Too Late For Regret: My Billionaire Husband

The plastic chair in the waiting area of Mount Sinai had a crack running down the center of the seat. Cressie Winters knew this because she had been staring at the floor for forty-five minutes, and every time she shifted her weight, the plastic pinched the back of her thigh.

She didn't move often. Moving required effort, and effort was something her body currently had in short supply. At twenty-five weeks pregnant, she felt less like a human woman and more like a water balloon that had been overfilled and left out in the sun. Her ankles, usually slender, were currently spilling over the edges of her loafers. She had tried to hide them by pulling down the hem of her coat, a wool trench she had bought three years ago when her father's credit cards still worked without a decline code. It was too tight across the shoulders now. Everything was too tight.

Around her, the waiting room was a sea of couples. Husbands holding wives' hands. Partners rubbing lower backs. A man in a navy sweater was currently kneeling in front of a woman, tying her shoe because she couldn't reach it.

Cressie looked away. The sight made bile rise in her throat, a sour reminder of the breakfast she hadn't been able to keep down. She clutched the crumpled appointment ticket in her hand until her knuckles turned white. She was Mrs. Ellsworth Banks on paper, but in this room, she was just the woman in the corner with the gray skin and the coat that didn't button.

"Mrs. Banks?"

The nurse's voice was flat, professional. Cressie pushed herself up. It took two tries. She had to use the armrests, her breath hitching as a sharp pain shot through her lower back. No one offered a hand. Why would they? She looked like she had walked in off the street to get out of the cold.

The appointment was a blur of cold gel and colder words. Fetal weight is low. Blood pressure is high. Preeclampsia markers are visible. You need to reduce stress. The doctor didn't look her in the eye. He looked at her chart, then at her swollen hands, and wrote a prescription for vitamins she couldn't afford to buy at the pharmacy downstairs.

When Cressie finally exited the clinic, the hallway was bustling. It was the VIP wing, the place where the air smelled like fresh lilies and money. She kept her head down, hugging her purse to her chest to cover the stain on her maternity top where she'd spilled water earlier. She just wanted to get to the elevator. She just wanted to disappear.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

Cressie stopped. Her feet, heavy as lead, seemed to glue themselves to the polished tile.

Inside the elevator stood a group of people who looked like they had been cut from the pages of a magazine and pasted into reality. In the center was Ellsworth.

He was wearing