The Ex-husband Regret: She Upgraded

"You're not even trying anymore, Elena."

Marcus's voice cut through the kitchen's silence like a blade I'd grown too familiar with. I stood at the stove, spatula in hand, staring at the mushroom risotto I'd spent an hour preparing. His favorite. I'd made it because he'd been "too busy" for dinner three nights in a row, and I thought stupidly, desperately that a good meal might bring him back to me.

"I'm trying," I said quietly. "I made risotto. You like risotto."

"I don't want risotto. I want a wife who remembers the things I actually ask for." He loosened his tie with that sharp, impatient gesture I'd come to dread. "I asked you to print the Henderson contracts. They were in my email. One thing, Elena. One simple thing."

"You asked me at midnight. I was asleep."

"I was working. Providing for this household. What were you doing?"

The question landed exactly where he intended. I felt myself shrinking, folding inward, becoming the smaller version of myself that Marcus preferred. The version who apologized. The version who never argued back.

Three years of marriage had trained me well.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "You're right. I should have checked your email before bed."

Marcus's expression softened. He crossed the kitchen and took my hands, his thumbs brushing my knuckles with the tenderness that always followed his cruelty. The pattern was so familiar now that I'd stopped recognizing it as abuse.

"I'm stressed, baby. The Morrison account is killing me. I don't mean to take it out on you." He kissed my forehead. "Forgive me?"

"Of course."

The words came automatically. They always did.

---

I met Marcus Sterling when I was nineteen.

We were the golden couple of Wellesley College him with his easy charm and architectural ambitions, me with my quiet brilliance and designs that professors called "visionary." He pursued me relentlessly. Love letters. Flowers delivered to my dorm. Late-night conversations where he made me feel seen for the first time since my mother died.

My stepsister Corinne watched it all with a smile that never reached her eyes.

"You're so lucky," she'd say, twisting her blonde hair around her finger. "Marcus is perfect. You deserve him, sister. Really."

I believed her. I believed everyone back then.

We married a month after graduation. Marcus held my hands at the altar and promised forever. My father, Harold Vance, sat in the front row with his wife Meredith. Corinne stood as my maid of honor, her smile radiant.

"To my sister. May she always have everything she deserves."

Six months into the marriage, Marcus asked me to decline the job offer from Croft Group.

"It's not that I don't believe in your career," he'd said, cupping my face. "But I want to take care of you. I want to be the provider. A wife shouldn't have to work."

I'd hesitated. Croft Group was the largest conglomerate in the country, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a fresh architecture graduate. But Marcus's eyes were