Too Late for Her Regrets

Too Late for Her Regrets

Hua Jian

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The world came back in pieces: gasoline, twisted metal, and a searing pain in my leg. Through the shattered windshield, I saw my wife, Olivia, scramble not to me, her injured husband, but to the passenger door, frantic over our "assistant," Liam. She cradled his head, her voice filled with a tenderness she hadn't shown me in years. "Liam? Liam, can you hear me? Oh my god, you're bleeding." Ignoring my gasps, she finally looked at me with pure irritation: "Ethan. Your phone. Call an ambulance. Liam is hurt." The cold clarity hit me: I didn't exist for her. Then, in the hospital, I learned my leg was shattered, and Olivia's first words concerned the hospital bill, not my well-being. Liam, she announced, was out with a concussion, making our household a "disaster." I was just a logistical problem. As she left, a nurse brought "my favorite chicken soup," supposedly from Olivia. But Liam's Instagram later showed the identical thermos, captioned: "Best boss in the world! Nothing like Olivia's homemade chicken soup to make you feel better." It was never for me. The final blow came when I found a positive pregnancy test and a receipt for a "Surgical Procedure" in Olivia's hidden box, dated the same week she claimed a "solo business retreat." She'd been pregnant with Liam's child and terminated it, all while pushing me to continue IVF. The numbness shattered. My marriage, my decade of love, was a cruel, pathetic joke. Now, amidst the wreckage of my shattered life, I picked up my phone, my hands steady, and dialed the fertility clinic, then a divorce lawyer. It was time for my truth.

Introduction

The world came back in pieces: gasoline, twisted metal, and a searing pain in my leg. Through the shattered windshield, I saw my wife, Olivia, scramble not to me, her injured husband, but to the passenger door, frantic over our "assistant," Liam.

She cradled his head, her voice filled with a tenderness she hadn't shown me in years. "Liam? Liam, can you hear me? Oh my god, you're bleeding." Ignoring my gasps, she finally looked at me with pure irritation: "Ethan. Your phone. Call an ambulance. Liam is hurt."

The cold clarity hit me: I didn't exist for her. Then, in the hospital, I learned my leg was shattered, and Olivia's first words concerned the hospital bill, not my well-being. Liam, she announced, was out with a concussion, making our household a "disaster." I was just a logistical problem.

As she left, a nurse brought "my favorite chicken soup," supposedly from Olivia. But Liam's Instagram later showed the identical thermos, captioned: "Best boss in the world! Nothing like Olivia's homemade chicken soup to make you feel better." It was never for me.

The final blow came when I found a positive pregnancy test and a receipt for a "Surgical Procedure" in Olivia's hidden box, dated the same week she claimed a "solo business retreat." She'd been pregnant with Liam's child and terminated it, all while pushing me to continue IVF.

The numbness shattered. My marriage, my decade of love, was a cruel, pathetic joke. Now, amidst the wreckage of my shattered life, I picked up my phone, my hands steady, and dialed the fertility clinic, then a divorce lawyer. It was time for my truth.

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He Faked Death, I Married The Don

He Faked Death, I Married The Don

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I was arranging white lilies on the cold marble of my husband's grave when I saw a ghost. Walking through the cemetery gates was a man who looked exactly like my dead husband, Dante. Logic said it was his twin brother, Matteo. But a wife knows the slope of a man's shoulders. She knows the arrogant tilt of his chin. My husband hadn't been blown up in a car bomb three years ago. He had faked his death to steal his brother's rank, his fortune, and his mistress. For three years, I had forced our son, Leo, to kiss a photograph goodnight. We lived in a damp, peeling apartment, surviving on the "charity" of the Family. Meanwhile, Dante was living in a mansion, driving cars that cost more than my life, playing house with another woman. When he came to our cramped apartment to drop off the monthly "pension" money, pretending to be Uncle Matteo, he didn't look at me with love. He looked at his watch. When Leo ran to hug him, shouting "Papa," Dante peeled the boy's small arms off his expensive suit like he was removing a piece of lint. "Don't call me that," he snapped. "I am your Uncle." My grief turned into ice. He chose another woman's comfort over his own son's hunger. I grabbed Leo's hand and walked out the door. "You walk away, and you get nothing!" Dante shouted after me. "You'll be on the street!" I didn't stop. I walked straight to the black SUV idling at the curb. The window rolled down, revealing Salvatore Vitiello. The Don. The most lethal man in the city. "Get in, Elena," he commanded. I opened the door and slid onto the leather seat next to the devil himself. As we drove away, leaving my husband in the dust, I realized I had just traded a liar for a killer. And I didn't regret it for a second.

The Mafia Don's Regret: Torturing His True Savior

The Mafia Don's Regret: Torturing His True Savior

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My husband crushed the metacarpals of my left hand—my drawing hand—with a heavy leather-bound book. This was Punishment Ninety-Six. The offense? I had missed a single phone call from my stepsister, Joyce. According to Don Austen Ballard, ignoring the woman who allegedly saved his life fifteen years ago was akin to high treason. "Discipline is the highest form of love, Alana," he whispered, watching the violet bruise spread across my skin. He calls shattering an architect's hand "love." He believes Joyce dragged him from a burning building when he was a boy. He treats her like a living saint and me like a punching bag to pay his life debt. But it is all a lie. Fifteen years ago, Joyce was at a cheerleading camp three towns away. I was the one in that crawlspace. I was the one who found the bleeding boy in the dark. I was the one who called him "Stellen" because he was too terrified to tell me his real name. He has spent our entire marriage torturing his true savior to please a fraud. Tonight, the pain finally burned away my fear, leaving only cold resolve. I didn't cry. I waited until the house was silent, then I retrieved a burner phone hidden in a false bottom of a box in the bathroom. I dialed the number of his sworn enemy, Don Dalton Underwood. "I have the blueprints," I said, my voice steady despite the agony in my hand. "And I have the controlling shares of Ballard Industries. I'm ready to burn his kingdom to ash."

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