Regret? Never

"Sweetie, are you coming? I'll wait for you at our usual spot."

Henry Lane is about to go to bed when he receives a voice message. It's spoken in Rushky. He turns his back to me as his face lights up in joy. Then, he answers in Rushky, "Of course. I love you."

I'm about to fall asleep, but I jolt when I hear that.

The sweet voice on the other end of the line rings out again. "Your wife won't find out about this, will she?"

"I'm talking to you to her face now." Henry snorts. "We're speaking in Rushky; she can't understand us."

My heart twists painfully. It turns out he's never loved or truly understood me. He thinks I'm just a housewife whose world revolves around him; he has no idea I once studied in Rushnia for two years as an exchange student.

I suppress my sorrow and heartbreak as I caress my belly. Then, I make an appointment with a local hospital for an abortion.

"Yelena, something came up at work. I need to go take a look," Henry Lane said as he got out of bed.

He placed a kiss on my forehead, his eyes filled with deep affection.

If not for those words, I would have believed that the man who loved me so dearly could never betray me.

Tears welled up as I stared at his chiseled face.

Henry took no notice of my emotions. He hurriedly got dressed and left in a rush.

I walked to the window and watched as his car drove off—in the opposite direction of his company.

That liar!

Tears spilled down my cheeks, my chest tightening with unbearable pain. It took me a long time before I could even breathe properly again.

That night, Henry returned, reeking of perfume. It was unmistakably a woman's fragrance.

I frowned in disgust and subtly moved away when he tried to wrap his arm around my waist.

Henry stiffened up and tentatively asked, "Yelena, what's wrong? Are you feeling unwell?"

Curling up in the corner, I responded halfheartedly.

Henry panicked and sat up at once, wanting to take me to the hospital.

I pulled the blanket tightly around me.

"No need. It's just a minor cold. It's not worth going to the hospital," I said hoarsely.

"Does your throat hurt? Do you feel weak?" he asked.

Henry kept rambling on, still looking as concerned as before.

But the scent on him made my skin crawl. I could no longer bury myself in his arms, asking for kisses and hugs. Even if I wanted to try to pretend, I couldn't.

When he tried to lift the blanket, insisting on taking me to the hospital, anger surged through me.

"I'm not going!" I snapped.

Henry froze. "Did I do something wrong? Just tell me, and I'll change."

I had never spoken to him so harshly before, so understandably, Henry was startled. He looked at me with a hint of grievance.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. He had slept with another woman, and now he wanted to act pitiful?

Just thinking about sleeping beside such a filthy man made my stomach clench, and I felt a surge of revulsion.

I swallowed hard and slapped his hand away when he reached for my cheek.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he mumbled before hurrying out of the bedroom.

I heard him rummaging through the drawers in the living room. A moment later, he returned with a box of cold medicine and a cup of warm water.

He handed me the medicine and water, and I forced myself to take the pill despite feeling nauseous.

When Henry wasn't looking, I spat it out.

Even though I had already scheduled an abortion in three days, just thinking about the tiny life inside me made me instinctively reject the medicine.

That night, for the first time, Henry and I slept with our backs to each other.

…

The following day, Henry woke up early and made me hard-boiled eggs and oatmeal. He placed them in front of me.

"Are you still feeling unwell?" he asked.

The look of concern remained on his face, yet I felt nothing but a rising sense of annoyance.

The eggs and oatmeal held no appeal to me. I forced down a few spoonfuls of oatmeals while Henry remained absorbed in his phone. Soon, the same Rushky-speaking woman's voice from the previous night filled the room again.

"Sweetie, I twisted my ankle. Can you come check on me?" she asked.

A flicker of worry crossed his face as he quickly replied in Rushky, "Honey, I'll be there soon."

Then, turning to me, he softened his voice. "Babe, there's an emergency at work. I—"

"Ah. Go ahead," I cut him off, my voice indifferent.

He didn't notice the displeasure in my tone.

Eager to meet the other woman, he hurriedly changed out of his loungewear and into a suit. He then grabbed his briefcase and rushed out.

Silence filled the room.

Cold, hard-boiled eggs sat on the plate, and the oatmeal congealed, neither touched. I finally stood up and scraped them into the trash.

Pouring myself a glass of warm water, I stirred in some honey and drank it.

On my way to the diner for an acai bowl, a notification popped up—an Instagram follow request.

The profile picture was dark, exuding an air of mystery.

I hesitated for a moment, then accepted it.