The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Regret

On the night of our ninth wedding anniversary, Vivian Xavier walked into the grand ballroom with her arm linked through Adrian Foster's.

In front of a hundred guests, she turned to me and gave her orders like she was assigning chores to the help:

"Adrian has a sensitive stomach. From now on, make sure he gets three freshly prepared meals every day."

"He's a light sleeper. Your snoring keeps him up—move to the guest room tonight."

I didn't say a word. I just picked up the suitcase I'd packed days ago and headed straight for the door.

The butler faltered, looking like he might stop me, but Vivian just let out a sharp laugh.

"Let him go," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "He'll be crawling back like a stray mutt in three days."

The room erupted in laughter.

Someone even started a million-dollar betting pool—

That I wouldn't last a night without her.

They didn't know there was a Rolls-Royce waiting for me outside. It had been idling by the curb for over an hour.

Just as I reached the exit, Vivian called after me.

"Samuel Sinclair—take off that bracelet. Adrian's been having nightmares."

The bracelet was the only thing I had left from my parents.

I felt my throat tighten, my eyes burning. Vivian's expression twisted into a frown of annoyance.

"Name your price."

How much was nine years of humiliation worth? I didn't have the strength to do the math anymore.

All I could think about was last month at the ski resort—when I refused to give Adrian my goggles, and her bodyguards stripped me naked and left me in the snow at twenty below.

Wordlessly, I slid the bracelet off and fastened it around Adrian's wrist.

"May the three of you live happily ever after," I said.

For once, Vivian's voice softened, like she was handing down some great favor.

"If you behave, our child might still call you 'Dad.'"

Before she finished, the bracelet slipped from Adrian's wrist and shattered on the floor.

A shard nicked his leg, and he cried out. Vivian dropped everything and rushed to him.

"Get the physician! Now!" she screamed.

Her panic was so over-the-top, it drew laughter from the guests. Even I couldn't help but find it ridiculous.

Last night, when I had a heart attack, she'd been too busy taking Adrian stargazing.

I'd collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath, and she'd stepped over me like I was a pile of trash.

"Disinfect the room thoroughly," she'd told the butler. "Adrian can't be around anything that reeks tomorrow."

I grabbed my suitcase and turned to leave. That should've been the end of it.

But Vivian grabbed my wrist, nails digging in.

"Apologize."

Before I could even react, she shoved me to my knees in front of Adrian.

The broken jade cut through my skin, blood smearing across the marble like spilled ink.

Vivian recoiled, disgusted.

"You broke Adrian's bracelet and injured him. Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

For nine years, I'm sorry had been my default setting.

The soup's too salty? I'm sorry.

You texted me hungover at 3 a.m.? I'm sorry.

I accidentally saw Adrian's hotel confirmation email? I'm sorry.