrell's shoulder blades.

She stood in the sterile, brightly lit VIP corridor of a Manhattan private hospital. Her pale pink Chanel suit, normally immaculate, was ruined. Dark streaks of road dirt stained the fabric, and a jagged tear near the elbow exposed a raw, red scrape on her skin. The physical sting was nothing compared to the violent pounding of her heart against her ribs.

She kept her eyes locked on the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. The brass nameplate read Ashely Berger.

Between Fallon and that door stood two massive bodyguards. They belonged to the Mcgowan family. They stood with their feet planted wide, hands clasped in front of them, looking like two impenetrable mountains of muscle and dark fabric. They didn't look at her. They didn't have to. Their presence was a physical barrier, a silent declaration that she was the enemy.

Down the hall, the squeak of rubber soles against linoleum broke the heavy silence.

Two nurses, Brenda Fletcher and Sharon Baker, pushed a metal cart loaded with medical monitors. They slowed their pace as they neared Fallon.

Fallon's hearing was sharp. The adrenaline still pumping through her veins made every sound painfully clear.

"Driving a Bentley," Brenda whispered, leaning closer to Sharon.

"Intentional," Sharon muttered back, her eyes darting toward Fallon.

"Just another jealous psycho wife," Brenda added, the words sharp and cruel.

Brenda turned her head slightly. From the corner of her eye, she shot Fallon a look. It was a heavy mixture of absolute disgust and a sick, hungry excitement.

Fallon's stomach clenched. A wave of nausea rose in her throat, tasting like copper and bile. She curled her fingers inward, her manicured nails digging so deeply into her palms that the skin threatened to break. The physical pain grounded her. She forced her facial muscles to freeze, locking her features into a blank, unreadable mask.

Her phone had vibrated in her pocket ten minutes ago. It was her lawyer. The instructions were brief and cold: Do not speak to anyone under any circumstances. Corbin's jet has taken off from Zurich. He is on his way back.

Footsteps echoed rapidly down the hall. The hospital's PR director marched past. He wore a sharp gray suit and carried a tablet. He didn't even glance at Fallon. He walked straight past the bodyguards and pushed open the door to Ashely's room.

The door clicked shut.

A heavy, suffocating dread settled over Fallon's chest. Her lungs felt too small for the air she was trying to pull in.

Three minutes later, the door swung open again.

It wasn't the PR director who came out. It was a flood of people. Reporters, cameramen, and paparazzi spilled into the hallway like a burst dam.

Before Fallon could even process the movement, the flashes started.

Brilliant, blinding bursts of white light exploded in her face. The sudden brightness sent a sharp, physical ache shooting through her