Too Late For Regret: My Cold Husband's Tears

Frederica stared up at the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the Tribeca penthouse. It was a cold, jagged thing, much like the man currently washing her scent off his body in the adjacent bathroom. The water running in the shower was a steady, rhythmic roar that filled the silence of the master bedroom. Her body ached. It was a dull, throbbing reminder of the last hour, a physical testament to an act that felt less like love and more like a hostile takeover.

She sat up, wincing as the movement pulled at her sore muscles. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the shock of the cold carpet. It grounded her. She needed that coldness. She walked to the walk-in closet, bypassing the rows of designer clothes Easton insisted she wear to the functions he deemed important-a gilded uniform she refused to touch otherwise. In her own life, the one no one here knew about, she preferred anonymity. She knelt before the hidden wall safe.

Her fingers moved automatically over the keypad. Beep. Beep. Beep. The mechanical click of the lock disengaging sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Frederica reached inside and pulled out a thick manila envelope. The wax seal of her attorney was unbroken. She held it for a moment, the paper heavy in her hands. It weighed more than the diamond on her finger. It weighed four years of her life.

The bathroom door opened. A cloud of steam rolled out, followed by Easton Reilly. He wore only a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle that she had been clinging to minutes ago. He didn't look at her. He walked straight past her to the island in the center of the closet, his attention already on the rows of crisp white dress shirts.

It was as if she were a piece of furniture. A nightstand he had used and was now done with.

Frederica took a breath that rattled in her chest. She walked over to the black marble island and slammed the envelope down.

The sound was a flat, dead thud.

Easton paused. His hand hovered over a slate-grey shirt. He didn't turn around immediately. He finished selecting the shirt, pulled it from the hanger, and then slowly pivoted to face her. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, swept over the envelope without a flicker of emotion. He arched a brow, a silent demand for an explanation he clearly felt he didn't owe her.

"Easton, I am terminating the partnership," Frederica said. Her voice was scratchy, unused, but the words were precise.

A short, sharp laugh escaped him. It wasn't a happy sound. He reached out and picked up the envelope with the same casual indifference he used for his morning financial briefings. He slid the documents out. His eyes scanned the header.

Dissolution of Marriage.

He tossed the papers back onto