Too Late For Regret: His Discarded Rose

Brianna POV

On the night I thought I finally escaped my mother's shadow, Ashton Cole, my fiancé, shattered my world with a single, cruel demand. He told me he would marry another woman for business, and I could remain his secret lover. My mother's scandalous past, which he once promised to protect me from, became his weapon against me.

I had loved him with the kind of blind devotion that only comes from having been saved. When I was seventeen, a bullied outcast marked by my mother's disgrace, Ashton had stepped in and chased away the monsters. He brought me coffee, walked me to class, spoke of justice and innocence. He was the wall I leaned on when the world felt like it was crumbling. And now, he was dismantling it brick by brick.

The engagement party shimmered around us, a vibrant blur of laughter and clinking glasses. Ashton's hand, still warm from holding mine moments before, slipped away. He leaned closer. His breath, usually smelling of mint and expensive cologne, now carried a cold edge.

"Brianna," he began, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. "We need to talk about our future."

My heart pounded a happy rhythm. I imagined discussions about wedding venues, honeymoon destinations. "Yes, Ashton?" I smiled, my gaze fixed on the diamond gleaming on my finger.

He cleared his throat. "I've decided to formalize my partnership with Kiley McConnell."

My smile froze. Kiley McConnell, the sharp, ambitious new executive at Hampton Industries. I had seen her at company events—impeccably dressed, commanding attention. I once asked Ashton why he spent so much time with her. He said she was "a force of nature," and I mistook admiration for professional respect. A prickle of unease ran through me.

"Formalize your partnership?" I asked. "What does that mean for us?"

Ashton's eyes, once so warm, were now distant, calculating. He adjusted his tie—a nervous habit I had learned to read. But this time, the calculation wasn't about making me feel safe. "It means Kiley and I will marry. For business, of course."

The words hit me like a physical blow. The glittering ballroom, the happy faces, the music—everything spun into a dizzying kaleidoscope of disbelief.

"Marry?" I whispered. "You're going to marry Kiley?"

He nodded, curt. "A strategic alliance, Brianna. Her connections, her drive—invaluable for the company's expansion."

A cold dread seeped into my bones. "And what about me?"

Ashton's gaze finally met mine, but there was no compassion. Only chilling pragmatism. "You'll remain my confidante, my closest companion. Privately. You understand, don't you? It's for the best."

Privately. He wanted me to become his mistress. The humiliation burned through me, hotter than any shame my mother had ever brought.

"Private?" I repeated, my voice rising. "You want me to be your secret lover while you marry another woman?"

He shifted, impatience flickering across his face. "Think about it, Brianna. Your mother's entanglement makes you a liability in certain elite circles. Kiley, on the other hand, brings a clean public image. People remember your mother's scandal, Brianna. They always will. This way, you're protected."

The casual way he weaponized my deepest wound twisted inside me like a knife. He knew every scar. He had watched me flinch at the mention of my mother's name. And now he was using that knowledge to justify his cruelty. He wasn't protecting me. He was burying me.

"No," I said, my voice shaking but firm. "I cannot accept that role. Never."

His jaw tightened. "Brianna, be reasonable. This is your chance to maintain your comfortable life. Refuse, and you lose everything. You know what it's like to be alone."

I looked at him and saw a stranger. The man I loved was gone. My heart broke, but a new, steely resolve formed in its place. I thought of my mother, alone in that small apartment, the note she left. I would not become her. "Then I lose everything," I replied flatly.

Ashton reached out, his hand brushing my arm. "Brianna, don't be so dramatic. I still care for you." His touch felt like ash.

"Remember what happened to your mother," he pressed, his voice dropping. "The humiliation, the isolation. You don't want to repeat that, do you? I'm offering you a way out."

A flicker of cold, pure rage ignited within me. He saw me as a damaged commodity. But I wasn't that terrified girl anymore. I had someone.

An image of my aunt Caryl flashed in my mind. She had vanished after the scandal, choosing to protect her own burgeoning tech empire from association with my family's notoriety. But six months ago, after years of silence, she sent me a cryptic message: "If things ever go south, I'm always here. Your mother's mistakes don't define you." I had dismissed it then, cushioned by Ashton's affection. Now, her words echoed with urgent significance.

I discreetly retrieved my phone from my clutch. Under the cover of a nearby potted palm, I typed: "I need to leave. Now."

Almost instantly, my phone vibrated. A single word: "Done." No questions. No hesitation.

Ashton, oblivious, patted my hand. "See? Everything will be fine. You're just emotional." He mistook my silence for acquiescence. He believed he had won.

"Come on," he said. "Kiley wants us to arrive at the gala together. She's particular about appearances."

"You'll ride in the back," he instructed. "Kiley prefers the front seat tonight. She thinks it looks better for our public debut."

My eyes widened. The back. I was his fiancée—or had been. Now I was relegated to the back seat, a silent accessory to his betrayal. The indignity burned through me.

"She feels it projects a stronger, more unified image for the business partnership," he added. "You understand, right? Kiley and I will make the official announcement tonight. We're getting married within the month."

My breath hitched. He had once described Kiley to me as "bold," "unconventional," "a force of nature." Then, he called her a "dragon lily"—beautiful, but with a hidden sting. I had dismissed it as a fanciful compliment. Now the image of a predatory flower seared into my mind.

A sharp pain shot through my palm. I gasped. A concealed rose thorn, broken from a wilting centerpiece, had pierced my skin. A thin line of red bloomed on my hand. A single drop of blood fell onto Kiley's white silk dress.

"What's wrong?" Ashton asked, irritated.

"No, not there!" he snapped, his gaze fixed not on my bleeding hand, but on the small, almost imperceptible stain. "You'll ruin Kiley's gown!"

My blood, my pain, was a mere inconvenience. The insult was a physical blow, worse than any punch.

"Be more careful," he said, pulling out a pristine handkerchief to dab at the dress. "And try not to touch anything of Kiley's. She's quite particular." He then neatly folded the soiled handkerchief and tucked it away.

I stood there, my hand still bleeding, forgotten.

"Remember, the back seat," he repeated.

"No," I heard myself say, the word firm, clear. My voice was no longer shaking.

Ashton paused. "Very well. Then you may find your own way to the gala. Kiley and I have an entrance to make."

He opened the passenger door. Kiley McConnell already sat inside, her eyes fixed on me with a knowing, triumphant gleam.

The engine roared. With a screech of tires, Ashton pulled away. The car sped down the street, Kiley's smiling face a fleeting blur. I was abandoned—not just by Ashton, but by the illusion of safety he had offered. Rain began to fall, cold and unforgiving.