Too Late For Your Broken Crown

There was an open secret in the upper-bracket social circles of Chicago.

Beckett Shaw, the ruthless heir of Shaw Enterprises, was marrying his kept woman of five yearsnot out of love, but out of sheer spite toward his first love.

In the master bedroom of his Gold Coast penthouse, Beckett wrapped his arms around me from behind. His breath was hot against the crook of my neck, smelling faintly of expensive scotch and cedarwood.

"Gwen," he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy warmth. "Its been five years. I can barely even remember what Cynthia looks like."

He turned me around, holding my face in his hands. "Give me a child after the wedding, and well build a real life together. Just you and me."

I looked into his dark eyes, watching the sudden, intense affection swirling in them. My chest tightened, and my eyes stung with a sudden rush of heat. I nodded, leaning into his touch like the obedient girl I had always trained myself to be.

I actually believed him. I believed that five years of quiet, devoted companionship had finally thawed the icy edges of Beckett Shaw's heart.

Until the night before the wedding.

I was walking down the hallway of our new suburban estate when I heard muffled voices coming from the master suite. Cynthia Wardhis first love, the girl who had left him to marry a European baronet, and who had just returned to the States after a bitter divorcewas standing inside, confronting him.

"Are you serious, Beckett?" her voice cut through the heavy oak door, sharp and trembling with indignation. "To force me back to Chicago, youre really going to marry some cheap escort just to make me suffer?"

Inside, there was a long, heavy pause, followed by the low, dragging sound of Beckett exhaling smoke.

"Even if shes just a placeholder," Beckett said, his tone dripping with a quiet, lethal indifference, "shes the one Im putting at the altar. At least Gwen doesn't pack her bags and run off with another man the second things get difficult. At least she didn't leave me alone for five years."

The air in the hallway seemed to drop to freezing.

Inside the room, Cynthias voice cracked, turning into a frantic, desperate plea. "Beckett, I divorced my husband for you! I came back for you! Are you really going to go through with this tomorrow? Are you really going to marry her?"

A dry, rustling silence followed. Then came the sound of Beckett fastening his cufflinks.

When he spoke again, his voice had returned to its usual, haughty calm. "Cynthia, you didnt honestly think that the moment you showed up, Id just fall back to my knees, did you? The wedding is happening tomorrow. And I want you sitting in the front row, watching me put a ring on Gwen's finger."

I stood frozen in the dim hallway, my fingers gripping the paper in my pocketthe positive pregnancy scan I had picked up from the clinic only three hours ago.

I couldn't move my feet. I didn't even have the right to push open the door.

The five years of devotion I thought had finally borne fruit were nothing but a weapon. I was just a tool he was using to bleed his ex-wife dry.

I didn't storm in like a madwoman.

Instead, I walked down the hall, dropped the ultrasound scan into the silver trash can by the stairs, and stepped out into the freezing Chicago night wind.

It was nearly midnight when Beckett returned to our city penthouse.

The moment he saw me sitting on the sofa, his eyes lit up. He held out a wrapped bundle of white lisianthus flowers, presenting them to me with a boyish, almost proud grin.

"The florist finished setting up the pavilion by Lake Michigan, baby," he said, pulling me into a tight embrace, burying his face in my hair. "Its covered in your favorite lisianthus. Tomorrow, youre going to be the most beautiful bride this city has ever seen."

He held me so tightly I could barely breathe. "Its only when Im next to you that I feel grounded. Gwen, youre never going to leave me, right?"

I sat rigid in his arms, my face blank.

If I hadn't heard his conversation with Cynthia, I would have spent the night worrying about his hectic schedule, convincing myself that this was what true love felt like.

But as he leaned closer, the heavy, sweet scent of a womans expensive French perfume invaded my senses.

I had the quiet, practiced dignity of a kept woman. I knew when to look away. But tonight, I couldn't force myself to play the part.

I took a slow step back, slipping out of his embrace.

Becketts hands remained suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, his posture stiffening.

"Where is the silver tie clip I bought you last month?" I asked, looking him dead in the eye. My voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it, reaching out to pinch my earlobe with an easy, patronizing smile. "I must have misplaced it during the dinner meeting tonight. Don't worry, Ill have my assistant track it down tomorrow."

I didn't flinch away from his touch. I just stared into those arrogant, old-money eyeseyes accustomed to owning everything they looked at.

"Beckett," I said softly, "since Cynthia is back, lets call off the wedding."

The smile on his face froze.

He was so used to my obedience over the last five years that he had never expected me to be the one to rip the curtain down. The warmth in his eyes drained away, replaced by a cold, unfamiliar glare.

"Gwen, a wedding of this scale isn't something you get to cancel," he said, his voice dropping an octave. He stepped closer, towering over me. "Youve always been the smart one. There are a thousand women in this city who would crawl through broken glass to be Mrs. Shaw. Don't lose your head at the finish line."

Beckett once told me that I was the first woman who had ever actively pitched herself to him.

Before I met him, I was a struggling actress, suffocating on the fringes of the indie film scene, desperate to avoid the greasy, bloated producers who viewed girls like me as currency.

At a high-profile charity gala, I had slipped away during the dinner service, cornering Beckett Shaw outside the private restroom. I didn't play coy; I laid myself bare and told him exactly what I wanted: protection, stability, and a way out of the meat market.

Beckett had looked me up and down, his gaze heavy and assessing, the tip of his cigarette glowing like a dying star in the dark hallway.

"Youre very young to bind yourself to a man like me," he had said, blowing a thin stream of smoke over my head. "Are you sure youve thought this through?"

After that night, the indie film scene lost a promising face. And the Shaw estate gained a perfectly obedient canary.

When his personal assistant handed me the contract, his voice was filled with a strange, quiet envy. "You're very lucky, Ms. Collins. In all his years, Mr. Shaw has never let a woman stay the night."

I spent the night of my wedding eve dreaming of that first meeting.

When I woke up, I was already in my wedding dress, sitting alone in a small, drafty holding room at the luxury hotel.

There was no grand motorcade. No family greeting me.

The Shaw familys elderly butler walked in, his eyes carrying that familiar, quiet disdain he had worn for five years. "Ms. Collins, Mrs. Shaw senior had her spiritual adviser run the charts again last night. He claims the alignment today is highly inauspicious. The ceremony has been postponed."

I kept my smile pinned to my face, nodding politely. "I understand."

But we both knew the truth.

There was no room for spiritual charts in a family that worshipped compound interest. It was simply a matter of old money drawing its borders.

The holding room was freezing, the air conditioning humming loudly in the silence.

On the velvet sofa sat my parents, looking small and deeply uncomfortable in their cheap off-the-rack formal wear. Next to them were two of my college friends who had flown in to be my bridesmaids.

I forced myself to walk over to them, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. "Mom, Dad... I'm so sorry. There was an issue with the scheduling..."

I bowed my head, offering a deep, silent apology to everyone in the room.

When I straightened up, my father was rubbing his calloused hands together, his face flushed with embarrassment, while my friends whispered quietly among themselves.

In five years, I had never once told them about the nature of my relationship with Beckett. Suddenly, they were told I was marrying a multi-billionaire, only to be left standing in a cold backroom on the morning of the wedding.

My pride was ground into dust, scattered across the polished marble floor.

Before I could comfort my mother, the heavy double doors were pushed open.

Cynthia Ward marched in, wearing a vibrant, custom-tailored red silk dress that practically screamed defiance. She swept her eyes over my family, her lips curling into a smug sneer.

"Oh, sweetie, theres no scheduling error," she said, her voice dripping with artificial pity. "Becketts mother found out I was back in town. She was never going to let a woman with a price tag on her head walk down their aisle."

Seeing the color drain from my face, she stepped closer, leaning in. "Do you want to know what old Mrs. Shaw actually said? She said shed rather leave the seat empty than let a paid escort play house in her family home."

My mothers eyes filled with tears. My fathers chest heaved with rage, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. He took a step toward her, but I grabbed his arm, my nails digging deep into my own palms to keep from shaking.

Just as I was about to scream at her, a pair of warm, heavy hands settled onto my waist.

Beckett had arrived. He pulled me flush against his side, his eyes burning with a dark, lethal intensity as he glared at Cynthia.

"Who let her in here?" Becketts voice was a low growl. "If you ever show your face near Gwen again, Cynthia, I will personally ensure your familys firm is run out of this state by Monday morning."

Cynthias face went pale. Before she could speak, two of Beckett's security guards grabbed her by the arms and dragged her out of the room.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Beckett turned around and, in front of my trembling parents, took my hand in his. His grip was tight, almost desperate.

"I apologize for the distress, everyone," Beckett said, his voice loud and clear. "The real reason we are postponing the ceremony is because Gwen is in her first trimester. The doctor advised against any unnecessary stress. Weve decided to postpone the wedding and combine it with our child's christening."

Once the room cleared, leaving only the two of us in the quiet bridal suite, the silence returned.

I slowly placed my hand over my flat stomach, my voice trembling. "Beckett... was any of that true?"

The man rubbing his temples paused. He looked down at my hand resting on my stomach, a cold, amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Gwen, you didn't actually think you were going to have my baby, did you?"

My heart stopped. Before I could explain that I actually was pregnant, Beckett let out a dry scoff.

"If I didn't tell them you were pregnant, the Shaw Enterprises stock would have plunged five percent by tomorrow morning on rumors of a jilted bride. Besides," he added, his eyes flashing with a cruel satisfaction, "Cynthia didn't look miserable enough when she left. I need her to stew in that jealousy for a few more days. Itll teach her a lesson."

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

He looked at my pale face, his expression turning slightly mocking. "Do you really think kept women get to play house with their benefactors? We dont belong in the same world, Gwen. I pay you for your time, not your feelings."

For the next two weeks, Beckett didn't come home once.

The white lisianthus in the living room withered into brown, crispy husks, their petals scattering across the hardwood floor. I didn't bother cleaning them up.

The next time I saw him was on the television screen during a live broadcast of a Shaw Enterprises press conference.

Beckett stood at the podium in a bespoke charcoal suit, his posture impeccable. It was the exact suit I had spent three weeks picking out for our rehearsal dinner. Back then, he had dismissed it as too theatrical.

Now, he was wearing it while holding Cynthias hand under the flashing lights, his face softened by a warmth I had never seen.

"Five years ago, there was a terrible misunderstanding between Ms. Ward and myself," Beckett said to the crowd of reporters. "Next month, we will be holding a private ceremony on Lake Michigan to celebrate our marriage."

The room erupted into murmurs. A bold reporter stepped forward, raising a microphone. "Mr. Shaw, what about your previous engagement to Gwen Collins? There were rumors of a pregnancy..."

The warmth vanished from Beckett's face instantly.

He stared directly into the camera lens, his expression hardening into a wall of cold, professional detachment. "Ms. Collins was well aware of my desire for a family. In a desperate bid to force her way into my family, she went so far as to forge a pregnancy test. I do not tolerate that kind of manipulation in my personal or professional life."

I sat quietly on the sofa, a pair of wooden needles in my hands, slowly knitting a tiny pair of yellow baby booties.

My phone began to vibrate violently on the coffee table.

When I picked it up, my mother's sobbing voice filled the quiet room. "Gwen... marrying into that kind of wealth is like swallowing broken glass. I don't want you to destroy yourself just to keep up with those people. Come home, baby. Please."

My hand slipped.

The sharp wooden needle pierced my index finger. A bright bead of crimson blood welled up, dripping onto the soft yellow yarn, blooming like a tiny, violent flower.

I quieted my mother with a few soft lies and hung up the phone.

With a deep, exhausting weariness, I stood up and walked over to my vanity, pulling open the bottom drawer.

Lying right next to the non-disclosure agreement I had signed five years ago was an official ultrasound report from three days prior.

The image showed a tiny, dark shadow. The report noted a strong fetal heartbeat and the faint, delicate outline of a spine.

That afternoon, I put on a black face mask and drove to the private hospital owned by the Shaw family's medical group.

The chief of obstetrics recognized me instantly, her manner overly deferential. But the moment she looked at the termination consent form in my hand, her face went white. She reached frantically for the desk phone. "Ms. Collins, I... I have to notify Mr. Shaw immediately."

I reached out, pressing my hand firmly over the receiver. I forced a small, tired smile. "Why? Men are allowed to keep women in the dark. Why can't a woman keep a secret too?"

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Don't bother calling him. The baby isn't his."

The doctor froze, staring at me as if I had lost my mind.

I could see the frantic calculations running through her headthe assumption of a massive, career-ending scandal. Without another word, she signed her name on the authorization line.

I took the paper back, turned around, and walked into the cold prep room.

On the line marked Patient Signature, I wrote my name.

Loss is a two-way street.

If Beckett Shaw was willing to let me go, then I was going to make sure I left nothing of myself behind.

Two hours later, my body aching and empty, I walked out of the hospital doors.

A sharp spring breeze swept across Lake Michigan, carrying the scent of thawing ice. I looked out over the gray water, feeling an odd, weightless peace for the first time in five years.

Standing on the crowded street corner, I dialed an old friend who had moved to Europe years ago.

"I need a new identity," I said, my voice barely carrying over the wind. "As fast as possible."

"I want to go somewhere Beckett Shaw will never find me."

By evening, Beckett was waiting for me at the penthouse.

The anesthesia had mostly worn off, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in my lower abdomen. My back was damp with cold sweat.

Beckett stood near the glass window, keeping a deliberate, polite distance from me.

"The reporter who asked that question at the press conference won't be working in Chicago anymore," he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "I've settled things with the major networks. You're getting older, Gwen. It's time you moved on and lived a normal life."

He lit a cigarette, his eyes lingering on my face with a faint, unspoken regret.

We had lived together for five years. We knew each other too well. We both knew this was the end.

"Gwen," he said softly, "if your family had a different name, I really would have made you Mrs. Shaw."

I nodded quietly. "I know."

Seeing my compliance, Beckett pushed two thick leather folders across the marble kitchen island.

"You gave me five years of your life. These two lakefront properties are yours. Consider it a parting gift." He paused. "If you ever run into financial trouble, contact my assistant. Hell take care of it."

I didn't look at the deeds. I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom of the release form. My hand didn't shake.

I pushed the signed documents back toward him, keeping my eyes on his face, offering him one last, gentle smile.

Beckett seemed taken aback by how quickly I had signed. He stared at me, his eyes dark and complicated.

"Gwen... is there anything else you want?"

Beckett, what else could I possibly ask for?

The divide between us was a chasm of old money and power. The more I wanted, the less I would ever have.

I looked at the cigarette burning down between his fingers. "You're getting older, Beckett. You should really smoke less."

Our final dinner ended without another word.

I packed my single suitcase and climbed into the back of his Mercedes. The pain in my stomach was so sharp I had to curl into a ball against the leather seat.

As the car pulled out of the iron gates, a sleek red sports car passed us, heading toward the house. Cynthia was moving in.

I looked through the tinted window, watching the warm lights of the master bedroom flicker on. On the sheer curtains, a slender silhouette reached up to drape her arms around a mans neck.

The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror. "Ms. Collins, Mr. Shaw instructed me to take you to the lakefront property. Shall we head there now?"

I pulled my gaze away from the house, looking at the familiar skyline of the city I was leaving behind.

"No," I said quietly. "Take me to O'Hare Airport."

Back at the estate, Beckett was pacing the living room, a strange, suffocating restlessness clawing at his chest.

Upstairs, Cynthia was tossing my remaining things out of the closet, her voice carrying down the hall. "Cheap polyester trash. How did you let her keep her things in our room?"

With a sharp clatter, a thick manila envelope rolled down the stairs, landing right at Beckett's feet.

A folded piece of thermal paper slid out.

Beckett looked down. The moment his eyes registered the black-and-white ultrasound image, his knees buckled. He collapsed onto his knees on the hardwood floor.

His fingers shook so violently he could barely pick up the paper.

He scrambled for his phone, dialing his driver's number three times before the call finally went through.

"Where is she? Did she get to the penthouse?" he roared, his voice cracking.

On the other end, the drivers voice was trembling. "Mr. Shaw... Ms. Collins didn't go to the penthouse. She... she had me drop her off at O'Hare."

Realizing what was happening, Beckett tore off his tie, bolted out the front door, and scrambled into his car. "Stop her! Block the terminal! Don't let her plane take off! Now!"

"It's too late, Mr. Shaw," the driver whispered.

"Shes already cleared security. But before she left... she told me to give you a message."