Ex-Wife Rising: The CEO's Regret

The rough texture of the hospital wall scraped against Fallon Terrell's shoulder blades.

She stood in the sterile, brightly lit VIP corridor of a Manhattan private hospital. Her pale pink Chanel suit, normally immaculate, was ruined. Dark streaks of road dirt stained the fabric, and a jagged tear near the elbow exposed a raw, red scrape on her skin. The physical sting was nothing compared to the violent pounding of her heart against her ribs.

She kept her eyes locked on the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. The brass nameplate read Ashely Berger.

Between Fallon and that door stood two massive bodyguards. They belonged to the Mcgowan family. They stood with their feet planted wide, hands clasped in front of them, looking like two impenetrable mountains of muscle and dark fabric. They didn't look at her. They didn't have to. Their presence was a physical barrier, a silent declaration that she was the enemy.

Down the hall, the squeak of rubber soles against linoleum broke the heavy silence.

Two nurses, Brenda Fletcher and Sharon Baker, pushed a metal cart loaded with medical monitors. They slowed their pace as they neared Fallon.

Fallon's hearing was sharp. The adrenaline still pumping through her veins made every sound painfully clear.

"Driving a Bentley," Brenda whispered, leaning closer to Sharon.

"Intentional," Sharon muttered back, her eyes darting toward Fallon.

"Just another jealous psycho wife," Brenda added, the words sharp and cruel.

Brenda turned her head slightly. From the corner of her eye, she shot Fallon a look. It was a heavy mixture of absolute disgust and a sick, hungry excitement.

Fallon's stomach clenched. A wave of nausea rose in her throat, tasting like copper and bile. She curled her fingers inward, her manicured nails digging so deeply into her palms that the skin threatened to break. The physical pain grounded her. She forced her facial muscles to freeze, locking her features into a blank, unreadable mask.

Her phone had vibrated in her pocket ten minutes ago. It was her lawyer. The instructions were brief and cold: Do not speak to anyone under any circumstances. Corbin's jet has taken off from Zurich. He is on his way back.

Footsteps echoed rapidly down the hall. The hospital's PR director marched past. He wore a sharp gray suit and carried a tablet. He didn't even glance at Fallon. He walked straight past the bodyguards and pushed open the door to Ashely's room.

The door clicked shut.

A heavy, suffocating dread settled over Fallon's chest. Her lungs felt too small for the air she was trying to pull in.

Three minutes later, the door swung open again.

It wasn't the PR director who came out. It was a flood of people. Reporters, cameramen, and paparazzi spilled into the hallway like a burst dam.

Before Fallon could even process the movement, the flashes started.

Brilliant, blinding bursts of white light exploded in her face. The sudden brightness sent a sharp, physical ache shooting through her retinas. She flinched, instinctively raising her uninjured arm to shield her eyes from the assault.

"Mrs. Terrell!" a reporter shouted, lunging forward. He shoved a heavy black microphone so close to her face she could smell the stale coffee on his breath. "Do you admit to attempted murder out of jealousy? Did you try to kill Miss Ashely Berger?"

The words hit her like physical blows.

The two bodyguards finally moved. They stepped forward, using their massive frames to block the reporters from getting any closer. But they didn't look back at Fallon. They didn't offer her a safe space. They were just protecting the hospital's property.

Through the chaos, Fallon caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the polished metal doors of the elevator nearby.

She looked like a wreck. Her perfectly styled hair was tangled and wild. Her mascara had smudged beneath her eyes, making her look hollow and deranged. She looked exactly like the monster they were accusing her of being.

The crowd shifted as another figure emerged from the hospital room.

It was Ashely's manager. He stepped into the flashing lights, his face red, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Ashely is broken," he sobbed to the cameras, his voice cracking perfectly. "She has multiple fractures. Her emotional state is completely shattered."

The cameras clicked furiously, capturing every tear.

"She is just an innocent girl who loves acting!" the manager cried out, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. "What did she do wrong to deserve this kind of brutal attack?"

Fallon's throat closed up. The nausea hit her so hard she had to swallow down the bile.

She remembered the crash with terrifying clarity. She remembered the screech of the tires. She remembered Ashely standing on the sidewalk, making direct eye contact with her, and then deliberately lunging forward into the path of the heavy car.

But her dashcam had shattered upon impact. And the traffic camera at that specific intersection was blocked by a construction sign. A blind spot.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh.

She pulled it out with trembling fingers. It was a text from Hosea Daugherty, the family driver.

Madam, Mr. Mcgowan's plane lands in 20 minutes.

Hosea was the only person left in the world who was still willing to give her information.

Fallon stared at the screen until the words blurred. She took a deep, ragged breath. The air smelled of bleach and expensive perfume. She reached down and smoothed the wrinkled fabric of her ruined Chanel skirt. She pulled her shoulders back. She forced her spine to straighten until it hurt.

She could not collapse. She would not let them see her break. Especially not in front of Corbin.

The crowd of reporters suddenly parted.

The head nurse walked through the gap. She wore crisp blue scrubs and a professional, entirely lifeless smile.

She stopped two feet from Fallon. Her eyes dragged up and down Fallon's ruined clothes, looking at her the way one looks at a piece of trash on a clean sidewalk.

"Mrs. Terrell," the nurse said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise. The reporters instantly went dead silent, straining to hear. "Mr. Mcgowan has arrived at the hospital. He wants to know why you are still here."

Fallon's heart skipped a beat.

The reporters reacted like sharks smelling fresh blood in the water. The hallway erupted into a frenzy of shouts and shoving. Every single camera lens pivoted away from the manager and aimed directly at the closed elevator doors.

A heavy, metallic ding echoed through the corridor.

The silver doors slid open slowly.

A tall, imposing figure stood in the center of the elevator. He wore a tailored black suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His tie was straight. His jaw was locked. Despite a fourteen-hour flight, there wasn't a single wrinkle on him.

Corbin Mcgowan. Her husband.

He stepped out of the elevator. His dark eyes swept over the crowd, dismissing the reporters, the nurses, and the bodyguards in a fraction of a second.

Then, his gaze landed on Fallon.

The look in his eyes wasn't just cold. It was a physical blade, sharp and merciless, slicing straight through her chest.