Regret Comes Late

The morning of my birthday started with Alexa, with her usual charm, orchestrating a day of indulgence. She insisted on driving me around the city, taking me into boutique stores and piling up bags filled with neatly wrapped purchases. Her demeanor flawless, as though nothing could mar the surface of her perfect devotion.

But by mid-afternoon, hunger gnawed at me. "I think it's time for lunch," I said, glancing at her.

She beamed, leaning over to plant a soft kiss on my cheek. "Anything for my birthday boy. Let me take you somewhere special."

The restaurant was upscale and elegant, with soft lighting that glinted off crystal glasses and polished silverware. We took a table by the window, the city sprawling beneath us, bustling and alive. Alexa ordered with her usual flair, flipping through the menu with practiced ease, but just as the waiter left, her phone buzzed.

A slight frown crossed her face as she declined the call, only for it to ring again moments later. The sharp tone of the vibration cut through the hushed ambiance of the restaurant.

Her hand hovered over the phone hesitantly. "It might be urgent," she murmured, almost to herself.

The screen lit up and I caught the briefest glimpse of the message before she angled the device away. It was Nathan.

He sent a selfie of his chiseled abs with a message: [Mrs. Colby, I'm at the hotel. It's so hot here... I could use some help...]

Alexa's breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the phone as if it might betray her secrets aloud. She looked up at me, her expression quickly shifting into something apologetic, sincere.

"Harry..." she began, her voice soft, tinged with regret. "It's from the university. Something urgent has come up, so I need to leave. It won't take more than an hour and a half, I promise. I'll come right back and we'll continue celebrating your birthday."

Her eyes searched mine for understanding, a faint flicker of panic betraying her otherwise composed demeanor.

I held her gaze for a moment longer than she probably expected, before offering a faint smile. "It's fine. Go ahead."

Relief flooded her features. "You're the best," she said, leaning in to kiss me on the forehead. "Order whatever you like—I'll take care of everything when I get back."

***

Thirty minutes after she left, my phone vibrated. Nathan sent me a video and quickly I opened it.

The footage was shaky but clear enough. Alexa, breathless and hurried, undressing with fevered hands as Nathan stood waiting. She clung to him as though her very existence depended on it, her movements urgent, almost desperate. The sound of her murmured words—half-lost between gasps—sent a chill through me.

Below the video, Nathan's message read: [Harry, take a good look. This is your refined wife. Always so calm and collected with you, isn't she? But with me? She's wild. She's mine.]

My lips pressed into a thin line. Anger didn't rise—not the blinding fury one might expect. Instead, there was only an eerie calm as I saved the video, tucking it away like evidence in a courtroom trial.

I stayed long enough to finish the meal we'd ordered. Alone in the sea of tables filled with laughing couples and clinking glasses, I didn't feel an ounce of bitterness. By the time I walked out, my decision was clear.

Once returning home, I packed efficiently, years of shared possessions ignored in favor of my essentials. The pile of luggage by the door felt like freedom incarnate. I then uploaded the damning evidence to Alexa's public social media account. No need for captions; the evidence spoke for itself.

Finally, I left the signed divorce papers on the coffee table, powered off my phone and snapped the SIM card in half. Without a glance backward, I hailed a cab and disappeared into the city lights.