The CEO's Regret: Too Late To Beg

Bennett introduced Elia as our "angel," the surrogate who would carry the heir his genetic condition supposedly prevented us from having.

But as he guided her to the sofa, fluffing a pillow behind her back while ignoring me standing in the cold draft, I realized the danger wasn't medical.

My suspicions were confirmed at the anniversary gala. I overheard Elia bragging in the restroom—she wasn't a clinical third party. She was his lover of fifteen years. I was just the "safe" wife on paper, the placeholder used to secure his inheritance until the time was right.

When Elia staged a fake fall near the champagne tower, Bennett didn't hesitate.

He roared at me, scooping her up to rush to the hospital for a "shock," leaving me standing alone in the foyer, blood dripping from a shard of glass embedded in my arm.

He didn't look back. Not for a second.

Sitting in the ambulance alone, I didn't cry. I didn't panic.

I realized I wasn't fighting for his attention anymore. I was calculating the cost of my freedom.

While he was holding her hand at the hospital, I returned to the empty house. I walked straight to his study and unlocked the filing cabinet containing the illegal financial records he thought I never checked.

He thought he was building a family.

He didn't realize he was handing me the weapon to dismantle his entire life.

Chapter 1

Bennett ushered the woman into our living room and introduced her as the vessel for our future, but the way his hand lingered on the small of her back told me she was already the center of his present.

"This is Elia," Bennett said. His voice held a warmth I hadn't heard in two years. "She's agreed to help us with the heir situation."

I looked at Elia. She was petite, with wide, innocent doe eyes that seemed to beg for forgiveness while demanding submission. She didn't look like a clinical surrogate. She looked like a secret kept in a glass box.

"It's nice to meet you, Kelsey," Elia said. Her voice was soft, like spun sugar.

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. I was remembering the night Bennett sat me down, his face a mask of tragic resolve, telling me that his genetic condition made natural conception nearly impossible. He had told me that for my safety, for the sake of the Randolph legacy, we needed a third party.

I had cried. I had offered to take the risks, to undergo the hormone injections, the invasive procedures. I wanted to carry our child. I wanted to feel that connection.

"It's too dangerous for you," he had said then, kissing my forehead. "I can't risk losing you."

Now, watching him guide Elia to the sofa, fluffing a pillow behind her back before she even sat down, I realized the danger wasn't medical.

"Is the room temperature okay?" Bennett asked her, pointedly ignoring the fact that I was standing there in a