The Billionaire’s Late Regrets

My stomach cramped. Skipping breakfast left a dull hum in my ears, but the memories cut through the airplane cabin noise with crystal clarity.

Seven years ago, L'Atelier gallery smelled of oil paint and old wood.

"You understand Cézanne better than the curator," Adrian noted, pausing in front of a sprawling canvas.

"I just pay attention to the brushstrokes," I replied, keeping my hands clasped behind my back.

He stepped closer. The scent of bergamot and expensive wool surrounded me.

"I am paying attention to you," he murmured.

"I am working."

"Then tell me more about the painting."

He did not look at the art once. He just watched my mouth move.

That afternoon started it all. The secret office romance. The hidden touches in the supply closet.

Then came the rules.

"We keep this quiet," he insisted one evening, buttoning his collar in my bedroom.

"Why?" I asked, pulling the sheets up to my chest.

"No public announcements. It complicates the board of directors."

"I am just a gallery assistant."

"You are mine," he corrected, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "But we leave it at the door."

"It feels like I am hiding," I whispered.

"You are protecting us," he promised. "Let them talk. We know the truth."

I agreed. I thought I was guarding our relationship.

Instead, I handed Camille the crown.

"Did you hear about Marcus Bell?" my coworker whispered across the cubicle a year later.

"The department head?" I asked, stamping a shipping invoice.

"Fired. He snapped at Camille over a missed deadline."

I stopped stamping. "Marcus has been here for a decade. He yelled at me just last week for messing up a font size."

"You aren't the boss's wife," she snickered, rolling her chair away.

The title tasted like dirt. I confronted Adrian that night in his study.

"Marcus was just doing his job," I argued, leaning against his mahogany desk.

Adrian loosened his tie, his jaw tense. "Her father is a family friend, Ava. I have to look out for her."

"By firing your best manager? Over a deadline?"

"He was disrespectful."

"He treats everyone like that!"

"By maintaining respect in my company, I keep order. Drop it."

He always chose her comfort over my reality. The preferential treatment bled from the office straight into our home.

Missed dinners. Late nights. Excuses that wore thin.

The company group chat pinged at midnight on our fifth anniversary.

A photo loaded on my screen. Adrian and Camille, smiling under the neon marquee of the local cinema.

The movie poster behind them read *Forever Yours*.

A phantom hand squeezed my throat.

Just last week, I had tugged his sleeve in the kitchen.

"Everyone goes to see it with the person they love," I pleaded, holding up my phone to show him the trailer. "Let's go."

He didn't even look up from his laptop.

"Watching a brainless romance is a waste of life," he dismissed.

"It is supposed to be a masterpiece."

"Go with your friends, Avie. I have real work to do."

Yet there he was. Smiling in the photograph. Wasting his life with her.

The front door unlocked at 1:00 AM.

Adrian walked into the dark living room, his suit jacket slung over one arm. He carried a small paper bag in his other hand and set it on the glass coffee table.

"Was *Forever Yours* any good?" I asked. My voice held zero inflection.

He froze. A flicker of surprise crossed his features before settling into ice.

"Are you stalking me?" he demanded.

I stood up. My chest heaved.

"Do I need to?" I shot back. "Your sweet photo with her is plastered all over the company chat!"

He crossed his arms, leaning back on his heels. "It was just a movie, Ava."

"You told me it was a waste of life!"

"Camille wanted to go. Her father asked me to keep her company this weekend."

"You always have an excuse," I hissed. "Every single time she calls, you run."

"She is an employee and a family friend. Stop being hysterical."

"Hysterical? I am looking at a picture of my boyfriend on a date with another woman!"

"If you want to break up, just say it!" I yelled, the volume tearing at my throat. "You do not have to lie to me!"

He stared at me like I was a stranger. No guilt. No frantic apologies.

"If you do not even have basic trust in me, I have nothing to say," he replied.

"Basic trust? You lied about working late!"

"I did work late. The movie was an afterthought."

"You are suffocating me with these excuses."

He rubbed his temples. "I am exhausted, Avie. I do not have the energy to fight."

The calm in his voice broke something inside me.

I snatched the paper bag off the table. The material crinkled loudly in my grip.

"Stop acting like I am crazy!" I screamed, hurling it at the hardwood floor.

Adrian did not flinch. He just watched the bag hit the ground.

"Clean up your mess," he muttered.

He turned on his heel and walked out the door.

The heavy wooden slab slammed shut behind him. The lock clicked.

I stood paralyzed in the quiet apartment. My breathing echoed in the empty space.

A small object rolled against my toe.

I glanced down.

A chocolate.

The bag had ripped open. Round, handmade truffles scattered across the floor. The foil wrappers caught the dim overhead light.

My knees buckled. I dropped to the floor and reached for one.

I counted them, lining them up against the edge of the rug.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Seven chocolates for seven years.

I flipped a gold wrapper over. His familiar fountain pen ink stained the label.

*Avie.*

A laugh bubbled up from my chest. It scraped my throat, turning into a sob before the first tear hit my lap.

He remembered the anniversary. He bought the gift.

He loved me, but he always delivered it wrapped in pain.

I gathered the chocolates into my palms, sitting alone in the wreckage of our milestone. His affection existed, but it could never reach my hands without drawing blood first.

The airplane jolted, pulling me back to the present.

Outside my window, a sea of white clouds rolled like violent ocean waves. The engine hummed a steady, droning note.

I leaned my head against the plastic wall.

That night on the floor ruined me. The chocolates made me soft. They convinced me he just needed time, that we just needed to communicate better.

I gave him that time. I swallowed my pride. I tried to fix us.

I remembered typing out the text message exactly a year later, my fingers trembling over the glowing screen.

"Tonight is our sixth anniversary," I had typed. "I am waiting for you at home."

I waited as the sun set. I waited as the streetlights flickered on. I waited until the food went cold and the candles burned down to the glass.

He never came back.