Too Late For Regret, Mr. Carlson

Alexia stood at the edge of the crowd, a black blot on their perfect canvas. A couple passed by her, their whispers loud enough to cut.

Is that the wife?

She looks like his assistant. Or his accountant.

God, look at Aubree though. Now that is a match.

The name on the screen was a command, not a notification. Eleanor Carlson.

Alexia stared at the phone vibrating against the polished mahogany of the desk. Her fingers hovered over it, trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the sharp, twisting cramp that had been wringing her stomach for the last three hours. She took a breath, holding it in her chest to stabilize her core, and pressed answer.

Alexia, Eleanor's voice was a drill bit, piercing through the quiet hum of the penthouse. "You are late. The Pierre. Now."

Alexia closed her eyes. The pain in her abdomen flared, hot and jagged.

Eleanor, Alexia started, her voice raspy. "I just finished the patch for the server migration. I'm not feeling well. I think I need to-"

Eleanor didn't let her finish. She never let her finish.

Jensen needs a ride. His driver is unavailable, and the optics of him standing on a curb waiting for an Uber are unacceptable. Do you understand? This is about the family image, Alexia. Try to be useful for once.

The line went dead.

Alexia lowered the phone. The silence of the apartment rushed back in, heavy and suffocating. It was a beautiful cage, this penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city that felt a million miles away. She pressed her hand against her right side, doubling over as another wave of nausea rolled through her.

Useful. That was the word. Not wife. Not partner. Useful. Like a printer or a coffee machine.

She walked into the walk-in closet. Rows of designer gowns hung like colorful ghosts, bought by Eleanor, chosen by stylists, worn by a mannequin. Alexia bypassed them all. She reached for the black wool coat at the back. It was severe. It was invisible. It was perfect.

In the mirror, her reflection stared back. Her skin was the color of parchment. Her eyes looked too big, too dark, hollowed out by sleepless nights and the silent, grinding stress of the last three years. She uncapped a tube of red lipstick and applied it like war paint. It didn't make her look alive; it just made her look like a corpse that was trying too hard.

Her hand brushed against the folded paper in her pocket. The referral slip from the doctor she had seen secretly last week. Suspected acute appendicitis. Recommended immediate follow-up if pain persists.

Alexia let her hand drop.

The drive to the Pierre Hotel was a blur of rain-slicked asphalt and red taillights. The rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers was a metronome counting down the seconds of her patience. Every bump in the road sent a shockwave through her right side. She gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles