Divorced & Priceless: The Ex-Husband's Regret

Elena's thumb rubbed a small, worn spot on the hem of her dress. It was a nervous habit she'd never been able to shake. Across the massive mahogany dining table, the Blackwood family was laughing at something Victoria had said.

The sound grated against Elena's ears.

She took a sip of her water. It was lukewarm, flat. She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room. It was 9:15 PM. Their third wedding anniversary dinner was supposed to have started two hours ago.

Beneath the table, Elena's fingers brushed against the leather of her purse. Inside, wrapped in a tissue, was a plastic pregnancy test. Two pink lines. She had spent three days trying to figure out how to tell Damian. She had convinced herself that a baby would finally bridge the gap between them, that it would make him look at her the way he used to.

Victoria tapped her knife against her wine glass. The dull *clink, clink, clink* silenced the room.

"If I could have everyone's attention," Victoria announced. She was standing at the head of the table, wearing a dress that probably cost more than Elena's entire wardrobe. She looked deeply satisfied. "I have some wonderful news."

Elena straightened her back, forcing a polite smile.

"After three years, my son has finally come to his senses," Victoria said, her voice carrying a sharp, nasal pitch. "He is filing for divorce. This... arrangement with Elena is officially over."

The words took a second to land. Elena's hands went completely numb. Her fork slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against her plate. No one looked at her.

"And even better," Victoria continued, gesturing toward a woman sitting near the end of the table. Vivian. Damian's childhood friend, the one who had always hovered on the periphery of their marriage. "Vivian is pregnant. She's carrying the heir to this family."

Vivian lowered her eyes, a picture of modesty, but Elena saw the way her lips curved into a tiny smile. She rested a manicured hand on her flat stomach.

The room erupted in polite, well-dressed applause.

Elena looked down the length of the table at her husband. Damian didn't look at her. He was staring at the ice in his scotch glass. He looked bored.

"Damian?" Elena's voice came out as a rasp. She cleared her throat. "Damian, what is she talking about?"

Damian finally sighed. He reached into the leather briefcase beside his chair and pulled out a thick stack of papers. He slid them across the polished wood. They stopped right next to Elena's plate, narrowly missing a puddle of spilled gravy.

Elena didn't have to read the bold text at the top to know what it was.

"Just sign it, Elena," Damian said. His voice wasn't angry. It was worse. It was completely indifferent. "Don't make a scene. I've had the staff pack your things. A car will be here for you at midnight."

"A scene?" Elena whispered.

"Did you really think this was going to last?" Victoria chimed in, taking a sip of her champagne. "A girl from nowhere? You can't even give him a child, Elena. What use are you?"

Elena felt something cold settle in her chest. The pregnancy test in her purse felt like a block of lead. She looked at Vivian's smug face. She looked at Victoria's sneer. And then she looked at Damian, the man she had cooked for, cried for, and defended for three years.

Elena stood up. Her chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor.

"Elena, sit down," Damian warned, his eyes flashing. "Don't embarrass yourself."

She didn't sit down. She reached for her wine glass. It was a heavy crystal goblet, half-full of a dark, expensive cabernet.

She looked at Vivian.

Vivian's eyes widened, realizing what was about to happen. "Damian-" she started to say.

Elena threw the wine.

It wasn't a graceful splash. It was a violent, messy throw. The dark red liquid hit Vivian square in the chest, soaking her pale blue silk dress, splattering up into her hair and across her face. Vivian shrieked, jumping up from the table, knocking her own glass over in the process.

The table erupted. Victoria was gasping, her hands flying to her mouth. The other relatives were shouting, dabbing at the mess with linen napkins.

Elena didn't stop to watch. She reached past the spilled wine and grabbed the heavy silver pen resting on the divorce papers. She flipped to the last page and signed her name. *Elena Blackwood.*

She dropped the pen onto the papers.

"There," she said. Her voice was surprisingly steady. "I hope you don't live to regret this, Damian."

Damian wiped a spot of wine from his cheek. He didn't look at her. "Get out."

Elena grabbed her purse. She walked out of the dining room, past the staring kitchen staff, and out the heavy front doors into the cold night air.

The rain from earlier had left the driveway slick and shiny. The wind cut right through her thin dress. She walked down the marble steps, her heels clicking loudly in the silence.

She made it to the bottom of the driveway before her legs gave out. She leaned against the brick pillar of the gate, her chest heaving. She reached into her purse and pulled out the pregnancy test, staring at it through blurry vision.

A bright light cut through the darkness, followed by the low hum of a car engine.

Elena looked up, expecting the taxi Damian had mentioned. But it wasn't a taxi.

A black Rolls Royce pulled smoothly to a stop in front of her. The back door opened, and an older man in a crisp, gray uniform stepped out. He was holding a black umbrella.

He walked over to Elena, holding the umbrella over her head to block the rain. He looked at her tear-streaked face, then down at the positive pregnancy test in her hand. He didn't react.

"Miss Sterling," the driver said, his voice quiet and respectful. "The Chairman has been waiting for three years. He sends his regards regarding the divorce."

He gestured toward the open car door.

"The private jet is fueled and ready at the tarmac. Shall we go home?"

Elena looked back at the Blackwood mansion. Through the grand windows, she could see the golden light of the dining room. They were probably still cleaning up the wine.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The grief in her chest was still there, heavy and suffocating, but underneath it, a cold, hard resolve was beginning to form.

She looked at the driver. "Tell the Chairman I'm on my way."

***