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Too Late For Regret, Mr. Morrison

Too Late For Regret, Mr. Morrison

Author: Fei Se
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Chapter 1 

Word Count: 1074    |    Released on: Today at 14:28

ghteen-hour shift at the charity hospital. She still smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. Her scrubs were wrinkled, her feet ac

e. The house was too quiet. The staff

e cold mahogany banister. She walked down the long hallw

w, metallic, and thick. Mixed with the heavy, cloying scent of S

rain instantly shifted from exhausted wife to

eraphina Astor-Vance lay sprawled on the floor, her white silk slip dress hiked up, stained crimso

t on Seraphina's forearm was superficial-barely a scratch, angled upward, typical of sel

ed malice in them was fleeting, quickly rep

a perfect tremor of fear and accusa

geon mode. She needed to check the actual depth of the abdomin

ne step on

ckward, the knife raised defensively. "You already kill

but the logic refused to form. "What a

dered up the stairs. The do

hair disheveled. His gray eyes swept the room. They skipped ri

him. With her other hand, she slid a crumpled piece of paper

looded with a dark, violent red. He

expensive wool of his suit jacket. "Kian, wait. Look at her arm.

hen slowly raised his eyes to hers. There was no confusio

voice was low, dead calm, and cut

n, pulling Seraphina into his arms.

ee years of silence, cold shoulders, and empty be

now. She pointed at the paper on the floor. "It's dated last w

s eyes was terrifying. He stood up,

ay." He stepped

see. "You are not taking her out of here without callin

ce snapped. "

ep forward, his shoulder clipping hers hard as he stormed past. It wasn't

ce. The unexpected impact sent her stumbling sideways. Her feet tangled in the ruined rug. She fell bac

crack echoed

ack for a second, then filled with flashing spots. Warm liquid, thick an

rying to force air back into her

second when he heard the impact, his back stiffening, but he hadn't turn

voice echoed down the hallway, f

ic. He had never once

r head wound mingled with the fake stage blood on

re, staring down at her. Their eyes were wide, but not with pity. It wa

lp her. None of them off

ulsed against her palm, hot and sticky. The physical pain was agon

. The ornate plaster meda

was

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Too Late For Regret, Mr. Morrison
Too Late For Regret, Mr. Morrison
“I came home exhausted from an eighteen-hour hospital shift, just wanting to rest in the bed my husband of three years rarely shared with me. Instead, I found his mistress sprawled on our bedroom floor in a pool of stage blood, holding a knife and screaming that I had pushed her and killed her baby. My husband, Kian, rushed in. He didn't care that I was still in my wrinkled scrubs, nor did he look at the blatantly fake ultrasound she threw on the floor. "Shut up, you vicious bitch." He shoved me out of the way so hard that my head cracked open against the sharp marble fireplace. As real blood gushed down my face and blinded me, he simply scooped her up and walked out, leaving me bleeding on the floor while the house staff watched in disgust. As I lay there gasping, my medical training cut through the haze. The chronic weakness and dizzy spells I'd suffered for months weren't from overwork. Kian had been slowly poisoning me. I had played the meek, invisible wife for three years, enduring his coldness and his cheating. I didn't understand how the man I married could not only frame me, but actively try to murder me just to clear the way for his secret lover. I dragged myself up, stitched my own torn scalp without a single tear, and pulled out my hidden military-grade laptop. I signed the divorce papers to claim my guaranteed half of his ten-billion-dollar trust fund, and logged back into my old hacker alias. The meek wife was dead.”