The Billionaire's Regret She Left When He Chose Her

This was the first time I had ever embarrassed him in front of the entire company.

Ethan froze at the ice in my eyes, his reprimand dying in his throat. He stiffly dropped his arm from Vanessa's shoulders, his tone softening.

"Alex, don't be ridiculous. You'll always be the group's vice president."

"If you think it's inappropriate, then handle it by the book."

The moment the words left my mouth, Vanessa's tears spilled over. She covered her face, as if mortally wounded, and fled the room sobbing.

"Vanessa!" Panic flickered across Ethan's face. He chased after her without a backward glance, leaving a room full of executives and staff standing in stunned silence.

Soon after, the finance director messaged me, practically shaking through the screen. Ethan had ordered ten million dollars transferred from company accounts into Vanessa's personal account—"compensation," he called it.

I stared at the message and almost laughed. My position as vice president, like our marriage, had become nothing more than a hollow title.

I thought I was used to all of this by now. But when I turned toward the elevator, tears fell before I could stop them.

He was always saying Vanessa had such a tragic past, that she'd lost her parents so young. He forgot that by the time I married him, the Hensons had only me left.

Seven years ago, Ethan's startup had collapsed. Crushed under debt, cornered in an alley, he'd been beaten within an inch of his life. When I found him, he was drenched in blood, a shard of glass in his hand, ready to end it all.

In that moment, I made a decision that bordered on madness.

Without telling a soul, I sold the ancestral home my parents had left me. If I hadn't sold it that day, Ethan would have been driven to his death. But once it was gone, I lost the last piece of my parents I had left.

I took that check—weightless as paper, heavy as a mountain—paid off every debt, and moved with him into a basement that reeked of mold.

That night, Ethan held me as I shivered and swore to the heavens.

"Alex, it's okay if you don't have a home anymore. From now on, I am your home. If I ever wrong you in this life, let me die a horrible death."

I believed no one would ever love me more than he did.

Now I understood: relationships are just transactions. Ethan became wealthy and famous, a business titan. He brought home one woman after another, basking in the adoration of "innocent little flowers."

And I? I had lost everything in the deal.

When I drove down the familiar stretch of Sycamore Lane, unease coiled in my chest. This was the only thing my parents had left me—the same root I had severed with my own hands for Ethan.

The moment my car rounded the corner, I knew something was wrong.

The old house, once quiet and secluded, was now surrounded by trucks plastered with film-crew logos. Thick black cables snaked through the ornate iron gate like coiled serpents. From inside the yard came the piercing shriek of power drills and the brutal thud of hammers, each blow landing like a strike to my heart.

My chest seized. I didn't even turn off the engine—just threw open the door and ran.

What I saw made my blood boil.

A crew in work uniforms swung sledgehammers at the parquet tiles in the main hall, smashing them to pieces. Those tiles—my parents had loved the pattern. Every single piece had been shipped from Southeast Asia, chosen with such care.

Now, under the violent blows, they shattered into fragments. Splinters flew everywhere.

"Stop! All of you, STOP!"

I threw myself in front of the workers, blocking them like a woman possessed. David Whitney, the homeowner, emerged from behind a stack of camera equipment. When he saw me, a flicker of guilt crossed his face.

"Miss Henson, this... there's nothing I can do."