The CEO's Regret: Too Late To Beg

The house was slowly being colonized by things that weren't mine.

Pastel blankets were draped over the distressed leather sofas like flags of conquest. Bottles of prenatal vitamins cluttered the kitchen island, gleaming under the pendant lights. One Tuesday, a rocking chair materialized in the corner of the living room, usurping the space where my favorite reading lamp used to stand.

Bennett didn't ask.

He just displaced.

He dedicated his mornings to chauffeuring Elia to appointments and his evenings to reading parenting books aloud to her swelling belly. I became a specter in my own home, gliding through hallways, unseen and unheard.

"You're working late again?" Bennett asked one evening.

He was standing in the doorway of my studio, fastening his cufflinks. The scent of expensive cologne wafted into the room-the heavy, musk-based kind he reserved only for special occasions.

"I have a deadline," I lied. In truth, I was organizing old sketches, sliding them into portfolios. Preparing.

"Elia and I are going to dinner," he said, adjusting his collar. "She's craving Italian. You should come. It would look good."

It would look good.

Not I want you there. Not we miss you.

"I can't," I said, refusing to look up from my desk. "Enjoy the pasta."

He lingered for a second, a frown marring his forehead. "You're being distant, Kelsey. Ideally, you should be bonding with her. She's doing this for us."

"For us," I repeated. The words tasted like ash on my tongue.

"Yes. For us." He checked his watch, dismissing my tone. "Don't wait up."

When the front door clicked shut, the silence of the house felt heavy, almost suffocating.

I didn't work.

Instead, I went upstairs to our master bedroom and opened the walk-in closet.

Bennett's clothes were pressed and color-coded, a testament to his obsession with order. Mine had been pushed to the far end of the rack. On the floor, a shopping bag from a high-end boutique caught my eye. I peeked inside to find a cashmere wrap, soft and cream-colored.

I pulled it out, letting the fabric run through my fingers. It wasn't my style. I wore structured coats, dark colors, armor against the world. This was soft, helpless-feminine in a delicate way I had never been.

It was for her.

I put it back exactly as I found it.

Later that week, the sound of Bennett's low voice drew me to the library door. He was on the phone, his back to the entrance.

"Don't worry, little sister," he was saying, his tone unusually tender. "I'll handle it. You just rest."

Little sister.

I stood frozen in the hallway, gripping a stack of my art books until my knuckles turned white. He hung up and turned, spotting me. He didn't look guilty. He looked annoyed that I was existing in his peripheral vision.

"Who were you talking to?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Elia," he said flatly. "She was feeling anxious."

"You called her little sister."

Bennett rolled his eyes, a gesture of supreme impatience. "It's a term of endearment, Kelsey. We grew up in the same circles. Our families know each other. You know that."

"I know a lot of things," I said, my voice steady.

"What is that supposed to mean?" He stepped closer, looming over me to assert his dominance. "You're acting paranoid. Is this about the hormones? Oh wait, you're not the one taking them."

The cruelty was casual, tossed out like a candy wrapper.

"No," I said quietly. "I'm not."

"Then stop making this difficult," he snapped. "I'm doing everything I can to secure our future. All you have to do is be supportive."

He walked past me, his shoulder brushing mine hard enough to make me stumble.

I went to the living room. It was raining outside, a gray, relentless drizzle that matched the coldness spreading in my chest. I looked at the wedding photo on the mantelpiece. We looked so young then. So stupid.

I took the photo down. The glass was cool against my fingertips.

I walked to the drawer where I kept the scissors and tape, but realized I didn't need them. I simply opened the back of the frame and slid the glossy print out.

I looked at Bennett's smiling face one last time.

Then, I folded the photo in half.

The crease ran right down the middle, severing his hand from my waist.

I didn't tear it. Not yet. I just placed it face down on the table, like a card I was refusing to play.

I went back to my studio and pulled out the binder I had hidden behind a large canvas. It was filled with photocopies of bank statements, property deeds, and tax returns.

Bennett thought I was jealous. He thought I was insecure about another woman carrying his child.

He had no idea that I wasn't fighting for his attention anymore.

I was calculating the cost of my freedom.