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Chapter 11:PDA
publish date:
2026-05-23 18:12:45
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The Billionaire Baseball Star's Regret Chapter 11:PDA
Dr. Carrie VanceThe first thing I registered was the heat.It wasn't the scorching, terrifying heat of a 103-degree fever. It was a deep, steady, grounding warmth radiating into my back.I opened my eyes. The morning sun was bleeding through the gaps in the heavy blackout curtains of the master suite, painting a sliver of gold across the black silk sheets. I was lying perfectly still, trapped.Jake’s massive arm was wrapped tightly around my waist, pulling me flush against his bare chest. My back was pressed to his torso, my legs tangled with his uninjured left leg. I could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing.Panic spiked in my chest. I tried to slide forward, millimeter by millimeter, hoping to slip out from under his grip before he woke up.His arm instantly flexed, locking me in place."Don't move," he murmured. His voice was rough, thick with sleep, vibrating directly against my spine.I froze. "Jake. Let me go.""Why?" he breathed. I felt his face shift against
The Billionaire Baseball Star's Regret Chapter 10: The Vulnerable Legend
Dr. Carrie VanceCrash!The sharp, metallic clatter echoed through the adjoining doors, shattering the 2:00 AM silence of my suite. It was followed by a heavy, muffled thud that rattled the floorboards.I sat up instantly, throwing off the silk sheets."Jake?" I called out.No answer. Just a low, ragged groan."Jake, if you tried to walk to the bathroom on that knee, I swear to God I am going to kill you myself!" I yelled, snatching my emergency medical bag from the vanity and throwing open the mahogany doors.I didn't find him in the bathroom. He was tangled in the black sheets of his platform bed, his massive frame convulsing in a violent fit of shivering. The insulated silver ice pitcher lay on its side on the rug, a puddle of water soaking into the plush fibers."Get out, Carrie," he gritted through chattering teeth. He didn't even open his eyes. He just clamped a hand over his face, turning his head away from the light spilling in from my room."Shut up, Jake. You’re cooking your
The Billionaire Baseball Star's Regret Chapter 9: The Clause
Dr. Carrie VanceMy right palm was still burning.I stood in the center of my guest suite, the heavy silence of the penthouse pressing against my eardrums. I had slapped him.I had struck a multi-billionaire, the head of the most powerful sports agency on the West Coast, a man who could have me erased from the medical registry with a single phone call to the right board member.But I didn't regret it.The moment that word groupie had left his mouth, the two years of meticulous planning, the elite European training, and the cold mask of Dr. Vance had vaporized. I was suddenly back on the wet sidewalk of the Diamond Club, a broken girl in a torn emerald dress, listening to the world laugh at her execution.A heavy, authoritative knock shattered the quiet.I didn't move. I didn't breathe.The door didn't wait for my invitation. It swung open, clicking sharply against the stopper.Jake stood in the frame. The charcoal suit jacket was gone, his white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down hi
The Billionaire Baseball Star's Regret Chapter 8: The Firing Squad
Dr. Carrie VanceThe 5:00 PM sun over Los Angeles was a bruised, angry orange, bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse. It was the kind of light that revealed every crack in the porcelain, every microscopic flaw in a person’s armor.I stood in front of the hallway mirror, adjusting the lapels of a cream-colored blazer that fit me like a second skin. Underneath, I wore a silk camisole and tailored trousers—professional, yet soft enough to sell the "fiancée" narrative. I looked like a woman who was in control. I looked like a woman who didn't have a million-dollar blackmail check floating in a douchebag’s pocket or a bigamy scandal hanging over her head.The rhythmic thump-click sounded behind me.Jake emerged from his suite. He had traded the walker for a silver-headed cane, but he was still favoring his left side. He wore a charcoal suit that cost more than a mid-sized house, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked like the king of the world, provided
The Billionaire Baseball Star's Regret Chapter 7: Ghost From The Past
Dr. Carrie VanceThe elevator in Mark’s apartment building smelled exactly the same: a stale cocktail of industrial lemon cleaner, burnt garlic, and the lingering dampness of a recurring leak in the basement. It was the smell of a life I had clawed my way out of, a life where I had spent three years paying the bills while a douchebag told me I was "lucky" to be his support system.Coming back here felt like a regression, a glitch in the timeline. I stood in the small, flickering box of the elevator, my hands gloved in black leather, gripping my medical bag. I wasn't wearing liquid gold today. I was wearing a sharp, tailored navy coat and a pair of heels that cost more than Mark’s annual car insurance. I looked like a woman who could buy the building and have it demolished by noon.But inside, my pulse was a frantic rhythm against my ribs.The elevator doors groaned open. I walked down the hall, the carpet threadbare under my feet. I didn't need to check the door numbers. I remembered
The Billionaire Baseball Star's Regret Chapter 6: The Cracks.
Dr. Carrie VanceThe interior of the limousine was a dark, leather-lined vacuum. Outside, the neon lights of the Sunset Strip smeared across the tinted glass in streaks of violent violet and predatory yellow, but inside, the air was static.Jake was slumped in the far corner of the seat, his head back, his eyes closed. In the dim glow of the floor lights, his face looked like it had been carved from grey stone. The midnight-blue tuxedo jacket was unbuttoned, his silk tie pulled loose and hanging like a noose. He didn't look like a hero. He looked like a man who had been dismantled and put back together with rusty wire.I sat opposite him, my back rigid. The gold silk of my gown felt heavy now, a metallic weight that chafed against my skin. My heart was still hammering a jagged rhythm against my ribs—a leftover high from the roar of the crowd.But mostly, it was the kiss.The phantom pressure of his lips was still there, a burning brand on my mouth that I couldn't scrub away. It wasn't
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