Too Late To Regret My Ex-Husband

Qian Mo Mo

Modern | Ongoing

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I spent three hours searing the perfect wagyu steak and chilling a bottle of 1996 Dom Pérignon for our anniversary. My wife, Evelin, texted me saying she was stuck in a late board meeting. "Don't wait up." But a bank alert on my phone told a different story: a $5,600 charge at a VIP lounge in the Meatpacking District. When I tracked her down, I didn't find her in a boardroom; I found her sitting on my business partner's lap, laughing as he fed her chocolate-covered strawberries. When I confronted them, Evelin didn't even look guilty. She called me hysterical and a "prude" for interrupting their night. Hank mocked me to my face, calling me a pathetic "trophy husband" who was probably home ironing napkins while they were out having real fun. When I finally snapped and defended my dignity, my own wife slapped me across the face and had her security throw me out like trash. "You are nothing without the Carney name. You're a stray I picked up." By the time I hit the sidewalk, she had frozen all our joint accounts and blacklisted my name from every major firm in the city. I had spent ten years managing her family's billions and fixing the books her lover messed up, only to be left with ten dollars in my pocket and a suitcase full of dusty law books. She thinks I'm a broken man who will come crawling back to beg for mercy just to afford a meal. I realized then that our marriage was just a corpse I'd been dragging around, and she was the monster who had killed it years ago. I felt the sting of her slap and the weight of her betrayal, wondering how I could have been so blind to the person I shared a bed with. Standing in a cramped apartment in Queens, I blocked her number and called a "shark" lawyer I hadn't spoken to since law school. "I'm the biggest shark in the tank, Dom. Let her try to ruin you." Evelin thinks she took everything, but she forgot one thing: I'm the one who knows exactly where the bodies are buried in her family's ledgers. The war has just begun.

Divorce Bankruptcy Second chance Divorce Personal growth

Chapter 10 10

Today 18:40

Chapter 1 1

"Medium-rare. Just the way she likes it."

Dominic Waters muttered the words to the empty kitchen, the sound of his own voice bouncing off the marble countertops of the Tribeca penthouse. He pressed the back of a silver spoon against the wagyu steak searing in the cast-iron pan. It offered the perfect amount of resistance. He pulled the pan off the heat, the sizzling sound dying down instantly, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

He wiped his hands on a linen towel, then checked the vintage Rolex on his wrist. 8:00 PM.

The dining table was a masterpiece of desperate precision. Imported white roses, exactly two dozen, sat in a crystal vase that cost more than his first car. Beeswax candles flickered, casting long, dancing shadows against the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Manhattan skyline. He walked over to the table and nudged a salad fork two millimeters to the right. It had to be perfect. Everything had to be perfect. If the environment was flawless, maybe she wouldn't notice the cracks in their conversation. Maybe she wouldn't notice the cracks in him.

He picked up his phone from the granite island. The screen was black. Cold.

He unlocked it, his thumb hovering over the messages app. He typed, his fingers moving with a practiced hesitation. Dinner is ready. Are you close?

He hit send and watched the little blue bubble appear. He stared at it, willing the three dots of a reply to manifest.

Seconds turned into minutes. He walked back to the stove. The steak was resting, cooling. The juice was pooling on the cutting board, a dark, savory red. He poured two glasses of 1996 Dom Pérignon. The bubbles rose in frantic chains, racing to the surface only to pop and disappear. Just like his hope.

Buzz.

Dominic grabbed the phone so fast he almost knocked over the wine.

Evelin: Stuck in a board meeting. Don't wait up.

The air left his lungs. It wasn't a sigh; it was a deflation. His shoulders slumped, the fabric of his bespoke suit suddenly feeling heavy, like armor that had served no purpose.

He looked at the steak. It was going to be cold. He looked at the wine. It was going to go flat.

He typed back: Okay. Happy Anniversary, Ev.

He set the phone down, face up, on the counter. He didn't slam it. He placed it gently, preserving the order, preserving the lie.

He walked to the window. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red. He felt small. In this penthouse, surrounded by millions of dollars of art and furniture, he was just a ghost haunting his own life.

He turned back to the table. He blew out the candles. One. Two. Three. Smoke curled up, thin gray ribbons that smelled of burnt wick, replacing the scent of roses with something stale. Something finished.

Ding.

A sharp, metallic notification sound cut through the room. Not a text.

Dominic frowned. He walked back to the phone. It was the banking app. An alert from the joint Amex Black Card. He had practically begged to keep these alerts active years ago, citing "cybersecurity," but in truth, it was the only window he had left into her life since she had revoked his administrative access to the main accounts.

Transaction Approved: $5,600 at THE VELVET LOUNGE.

Dominic froze. The breath trapped in his throat turned into a hard lump.

The Velvet Lounge. That wasn't a boardroom. That was the Meatpacking District. That was deep bass, strobe lights, and VIP booths with curtains that closed.

He checked the timestamp. 8:15 PM. Just now.

A memory, sharp and unwanted, sliced through his mind. Hank Stein, his business partner, laughing over scotch a week ago. "The Velvet has the best privacy in the city, Dom. You can do anything in those booths."

His stomach twisted. A physical knot of nausea tightened just below his ribs.

He opened Instagram. He didn't use his main account; Evelin monitored that. He switched to the burner account he kept for moments of weakness like this. He typed in "The Velvet Lounge" in the location search.

The feed was full of strangers. Girls in sequin dresses, guys holding bottles of vodka with sparklers attached. He scrolled, his eyes scanning frantically, looking for a ghost.

Then he stopped.

A live story, posted three minutes ago by Chloe Price. Evelin's "best friend."

Dominic tapped the circle. The video played. It was dark, loud music distorting the audio. Chloe was screaming something about shots. The camera panned wildly across the VIP booth.

In the background, just for a fraction of a second, there was a hand resting on a man's shoulder.

Dominic paused the video. He zoomed in, the pixels blurring.

The hand was slender, pale, and adorned with a very specific piece of jewelry. It wasn't a ring, but a custom-made Cartier panther bracelet with emerald eyes. He recognized it instantly because he had spent three months tracking it down for her birthday last year. There was no mistaking the way the gold caught the strobe light.

The hand was Evelin's.

And the shoulder... the shoulder belonged to a man wearing a charcoal grey suit with a distinct pinstripe. Hank Stein was wearing that exact suit this morning at the office.

Dominic lowered the phone. The rage didn't come immediately. First, there was a coldness. A freezing sensation that started in his fingertips and shot straight to his heart.

He looked at the anniversary dinner. The perfectly seared steak. The aligned silverware. The pathetic shrine to a goddess who wasn't even in the temple.

He grabbed his coat from the rack. He didn't button it. He didn't check the mirror. He walked to the heavy oak door and pulled it open.

He stepped out into the hallway, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the empty corridor. He wasn't crying. He wasn't shaking anymore. He was moving.