Rosewood. The name slammed into Christian Ethan’s skull like a bullet. It echoed in the sudden, deafening silence of his office, ricocheting off the glass walls that overlooked a city he thought he owned. Rosewood. The phantom Alpha investor. The ghost in the machine systematically dismantling his empire piece by piece. The architect of his impending doom. Scarlett. His blood ran cold. The phone slipped from his numb fingers, clattering onto the marble floor. It couldn't be. The meek, quiet girl with the downcast eyes who served him tea? The woman he had tormented, humiliated, and discarded like trash? Betrayal was a familiar sting, but this… this was an annihilation of his reality. He stumbled back, his hand flying to his chest, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. He had hunted a monster, a traitor in his midst, only to realize he was the one who had created her. He had forged his executioner with three years of relentless cruelty. Every memory assaulted him. Her quiet resilience. The flicker of defiance in her eyes he had always mistaken for insolence. Her uncanny ability to be exactly where she needed to be. He had called her a spy. The bitter irony tasted like acid in his throat. She wasn't a spy sent to destroy him; she was the empress he had tried to break, now returned to claim her throne. Regret, potent and suffocating, clawed at him. It wasn't just about his company. It was about *her*. The curve of her smile he'd rarely seen. The warmth he'd felt that one night he was feverish and she’d held his hand. The loyalty he had thrown back in her face. He didn't need a chauffeur. He didn't need security. He grabbed his keys and sprinted from the office, a man possessed. He drove through the city like a maniac, the sleek Bugatti a blur of chrome and desperation. He had to see her. He had to beg. He had to undo the damage before she burned his entire world to the ground. He skidded to a halt before the towering gates of the Avery estate. It wasn't a home; it was a fortress. Cold, imposing, and utterly impenetrable. The very sight of it screamed of a level of wealth and power that dwarfed his own, a secret dynasty hidden in plain sight. He had driven past it a hundred times without a second glance. Now, it was the center of his universe. He slammed his fist on the intercom. "Scarlett! Open the gate! It's me, Christian!" A disembodied voice, crisp and professional, answered. "Mrs. Ethan is not accepting visitors." Mrs. Ethan. The name felt like a mockery. "She is NOT Mrs. Ethan anymore! Let me in! I need to speak to Scarlett Avery!" Silence. The intercom went dead. Christian hammered his fist against the cold iron, his knuckles splitting, blood smearing the bars. "SCARLETT!" His voice was swallowed by the sheer scale of the estate. He was a gnat buzzing at the walls of a castle. The billionaire CEO, the alpha of the corporate world, was locked out like a common beggar. Then, the sky opened. A single drop of rain hit his cheek, then another. Within seconds, a torrential downpour began, drenching his thousand-dollar suit, plastering his hair to his forehead. He didn't move. Let it rain. Let it wash him away. Karma had come for him, and it was as cold and unforgiving as the storm. He stood there. For an hour. Then two. His shouts became hoarse pleas, his pleas devolved into whispered apologies to the unmoving gates. The rain was relentless, turning the driveway into a river, but Christian’s feet were rooted to the spot. His pride was a distant memory, burned away by the all-consuming fire of regret. High above, in the penthouse suite that spanned the entire top floor of the mansion, Scarlett Avery stood before a wall of glass. A flute of vintage champagne bubbled in her hand. She watched the pathetic, drenched figure of her husband—her ex-husband—with an expression of utter tranquility. Her gaze was no longer meek. It was not submissive. It was the ice-cold composure of an empress watching a vanquished foe. There was no pity in her eyes, no lingering affection. Only a profound, chilling emptiness. "He's been out there for six hours, Ma'am," her head of security, a formidable man named Jax, said softly from behind her. "The press is starting to circle. Shall we have him removed?" Scarlett took a delicate sip of her champagne, the taste of victory crisp on her tongue. "No, Jax. Let him wait. Let the world see the great Christian Ethan brought to his knees." She watched as he shivered, his body wracked with cold. She watched as he sank to the ground, his head in his hands, a broken man at the gates of the woman he broke. The hours bled into one another. Day turned to a waterlogged dusk, and dusk into a black, stormy night. Twenty-four hours. He had stood there for a full day, a testament to his desperation. Finally, as the dawn threatened to break, she pressed a button on her console. A powerful, hidden loudspeaker system crackled to life, its voice booming over the sound of the storm, startling Christian from his miserable stupor. He looked up, his face a mask of hope and agony. Her voice, clear and amplified, cut through the rain. It was not the voice of the timid girl he knew. It was the voice of a queen delivering a verdict. "The rain outside isn't as cold as your heart was for three years, Mr. Ethan." The words hit him harder than any physical blow. They were a perfect, cruel reflection of his own soulless treatment of her. He saw her then, a silhouette on the highest balcony, a glass raised in a mock toast before she turned her back and disappeared into the light. The gates remained closed. The voice fell silent. He was alone again, the echo of her words branding his soul. This wasn't seduction. This wasn't a plea for reconciliation. This was a declaration of war. A war he had already lost. Suddenly, a black umbrella appeared over his head. Christian looked up into the impassive face of a man in a sharp, dark suit. It was Jax, her head of security. "Our Empress instructed me to give you this," Jax said, his voice devoid of emotion. He handed Christian a single, pristine white rose—a Rosewood. Christian’s trembling fingers brushed the soft petals. Hope, fragile and insane, flickered in his chest. Was this a sign? "She also gave me a message," Jax continued, his eyes like chips of flint. "She said your real punishment has not yet begun. Chloe Vance's fate was just the appetizer." Christian’s blood froze. "Tomorrow," Jax said, leaning in closer, his voice a menacing whisper, "the world will learn the truth about what really happened to your father."

Chapter 12: The Rain of Regret