The 100-Point Plan For His Regret

Ariana led the way into the restaurant, which was the same one where the accident had happened. It had been quickly renovated and reopened. She pointed out the new decorations, her hand resting possessively on Blake' s arm.

"I always dreamed of having a place like this, Blake," she said wistfully. "A space for art and beauty."

"I remember," Blake said, his voice soft. "You wanted high ceilings, exposed brick, and a crystal chandelier right in the center. You said it would 'drip starlight.' "

Ariana looked at him, amazed. "You remember that? I said that when we were seventeen."

"I remember everything you' ve ever said," he replied, and the sincerity in his voice was a knife in Caroline' s gut.

They were seated in a private booth. Blake took the menu, his eyes scanning it with practiced ease. "We' ll have the seared scallops, the truffle risotto, and the duck confit."

Ariana laughed, a light, tinkling sound. "Blake, you ordered all my favorites. You should ask Caroline what she likes." She said it with an air of sweet concern, but her eyes, when they met Caroline' s, were sharp with malice.

Blake turned to Caroline, a blank look on his face. He pushed the menu towards her. "Sorry. I… I don' t know what you like to eat."

Three years. For three years, she had cooked for him, ordered for him, packed his lunches. He had eaten the food she prepared every single day, and he didn' t know. He didn't know the simplest thing about her.

The humiliation was a physical force, pressing down on her, making it hard to breathe. She saw the smug satisfaction in Ariana' s eyes, the casual indifference in Blake' s. It was all too much.

"Excuse me," Caroline said, her voice tight. She stood up and pushed her way out of the booth. "I need some air."

She walked quickly towards the exit, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of their shared history. She heard footsteps behind her. It was Ariana.

"Let me show you the way to the powder room," Ariana said, her voice dripping with false kindness.

In the empty corridor, Ariana dropped the act. She blocked Caroline' s path.

"You should just give up, you know," Ariana said, her voice low and cold. "You see how he is with me. He remembers every little thing about me. He doesn' t even know your favorite food. You' re just a placeholder, Caroline. A temporary solution until I was ready to come back to him."

Every word was a confirmation of a truth Caroline already knew, but hearing it spoken aloud was still devastating.

"He loves me," Ariana continued, her smile turning cruel. "He built his career for me. He ran into a burning building for me. He' s giving up his future for me. What has he ever done for you?"

Caroline felt a wave of dizziness. The walls seemed to be closing in.

"What do you want, Ariana?" Caroline asked, her voice shaking.

"I want you to leave," Ariana said simply. "He' s mine. He has always been mine. You' re just in the way."

As she spoke, there was a loud creaking sound from above. Both women looked up. The large, ornate chandelier-the replacement for the one that had fallen before-was swaying ominously.

A collective gasp went through the restaurant, followed by screams.

Blake came running. His eyes darted between the two women and the falling chandelier. There was a split second of hesitation. A choice.

He lunged for Ariana.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back, shielding her with his body as the massive fixture of crystal and metal crashed to the ground right where Caroline was standing.

The last thing Caroline saw before the world exploded in pain and went dark was Blake holding Ariana, his back to her, protecting the only person who mattered.

She woke to the blinding lights of a hospital ceiling. Every part of her body screamed in agony. Her head was bandaged, her arm was in a cast, and a sharp pain radiated from her abdomen. The room was empty. There were no flowers. No concerned husband. She was alone.

A nurse came in, her face grim. She checked Caroline' s vitals.

"You' re very lucky, Mrs. Santos. You have a concussion, a broken arm, and multiple lacerations. But you' re alive."

Caroline looked at the empty chair beside her bed.

She reached for the small purse on her nightstand. Inside, wrapped in a silk cloth, was the black journal. She found a pen. Her hand ached, but she wrote with grim determination.

-15 Points: He watched a chandelier fall on me and didn' t even try to help. He chose her.

A young nurse' s aide came in to change her IV bag. She saw the notebook. "What' s that?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

"It' s a scorecard for my marriage," Caroline said, her voice flat. "When it hits zero, the game is over."

The aide leaned closer, her eyes wide. "Wow. You' re almost there. Only five points left."

Just then, the door opened, and Blake walked in. He looked tired and disheveled. He had been with Ariana. Of course, he had.

"What are you two talking about?" he asked, his gaze falling on the open journal in Caroline' s hand.

Caroline POV:

He took a long stride toward the hospital bed, his gaze locked onto the worn, black leather diary in my hands. His shoulders were squared, his jaw tight. It was the stance of a predator defending its territory. Blake’s need for absolute control extended to everything I touched, everything I breathed.

My heart rate spiked, the monitor beside my bed beeping in a sudden, frantic rhythm. I gripped the edges of the book so hard my knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white. This diary was the only place I existed. It was the silent receiver of three years of a loveless marriage, the countdown to my escape.

"What the hell is that?" Blake demanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl that rattled the plastic cups on my nightstand. "What are you hiding from me, Caroline?"

Panic clawed at my throat, tasting like copper. I forced myself to swallow it down. I drew in a shallow breath, ignoring the sharp stab in my broken ribs, and lifted my chin to meet his furious stare.

I let the warmth drain from my eyes. I pictured the freezing, empty rooms of my third foster home, the place where I learned to lock my soul away behind a blank face. I let my expression flatline into a pool of dead, stagnant water.

I didn't pull the diary to my chest. That would show guilt. Instead, I moved my arm smoothly and laid the black book flat on top of the stark white hospital blanket.

"It's just a sketchbook," I said, my voice completely devoid of inflection. "Preliminary drafts for the downtown Los Angeles historical building renovation."

Blake’s thick eyebrows snapped together. He hated that tone. He hated when I sounded like a professional instead of his adoring, submissive wife. It made him deeply uncomfortable.

He reached out with a long, tailored arm, his fingers extending to flip the cover open.

I kept my hands resting casually near the edge of the book, but beneath the blanket, my fingernails dug so deeply into my palms that they nearly broke the skin.

Just as his fingertips brushed the worn leather edge, I spoke again, my voice dropping ten degrees. "It contains unreleased commercial bidding concepts. I suggest you don't look at it, Blake. We wouldn't want a conflict of interest with your firm's upcoming projects."

His hand jerked to a halt. His fingers hovered over the cover, stiff and rigid. The accusation hit exactly where I aimed it. I was treating him like a corporate spy. I was treating him like a thief.

He let out a harsh, barking laugh and pulled his hand back, sliding it into the pocket of his bespoke trousers. "Conflict of interest?" he sneered, his upper lip curling. "Please. Your little sketches aren't worth the paper they're drawn on. Don't flatter yourself."

I didn't blink. I kept my face perfectly still as I slid the diary out from under his shadow and pushed it beneath my pillow. The movement was fluid, casual.

The immediate crisis was over, but the air pressure in the hospital room had dropped to freezing. The silence was thick and hostile.

Blake yanked at his silk tie, loosening it with a sharp, aggressive tug. He opened his mouth, his eyes narrowing as he prepared to rip into me for my sudden, unnatural defiance.

A bright, sugary pop song suddenly blasted through the sterile room.

It was a custom ringtone. Ariana’s ringtone. She had set it on his phone herself, giggling while I sat in the same room pretending not to hear.

The cheerful melody hit me like a physical backhand across the face, stinging the last shreds of my dignity.

Blake’s entire demeanor shifted instantly. His hand shot to his jacket pocket with a frantic, desperate speed that he didn't even try to hide.

I watched him fumble for the device, and a microscopic, self-deprecating smile touched the corner of my mouth.

He pulled the phone out. His eyes darted to the screen, and the furious storm in his gaze melted into absolute, panicked softness. He completely forgot I was in the room. He forgot the argument. He forgot his injured wife.

He turned his back to me and walked quickly toward the floor-to-ceiling window.

I stared at his broad shoulders wrapped in expensive wool. It was the exact same back I had seen three days ago, right before the crystal chandelier shattered. The back that had turned away from me to shield someone else.

Deep in the hollow cavern of my chest, I subtracted the final, fatal point from our marriage. The score was zero.

"Ariana," Blake said into the phone, his voice dropping to a gentle, soothing murmur that he had never, not once, used on me. "Breathe. I'm right here. Tell me what's wrong."

I closed my eyes. The sound of his tender voice made my stomach churn with bile. I turned my head slowly, facing the blank, white wall on the side of the bed where he wasn't standing.

Suddenly, Blake spun around, his dress shoes squeaking sharply against the linoleum floor. His face was tight with anxiety as he looked at me.

"She's having a panic attack. I have to go right now."