The Billionaire's Regret: My Tortured Ex-Wife

The accusation hung in the dead, mold-scented air.

"I..." Isaiah stammered, shaking his head as if to dislodge the words. "I didn't... I sent you to prison. I didn't order... this."

Karen laughed. It was a wet, broken sound that held no humor, only agony. She held up her maimed hand, shoving it toward his face, forcing him to look.

"Look at it!" she screamed, her voice shredding. "Look at your justice, Isaiah! Is it enough? Does this finally pay for Clementine? A finger for a life? Is that the exchange rate in your world?"

Isaiah backed away until his legs hit the filthy mattress on the floor. He felt bile rising in his throat, hot and acidic.

"I didn't know," he whispered. The words were a prayer and a plea. "I swear to God, Karen. I didn't know."

"You didn't have to know," Karen spat, stepping toward him as he stumbled back. "You just had to put me in the cage. You threw me to the animals, Isaiah. Your name, your power... it was a death sentence. They all knew who I was. The King's reject."

Isaiah went pale. He remembered the phone call to the warden, his voice thick with whiskey and grief. Make sure she remembers every day why she's there.

"I meant... hard labor. Solitary confinement," he choked out.

"They wanted money," Karen said, her voice suddenly dropping, becoming chillingly devoid of emotion. "Protection money that Danny couldn't pay. So they took a deposit. A message to the great Isaiah King that his property was vulnerable."

She wiggled the stump, a grotesque little gesture.

"Rusty gardening shears. No anesthetic. They laughed while they did it."

Isaiah turned and vomited.

He retched violently onto the dirty floorboards, his body rejecting the reality of what he was hearing. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, the taste of scotch and self-loathing burning his throat.

He was a ruthless businessman. He had destroyed companies. He had ruined lives. But he wasn't a butcher. He wasn't a monster who ordered mutilations.

Or was he? By putting her there, by marking her with his name and his hatred, had he loaded the gun and simply let someone else pull the trigger?

Karen stood over him. In the dim light, with her tear-streaked face and bleeding soul, she looked like a vengeful spirit risen from a grave he had dug himself.

"Get out," she said.

Isaiah wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at her, at the ruin he had made. He saw past the anger to the terror beneath. He saw the empty space where his son had stood just minutes before.

Hoke. His son had lived with this. His son had watched his mother hide her hand every single day.

"I..." Isaiah tried to stand. His legs were shaking, weak. "I have to..."

He couldn't fix this. Not with money. Not with words. The finger was gone. The five years were gone.

He turned and ran.

He fled the basement like a coward. He pushed past the confused bodyguards in the hallway, their questions dying on their lips when they saw his face. He ran out into the street, into the cold, indifferent city air.

He scrambled into the back of his car. Victoria was there, holding a struggling Hoke who had fallen into a furious silence.

"Isaiah? What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Isaiah didn't answer. He slammed the door.

"Drive!" he screamed at the driver. "Just drive!"

He looked out the back window. The basement door remained a dark, accusing maw in the side of the building.

He pulled out his phone. His hands were shaking so hard he could barely dial.

"Jasper," he gasped when his assistant answered.

"Sir?"

"Get me the files. The prison files for Karen Nash. Not the official ones. I want the real ones. The infirmary logs, incident reports, visitor logs, everything. I want every single second of the last five years."

"Sir, those records are sealed at the highest level..."

"UNSEAL THEM!" Isaiah roared, the sound tearing from his throat, raw and unhinged. "I don't care who you have to bribe or threaten! If you don't have them on my desk in an hour, you're fired!"

He hung up. He leaned his head back, his eyes closing. He could still see it. The scarred, twisted flesh.

He opened his eyes and looked at Hoke.

The boy was staring at him. He was no longer fighting. He was watching his father with a terrifying, cold calmness.

"You saw it," Hoke said. It wasn't a question.

Isaiah nodded, unable to speak.

"She cries at night," Hoke said, his small voice cutting through Isaiah's chaos. "Because of you."

Isaiah closed his eyes and let the darkness, and the truth of the boy's words, swallow him whole.