His Regret Came Too Late

"You used the strawberry condom! You KNEW I'm allergic to it!"

Benjamin and I had just finished. And now I was suffocating.

As if he hadn't heard a word I'd said, he called her. Skylar.

Her laugh screeched through the speaker like shattering porcelain. "Ask her if it burns down there! Seriously, we need the details for our little wager!"

A wager?!

My throat was constricting. My skin felt like it was melting. And they were treating it like some twisted reality TV segment.

And Benjamin? He just stared at me–not with concern, not with remorse–but with pure, unadulterated amusement.

"Stop overreacting," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "It's all in good fun."

In good fun.

My torment was their sport. My potential demise? Their spicy little secret.

In that instant, the man I'd pledged my life to vanished.

Alright then.

Their adorable little charade? FINISHED.

Now, we're playing by my rules.

After sleeping with Benjamin Holloway, Scarlett Morgan erupted in a violent allergic reaction.

An excruciating burning sensation erupted between her thighs, spreading like a poison through her veins. She stumbled into the ensuite bathroom, her reflection in the mirror a horror show of furious red welts marching up her neck and devouring her cheeks.

"Benjamin! The car! You need to take me to the emergency room, now! I'm having a reaction…"

Her words dissolved into a choked gasp as her gaze snagged on the discarded wrapper in the wastebasket.

Strawberry flavored.

She whirled around to face him, her voice shaking with a betrayal so deep it stole her breath. "Tell me you did not seriously use the strawberry one. You know what it does to me!"

Benjamin finally looked up from his phone, his eyes taking in the catastrophe that was her face.

But instead of the frantic, pale-faced panic that used to define these moments, he calmly lifted his phone, snapped a picture of her distorted features, and sent it off with a quick text.

To: Skylar Gray

13:09

Told you. She's breaking out. You win the pool.

A moment later, his phone rang on speaker.

"I knew it! I'm a visionary!" Skylar's victorious squeal filled the room. "But wait, I'm dying to know–does the reaction extend to… you know, everywhere? Does it itch? Ask her! I need a firsthand account for my notes!"

Benjamin chuckled at her "morbid curiosity," phone still in hand as he turned back to Scarlett. "Hey Scar, is your–"

He cut himself off, his smug grin faltering as he finally met Scarlett's eyes, wide with horror and swimming in tears.

He cleared his throat, forcibly wiping the amusement from his expression. "Ahem, never mind. Talk later. Gotta take Scarlett to the hospital."

Skylar giggled, the sound tinny and cruel. "Fine, fine. Go play the dutiful husband."

"Oh, and Mrs. Holloway? A little tip–if it's really bad down there, I hear slapping it with a cold washcloth helps! Might be worth a try!"

The laughter Benjamin was trying to stifle glittered unmistakably in his eyes again.

He ended the call, snatched his keys from the dresser, and gave Scarlett a dismissive look. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

He was so nonchalant, so utterly unbothered, as if her medical emergency was a minor errand, like picking up dry cleaning.

Scarlett stared at him, her feet rooted to the spot.

Two years of courtship, three years of marriage, and in a heartbeat, he had transformed into a complete stranger–someone whose soul she no longer recognized.

Between the hives tattooing her skin and the invisible vise tightening around her windpipe, each breath was becoming a conscious, laborious effort.

Tears carved hot paths through the rash on her cheeks. "Do you… have anything to say for yourself?"

Benjamin paused at the bedroom door, impatience etching lines on his forehead. "Say about what? Skylar's just playful. She has a weird sense of humor. It was a joke, Scarlett. Lighten up."

"You've had reactions before. You'll get the epinephrine and be fine by dinner. Stop being so dramatic."

It felt like the floor had dropped out from beneath her. The last flicker of warmth in her chest guttered and died.

She'd met Benjamin at a university charity run, after she'd mistakenly eaten a dessert garnished with strawberry compote and gone into anaphylactic shock.

Benjamin had scooped her up, sprinting what felt like miles across campus to the student health center, his voice a frantic mantra in her ear: Stay with me, stay with me.

For five years, every single time her body betrayed her with this allergy, he had been her anchor, his fear for her palpable, his care meticulous.