Too Late Mr CEO

Chapter 1: The Man Who Destroyed My World The divorce papers lay on the table between us, and all I could do was stare at the signature at the bottom of the last page. Ronan Whitlock. My husband had signed his name as easily as if he were approving a business deal, not ending the marriage I had spent three years trying to protect. “Sign it, Maren.” His voice was cold, and he didn't even bother to look at me as he adjusted the cuff of his expensive watch. I swallowed hard. “Ronan, please. Can we talk about this one more time?” He finally raised his eyes to mine, and the expression on his face made my chest tighten. There was no warmth in those blue-gray eyes, no trace of the man who used to pull me into his arms whenever I was upset. “We have talked enough.” “No, we haven't.” My voice trembled, but I forced myself to continue. “You've listened to everyone except me. You have made your decision based on things you heard from other people, and you won't even give me a chance to explain what happened.” “What exactly do you want to explain?” he asked. “That the photographs are fake? That the messages were taken out of context? Or that the man you were seen meeting behind my back is just an innocent friend?” I stared at him in disbelief. The photographs showed me standing beside Adrian Blake, a fashion photographer I had known for several months. He had offered to look at my designs after I mentioned that I wanted to start working seriously on my fashion portfolio. There had been nothing romantic between us, and I had never hidden our meetings from Ronan. But someone had sent him photographs that made our innocent meetings look suspicious, along with messages I had never written. I had spent two weeks trying to prove that someone had manipulated the evidence, yet every explanation I offered only seemed to make him angrier. “Adrian was helping me with my designs. You know how much fashion means to me, and you know I have been trying to find a way to start my own business. I never cheated on you, Ronan. I would never do that to you.” His jaw tightened. “You expect me to believe that you were secretly meeting another man because of a few fashion sketches?” “They weren't secret meetings!” “Then why did I have to hear about them from someone else?” “Because I didn't know I was doing anything wrong!” My voice broke, and I hated that I was close to crying again. I had cried so much since the accusations began that my eyes felt permanently swollen, but I had promised myself I wouldn't let Ronan see me fall apart today. He pushed his chair back and stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “This conversation is over.” “Ronan!” He paused near the door, although he didn't turn around. I rose from my chair, my hands trembling. “Look at me and tell me you no longer love me.” For several seconds, the room was silent as I clung to the foolish hope that the question might remind him of our wedding day and the promises we had made. When he finally turned, his expression was unreadable. “Love has nothing to do with this anymore.” The words struck harder than a slap. “How can you say that? We are married.” “Not for much longer.” He opened the door, and Marcus Reed, his closest friend and legal adviser, stepped into the room carrying a black folder. Marcus glanced at me before looking at Ronan, and the discomfort on his face told me he understood exactly what was happening. “Everything is ready,” Marcus said quietly. Ronan nodded toward the table. “Make sure she receives her copy.” Then he walked out. Just like that, the man I loved left me alone with the papers that would end our marriage. I lowered myself into the chair, pressing a trembling hand over my mouth as tears slipped down my cheeks. I had thought the hardest part of loving Ronan Whitlock would be getting used to his demanding nature, his long working hours, and his habit of treating every problem like something he could solve with money. I had been wrong. The hardest part was discovering that the man who once promised to stand beside me could decide I was guilty without allowing me to defend myself. Three years earlier, I had fallen in love with Ronan at a charity dinner in Manhattan. I remembered that evening because I had spilled red wine on the front of his white shirt. I had looked up, ready to apologize, and found myself staring into the most intimidating pair of eyes I had ever seen. “I am so sorry,” I had blurted out. He looked down at his ruined shirt, then back at me. “Do you always introduce yourself this way?” I had been so embarrassed that I could barely speak, but his mouth had curved into a small smile. It was the first time I had seen Ronan Whitlock smile, and I had no idea that the memory would stay with me long after everything between us had fallen apart. He had pursued me despite my insistence that we were too different. He was wealthy, powerful, and accustomed to getting what he wanted, while I was a young woman with ordinary dreams and a passion for designing clothes. He had told me that my dreams mattered to him and promised that I would never have to choose between loving him and becoming the woman I wanted to be. I believed him. Now, sitting alone in the room where he had ended our marriage, I wondered how much of that man had ever been real. My phone vibrated against the table, pulling me out of my thoughts. A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen. You should have listened when you were given the chance to walk away. Before I could reply, another message arrived. Your marriage is over. Don't make the mistake of thinking you can take anything from Ronan Whitlock and get away with it. A chill moved down my spine. Whoever had sent the messages knew about the divorce, but what frightened me most was the way the words sounded like a warning from someone who believed I deserved what was happening. I typed a question, asking who the sender was, but the message failed to deliver. The number had been disconnected. I stared at the screen, wondering who had sent Ronan those photographs in the first place. I suspected Celeste Wynn, his former lover, who had returned to New York a few months earlier. She had never hidden her dislike for me, and the way she watched Ronan whenever we attended the same events had always made me uncomfortable. But I had no proof. Since her return, Ronan had become increasingly distant, asking where I went, who I spoke to, and why I sometimes spent hours working on designs instead of waiting for him at home. At first, I had mistaken his questions for concern. Now I wasn't so sure. By late afternoon, I had packed my belongings into two suitcases. I wasn't taking anything Ronan had bought for me except the clothes I needed. I left the jewelry, designer handbags, and expensive gifts untouched because I couldn't bear carrying reminders of a life that had suddenly become unbearable. My sketchbook was the last thing I packed. It was old, with worn edges and several pages filled with drawings I had made before my marriage. I opened it briefly, running my fingers over a design I had once dreamed of turning into a real collection. For years, I had told myself I would return to fashion when life became less complicated. I had postponed my dreams because Ronan's career was demanding, because our marriage needed attention, and because I believed we had all the time in the world. I had made room for his ambitions while quietly pushing my own aside. Now I had nothing left to postpone. I slipped the sketchbook into my bag and zipped it shut. When I reached the entrance, Marcus was waiting near the door. “Maren,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “Are you sure you want to leave today?” I gave a tired laugh. “Did Ronan ask you to convince me to stay?” “No. He didn't.” “Then I suppose you don't need to worry about it.” Marcus rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I think you're making a mistake leaving without talking to him again.” I looked at him for a long moment. “Does Ronan believe I cheated on him?” Marcus hesitated. “I think he believes the evidence speaks for itself.” “That wasn't my question.” He lowered his eyes, and his silence gave me the answer I hadn't wanted. I nodded slowly, fighting back fresh tears. “Then tell him something for me, Marcus.” “What?” “Tell him that I loved him enough to spend three years defending a marriage he destroyed in three weeks. Tell him that I would have stood beside him through anything if he had only trusted me enough to listen.” My voice shook, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. “And tell him that I will never beg him to believe me again.” Marcus said nothing as I picked up my suitcases. I walked through the front door without looking back, even though every step felt as if I were leaving a piece of myself behind. Outside, New York was cold and busy, with people hurrying along the pavement as if nothing in the world had changed. I stood beside the curb, holding my bags while I waited for the taxi I had ordered. For a moment, I imagined Ronan coming after me, calling my name and admitting that he had made a terrible mistake. But the entrance remained empty. No one came. When the taxi arrived, I loaded my bags into the trunk and climbed into the back seat. “Where to?” the driver asked. I gave him the address of a small apartment I had found online that morning, a place I could barely afford but that would at least give me somewhere to sleep. As the car pulled away, I watched the Whitlock mansion disappear behind us, pressing my palm against my chest as the pain threatened to overwhelm me. I didn't know how I would pay the rent next month, how I would find enough work to support myself, or whether my dream of becoming a fashion designer would ever become real. I only knew that I couldn't stay where I was no longer wanted, and I couldn't keep loving a man who had already decided I was his enemy. I wiped my cheeks and opened my sketchbook, staring at the unfinished design on the first page. “I'm going to make it,” I whispered. “Even if I have to start from nothing.” For the first time in years, I was making a promise to myself instead of to Ronan Whitlock. I had no idea that, at that very moment, Ronan was standing in his penthouse, staring at the photograph he had used to destroy our marriage. Nor did I know that the person who had sent him that photograph was already preparing the next move. My phone suddenly vibrated. Another message from the unknown number appeared. You think leaving Ronan Whitlock will save you? My heart began to pound as I stared at the words. Before I could respond, another message arrived, accompanied by a photograph. It was a picture of me stepping out of the taxi in front of my new apartment. Someone had followed me. My fingers trembled as I zoomed in on the image, searching for any clue that could tell me who had taken it. Then a final message appeared. If you want to know why your husband suddenly stopped trusting you, ask him what happened three years ago before he met you. I froze. Three years ago? What could possibly have happened before Ronan and I met that someone was willing to destroy my marriage to keep it hidden? I tried calling the number, but the call wouldn't connect. Then came three sharp knocks at my door. I turned toward it, my heart hammering against my chest. Nobody knew where I was staying. I hadn't given my new address to Ronan, Marcus, or anyone else. The knocks came again. “Who is it?” I called, struggling to keep my voice steady. For several seconds, there was no answer. Then a man's voice came from the other side. “Mrs. Whitlock, open the door. I'm here about your husband.” My blood ran cold. I was no longer Mrs. Whitlock, and whoever stood outside my door knew something about Ronan that could change everything I thought I knew about the man I had loved. But when I finally reached for the doorknob, my phone vibrated one last time. The message on the screen c ontained only six words. Don't open that door. He's lying. I stopped breathing because the man outside had just begun knocking again. And this time, he called me by my first name. “Maren, I know you're in there. Open the door before it's too late.”