Too Late For Regret: My Lost Heir

The rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Manhattan penthouse did not sound like water. It sounded like gravel being thrown against the glass, hard and relentless. Seraphina sat on the velvet armchair that she had picked out three years ago, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. The fabric was cold under her fingertips.

She stared at the calendar notification on her phone screen. It was glowing in the dark room. October 14th. Three years.

The sound of the biometric lock engaging made a mechanical whir that cut through the sound of the storm. The heavy oak door pushed open. A gust of cold, damp air rushed into the living room, carrying the smell of ozone and exhaust.

Julian walked in.

He did not look at her. He stripped off his trench coat, the wet fabric heavy with rain. Water dripped from the hem onto the marble entryway, creating small, dark puddles that distorted the reflection of the overhead recessed lighting.

Seraphina stood up. Her legs felt stiff. She walked toward him, her hand reaching out instinctively to take the wet coat. It was a habit. A muscle memory built over a thousand days of being his wife.

Julian sidestepped her.

It was a small movement. A shift of his shoulder, a pivot of his heel. But in the quiet room, it felt like a slap. He walked past her outstretched hand as if she were a piece of furniture he needed to navigate around. He went straight to the liquor cabinet.

The crystal decanter clinked against the glass as he poured. The amber liquid swirled, rising to the rim. He did not add ice. He brought the glass to his lips and drank half of it in one swallow, his back turned to her. His shoulders were tense, the muscles visible even through his white dress shirt.

Seraphina watched him. She saw the tension in his neck. Then she saw it.

On the collar of his shirt, just above the starch line. A smudge of red.

It was not a bright, cherry red. It was a deep, dark crimson. It looked like a bruise against the pristine white fabric. Seraphina felt a phantom scent hit her-sandalwood and heavy, cloying roses. It wasn't a perfume she owned. It was the scent of a woman who wanted to be noticed, a scent that clung. She didn't need to know the brand to know what it meant.

Julian lowered the glass. He turned around slowly. His eyes were dark, rimmed with exhaustion, but there was a hardness in them that she had never seen directed at her. He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick document.

He threw it on the coffee table.

The sound was heavy. A dull thud that vibrated through the marble floor. The document slid across the smooth surface and came to a stop just inches from Seraphina's knees. The bold black letters on the cover were perfectly legible even in the