Too Late For Regret: The Assistant's Revenge

The Manhattan rain did not fall; it attacked. Heavy, violent drops slammed against the windshield of the black Maybach, blurring the neon lights of the Upper East Side into a smeared, bleeding canvas.

Christina Chen sat in the driver's seat, the engine idling in the alley behind the Carlyle Club. Her fingers gripped the leather steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles jutted out like white marbles under her skin.

She stared at the digital clock on the dashboard. 11:42 PM.

Her stomach was a tight, cold knot. It was always like this when she waited for him. The suffocating blend of dread and that pathetic, stubborn hope she couldn't seem to kill.

Christina forced her hands to uncurl. She killed the engine.

She grabbed the heavy black umbrella from the passenger seat and pushed the door open. The cold November wind hit her instantly, stealing the air from her lungs. She popped the umbrella, but the rain blew sideways, soaking the hem of her pencil skirt and seeping into her black stilettos.

Every step through the puddles sent a shock of ice water up her calves.

She reached the heavy mahogany side door of the club. Leo, the night manager, stood just inside the awning. He pulled the door open, giving her a brief, professional nod.

"Miss Chen," Leo said.

Not Jackson's guest. Not Jackson's girlfriend. Miss Chen. The executive assistant.

"Thank you, Leo," Christina said, her voice steady, betraying none of the shivering in her limbs.

She stepped into the dimly lit whiskey lounge. The air inside was thick and warm, smelling of aged bourbon, expensive cigar smoke, and the distinct, arrogant scent of old money. It was a world she worked in, slept in, but never belonged to.

She walked past the velvet booths, her wet heels sinking into the plush carpet. She headed straight for the VIP corridor in the back.

As she turned the corner toward the private suites, her foot stopped mid-air.

The heavy oak door of Suite 4 was cracked open just an inch.

Jackson's voice drifted through the narrow gap. It was low, smooth, and completely devoid of warmth. It was the exact tone he used when stripping a bankrupt company down to its copper wires.

"The marriage is the most efficient route," Jackson said. "A merger between Booker Capital and Wall Investment Group secures the board."

Christina's lungs forgot how to expand. She pressed her back against the cold wall of the corridor, the damp fabric of her coat clinging to her skin.

A high-pitched, grating laugh followed. It was Rex, one of Jackson's senior partners. "And Carson Wall isn't exactly a hardship to look at, Jack. But what about your... current arrangement? The board won't like messy loose ends before a wedding."

Christina stopped breathing. The silence that followed stretched so long it made her ears ring.

Then, Jackson chuckled. A short, dismissive sound that felt like a physical blow to Christina's ribs.

"There is no mess," Jackson said smoothly.