Regret Comes Late

Alexa, my wife of six years, was affectionately nicknamed "Husband Worshiper" by her colleagues and students.

As a university professor, she was renowned not only for her academic prowess but also for her steadfast devotion to me. She never attended social gatherings, always preferring to spend her evenings with me. When male students dared to ask for her contact information, she would turn them down with a tone so cold it could frost over. "Sorry, I have a husband," she'd reply, as if that explained everything.

Her colleagues loved to tease her, saying she had set a new bar for modern love stories. Among her published academic works was a singular outlier—a book titled Confessions of Love. It wasn't meant for the academic world. It was meant for me. Our love story, lauded across Carbel University, was held up as a modern fairy tale.

But yesterday, I stumbled upon something that cracked the perfection of that story. I was tidying up the bookshelf in our study—a task Alexa usually insisted on doing herself—when I discovered it. Hidden between the pages of one of her older books was a photo.

The moment I saw it, my stomach churned. Alexa's shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing her delicate collarbones and a hint of bare skin beneath. Her hands were bound at the wrists with a black necktie. Standing behind her, holding her waist possessively, was a shirtless young man. His grin was cocky, arrogant and all too familiar.

I knew him. It was the same male student she had once coldly rebuffed when he asked for her social media.

——

The door creaked open. My heart pounded, but I forced myself to remain calm, sliding the photo back into the book and pretending to leaf through its pages. Alexa wrapped her arms around me from behind, her warm breath tickling my neck as she teased, her voice still husky with sleep, "Harry, why are you up so early? Come back to bed with me."

I tensed as her hands brushed my arm, but I kept my voice steady. "Just organizing a little," I replied, not turning around. My gaze was fixed on the shelf, yet I felt the slight shift in her demeanor—the way her muscles stiffened for a fraction of a second. Her eyes darted to the book in my hands and a flicker of alarm crossed her face before she replaced it with a forced smile.

"Why the sudden interest in these old books?" she asked, her tone overly casual.

I set the book down on the desk, leaning against it to block her path to the damning evidence. "No reason," I said. "I just thought we could use some decluttering."

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing against mine as she picked up the book. Her smile remained sweet, but her grip on it was firm—possessive, almost.

"Darling, you don't need to worry about this. I'll take care of it later." Her tone was breezy, but there was a hint of strain beneath the surface.

With deliberate carelessness, she tossed the book into a drawer, her movements practiced but slightly rushed. Her eyes flicked to me, searching. "You didn't see anything just now, did you?" she asked.

My pulse quickened, but I met her gaze with a bemused expression. "See what?"

She exhaled softly, almost inaudibly, as if relieved. "Nothing important. Just some things I haven't sorted through yet." She moved to the shelf, adjusting a few books that didn't need adjusting. Her hands were steady, but I noticed the way her fingers lingered on certain titles, as if confirming their secrets were still safe.

Moments later, she turned back to me, her eyes alight with a carefully crafted cheerfulness. "What do you feel like eating today? I'll cook for you."

Her voice, warm and inviting, was the same as always. But the image from the photo lingered in my mind, impossible to erase. That confident, shirtless grin. The way her wrists had been bound. The intimacy of it.

I swallowed hard, forcing a smile. "I'm not really hungry. I think I'll go back and sleep a bit more."

Before I could leave, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around my waist. She pressed herself against me, her cheek resting on my shoulder. "Then let me join you for a nap," she said softly.

When I woke up again, Alexa was in the kitchen. The faint aroma of garlic and soy sauce wafted upstairs, wrapping itself around me like a taunt. I walked to the landing, leaning against the railing as I watched her move.

She was by the stove, her fair, slender hands skillfully flipping the stir-fry in a wok. The sunlight filtering through the window caught the faint sheen of sweat on her brow, illuminating the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail. She looked up and caught my gaze, her lips curving into a smile that could disarm armies.

"You little lazy cat, go wash your hands—it's time to eat," she said.

I stayed where I was, my arms crossed, studying her as if seeing her for the first time. For six years, Alexa had devoted herself to me—or so I'd thought. Every weekend, she would give our housekeeper a day off and personally cook for me, saying it was her way of showing love. Her care, her attentiveness, her unwavering loyalty—they were all a part of the Alexa I knew.