Once His Wife, Now His Worst Regret

The rain had been falling since morning, a steady whisper against the tall glass windows of the penthouse. Amara Hayes-Blackwell stood in the kitchen with her hands wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold. The city outside shimmered with headlights, each one a reminder of a life that kept moving while hers quietly stalled.

She told herself Ethan was working late again. He always was. That was the price of marrying a man whose name was printed across skyscrapers. Success demanded nights alone, dinners that grew cold, birthdays he missed. She had learned to smile through all of it-because loving Ethan had always meant understanding his world came first.

Her phone buzzed. A message from him:

Running late. Don't wait up.

She stared at the words until they blurred. No greeting, no explanation, just the familiar distance dressed up as business. She set the phone down beside the untouched meal she had prepared. Candlelight flickered across the table for two that would, once again, seat only one.

Amara turned off the candles.

In the master bedroom, his suit jacket still hung over a chair. She pressed her fingers to the fabric and inhaled the faint scent of him-cedarwood and something expensive she could never name. It used to calm her; tonight it only made her chest ache.

Her reflection in the mirror startled her. The woman staring back didn't look thirty-she looked tired, older somehow. The softness in her eyes was fading, replaced by something colder.

She wondered when love had begun to feel like waiting for someone who never came home.

By ten, the storm outside had grown heavier. Lightning flashed through the window, and with it came a sudden, unexplainable urge-an instinct whispering that something was wrong.

Ethan's office wasn't far. She told herself she would drop off the contract he had left on the counter, nothing more. She wanted to believe that.

The city lights blurred as she drove. Her heart pounded with every passing block. Maybe he really was busy. Maybe she was paranoid. But deep down, the truth had been building for months, waiting for this night.

When she reached the building, the lobby security greeted her with surprise. "Mr. Blackwell's still upstairs, ma'am," the guard said. "He told us not to disturb him." Her stomach twisted.

She took the private elevator anyway.

The door to his office was half-closed. Light spilled through the gap-warm, golden, and soft. She heard laughter, a woman's laughter, followed by the unmistakable murmur of Ethan's voice.

Amara's fingers tightened on the contract in her hand until the paper crumpled. She pushed the door open.

For one frozen moment, the world stopped moving.

Ethan was there-shirt unbuttoned, lips pressed against another woman's neck, his hands where they had no right to be. The woman turned at the sound of the door, eyes widening in mock surprise.

Time fractured. The rain outside, the thunder, the lights-all of it disappeared under the ringing in Amara's ears.

Ethan's voice came faint