Too Late Mr CEO: Watch Me Reign

Felicity slid the marriage proposal across the wide, black walnut desk.

The thick folder contained a daring proposition: a plan offering herself as the official marriage pawn to secure the Mckinney empire's strategic alliance with the Sterling family. It was a calculated gamble that also contained the end of her three-year secret existence. She kept her eyes locked on the man sitting opposite her, desperate to catch a single flicker of emotion on his face.

Ellsworth Mckinney didn't even blink.

His long, elegant fingers, currently holding a custom fountain pen, paused for a fraction of a second. He lifted his gaze. His dark eyes swept over her face with a crushing, suffocating pressure. A cold, cruel smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

Without a word, he picked up the proposal and dropped it directly into the paper shredder beside his desk.

The harsh, grinding noise of the machine devouring the thick paper was magnified in the dead silence of the CEO's office. Felicity's stomach plummeted. She dug her fingernails so hard into her palms that the skin threatened to break. She swallowed the bitter humiliation rising in her throat and forced herself to maintain eye contact with him.

Ellsworth stood up.

He walked slowly around the desk. His tall, broad-shouldered frame cast a heavy shadow that instantly enveloped her. He stopped inches away, the scent of his expensive cedar cologne mixing with the raw, dangerous tension in the room. He reached out, his thumb and forefinger gripping her chin in a vice-like hold. He forced her to tilt her head up.

"Don't play hard to get with me, Felicity," he warned, his deep voice dripping with mockery. "It doesn't suit you."

Felicity jerked her face away, her neck aching as she broke his grip. She turned her head stubbornly, refusing to let him see the moisture gathering in her eyes. The air between them crackled with a toxic, heavy sexual tension.

Suddenly, the intercom on his desk buzzed.

"Mr. Mckinney," his executive assistant's voice trembled through the speaker. "She's here. Camila is at JFK."

Ellsworth's entire body went rigid. His pupils contracted sharply. The muscles in his jaw ticked as he stared blankly at the intercom.

Felicity watched his reaction, her chest tightening as if a steel band were crushing her ribs. The intense anxiety pooling in her gut told her everything she needed to know.

Ellsworth didn't hesitate. He turned his back on her and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair.

"Stay here," he ordered coldly, already walking toward the door. "Finish the quarterly reports before you leave."

He didn't even look at her pale, bloodless face.

The heavy oak door slammed shut with a deafening thud. Felicity's knees gave out. She collapsed onto the leather sofa, her lungs burning as she gasped for air. Her phone screen lit up on the coffee table. A breaking news notification flashed: Camila Gallegos spotted at JFK Airport. The blurry paparazzi photo of the woman in a white dress stabbed her right in the eyes.

She took a ragged breath. The sharp pain in her chest was unbearable. She pushed herself up, her high heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Looking down at the gray, rain-slicked streets of New York City, she made a silent vow. She would not be anyone's shadow anymore.

Hours later, the grand ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria was a sea of glittering diamonds and designer gowns.

Felicity stood near the edge of the room, holding a flute of champagne. As a senior executive of the Mckinney Group, she was here to manage the annual charity gala's PR. Her face ached from maintaining a perfect, professional smile, masking the sheer exhaustion rotting her from the inside out.

The heavy double doors of the banquet hall suddenly swung open.

The room went dead silent, followed by an explosion of camera flashes. Ellsworth walked in, his arm wrapped firmly around Camila's waist. Camila wore a flowing white gown, looking fragile and ethereal. They were the perfect picture of high-society royalty.

Felicity's hand trembled. A few drops of champagne spilled over the rim, landing on the expensive fabric of her haute couture dress. She stared at their intimate posture, her throat closing up. She couldn't breathe.

Camila leaned into Ellsworth, whispering something in his ear. Then, she guided him straight toward where Felicity was standing. A flash of calculated malice flickered in Camila's eyes before it was replaced by a sweet, innocent smile.

Camila stopped in front of her and extended a delicate hand.

Felicity stared at the hand suspended in the air. Her face remained completely blank. Whispers erupted from the surrounding socialites and media.

Ellsworth's eyes instantly darkened. He adjusted his custom cufflink, a clear sign of his rising temper.

"Say hello to Camila, Felicity," he commanded. His tone left absolutely no room for argument. It was the absolute, crushing weight of his authority.

Felicity ground her teeth together. Her jaw ached.

Seeing the standoff, Camila suddenly gasped. She stumbled forward, her hand jerking upward. The full glass of red wine in her other hand splashed violently across the front of Felicity's pale dress, staining it like fresh blood.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry!" Camila cried out, her eyes instantly welling up with tears. She shrank back, looking terrified.

The media cameras immediately pivoted, lenses zooming in on the drama.

Ellsworth stepped forward, shielding Camila behind his broad back as if Felicity were a dangerous predator about to attack.

"Look what you've done," Ellsworth snapped, his voice lashing out like a whip. "You frightened her. Go to the back, clean yourself up, and leave. You're done for the night."

He stripped her of her dignity in front of the entire city.

Felicity stared at the man who had shared her bed for three years. The last pathetic shred of hope in her heart shattered into dust. She let out a dry, hollow laugh. Without a word, she turned and walked toward the backstage corridor, her ruined dress dragging heavily on the carpet.

The backstage hallway was dim and quiet.

Jax, Camila's PR manager, stepped out of the shadows, blocking Felicity's path. He shoved a printed piece of paper into her chest.

"Read it," Jax sneered.

It was a public apology statement. It required Felicity to admit she had suffered a mental breakdown due to work stress, acting aggressively toward Camila, and praising Camila's grace.

Bile rose in Felicity's throat. She grabbed the paper and ripped it in half, letting the pieces fall to the floor.

Jax just smirked. He pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and handed it to her.

"Speak," Ellsworth's freezing voice came through the speaker.

"I'm not reading that," Felicity said, her voice shaking with rage.

"If you don't walk out onto that stage and read the statement right now," Ellsworth said slowly, "I will cut the year-end bonuses for your entire department. Every single person under you gets nothing."

Felicity's breath hitched. Her nails dug so deeply into her palms that she felt the warm sting of blood. He knew exactly how to break her. Her team had worked 80-hour weeks for a year. She couldn't let them starve because of her pride.

She shoved the phone back at Jax.

Minutes later, she stood in the center of the blindingly bright stage.

The microphone felt like a ten-pound weight in her hand. Below her, hundreds of eyes stared up, filled with mockery and pity. She felt entirely naked.

"I..." Felicity started. Her voice trembled, but she forced the words out, syllable by agonizing syllable. "I apologize for my unprofessional behavior tonight. My stress caused me to act out against Miss Gallegos..."

Every word felt like a razor blade slicing her vocal cords.

In the front row, Ellsworth watched her broken, dead eyes. A sudden, inexplicable spike of irritation hit his chest. He frowned, but Camila leaned her head weakly against his shoulder, and his attention immediately shifted back to her.

Felicity finished the last sentence.

She didn't wait for the applause. She slammed the microphone down onto the wooden podium. A piercing, high-pitched feedback screech blasted through the speakers, making everyone in the room flinch.

She didn't look back. She sprinted off the stage and out the back doors of the hotel.

The freezing New York wind whipped against her face, carrying sharp needles of sleet. She stood on the curb, waving frantically until a yellow cab pulled over. She threw herself into the backseat. The moment the door closed, the dam broke. Hot, desperate tears flooded her face.

As the cab sped away from the Waldorf, her phone buzzed in her purse.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and pulled it out. It was a text from an unknown number.

Looking forward to our cooperation.

At the bottom was a single name. A name that was strictly forbidden in the Mckinney building. The most dangerous predator on Wall Street.