The Billionaire's Greatest Regret

SCARLETT FOSTER

The rain didn't just fall—it hammered against my paper-thin umbrella as if the sky itself was personally trying to crush whatever dignity I had left.

I pulled my thin cardigan tighter around my chest, but the icy autumn wind cut right through it. In my right hand, I squeezed my leather portfolio so hard my knuckles turned white. Inside were my resume, my portfolio, and the last remaining shred of my self-respect.

Two hours ago, my landlord had handed me an eviction notice with a cold, practiced smile. “You have until midnight to clear out your things, Miss Foster. Business is business.”

And three days before that, my employer of two years laid me off via a five-second email. No severance. No warning. Just a digital slip of paper effectively telling me I was no longer needed.

My bank account currently sat at a pathetic twelve dollars and forty-three cents.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm the wild racing of my pulse. You can do this, Scarlett, I told myself, blinking away the tears stinging my eyes. Just get through this interview. You just need one yes. Just one.

I stepped onto the grand marble steps of the Grand Regent Hotel. The towering glass doors swung open, welcoming me into a world that felt completely foreign. Chandelier lights gleamed against polished floors, reflecting the effortless wealth of people walking past in tailor-made suits and designer dresses.

I felt horribly out of place. My heels were soaked, leaving damp footprints on the immaculate rug, and my wet hair clung to the sides of my face. But I couldn't afford to care about my appearance right now.

An emergency, last-minute interview for a high-paying executive assistant role at a prestigious firm hosting their private gala tonight—that was my absolute last lifeline.

"Name?" the receptionist asked, her gaze sweeping over my soggy appearance with a mix of pity and distaste.

"Scarlett. Scarlett Foster," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in my knees. "I'm here for the interview with the senior recruitment director. Mr. Hayes, I believe?"

She tapped away on her tablet, her polished acrylic nails clicking rhythmically. "Ah, yes. Room 402. Take the private elevators to the fourth floor. Go straight down the hall. They're finishing up the last round of candidates now."

"Thank you," I breathed out, managing a faint smile.

I hurried toward the glass elevators, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every step toward that elevator felt like walking toward a firing squad, but I had no choice. It was either get this job tonight or sleep in my car—if the towing company hadn't taken that away too.

As the elevator doors smoothly glided open, I stepped inside and pushed the button for the fourth floor. I stared at my reflection in the mirrored wall. Pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, and lips trembling from both the chill and raw desperation.

*Pull it together,* I reprimanded myself, fixing my posture and pressing my shoulders back. *They need someone capable, not a charity case. Leave your baggage at the door.*

The bell dinged soft and clear. *Fourth floor.*

The hallway was lined with thick velvet carpets that muffled my footsteps. Dim, golden sconces cast long shadows along the dark wood paneling. Up ahead, a pair of heavy mahogany double doors stood slightly ajar. Warm light and the low hum of muffled voices spilled out into the corridor.

I checked my cheap wristwatch. Exactly 7:00 PM. On time.

I adjusted my portfolio, smoothed down my damp skirt, and took one final, grounding breath. Reaching out, I pushed the heavy door open further and stepped into the suite.

"Excuse me," I began, my voice clear as I looked up. "I'm Scarlett Foster, here for the—"

The words completely died in my throat.

The air was sucked straight out of my lungs, leaving me frozen on the threshold.

Standing near the floor-to-ceiling window at the far end of the luxurious suite was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a bespoke charcoal suit. He had one hand casually tucked into his pocket while holding a glass of amber liquid in the other. He was mid-sentence, speaking to an older gentleman beside him, but the moment the door creaked, he paused.

He turned around slowly.

My breath hitched. The entire room seemed to tilt on its axis, the noise fading into a deafening silence.

Sharp jawline. Piercing gray eyes that used to look at me like I was his entire world. Dark hair styled with effortless perfection.

Caleb Montgomery.

Five years. It had been five long, agonizing years since he walked out of my life, leaving me with a shattered heart and a million unanswered questions. Five years since the man I loved more than life itself vanished, treating our relationship like a temporary mistake.

And now, here he was. Older. Immeasurably richer. More dangerous than ever.

His gray eyes locked onto mine. For a fraction of a second, I saw a flicker of pure, unadulterated shock cross his striking features. His knuckles turned white around the crystal glass in his hand.

"Scarlett?" he spoke, his voice deep, smooth, and laced with a familiar richness that sent a violent shiver straight down my spine.

My instinct screamed at me to turn around and run as fast as my soaked heels could carry me. But my feet remained glued to the floor, my heart pounding so loudly I was certain he could hear it from across the room.

Caleb set his glass down on the wooden side table with a slow, deliberate motion, never breaking eye contact with me for even a single second.