Too Late For Regret: His Ruined Empire

I gave up my architectural career and used my family's fortune to build my husband Jace's empire. I thought we were a power couple, but I came home to find him intimately comforting another woman-Brenna, the pregnant fiancée of his late partner, who he'd moved into our home without my consent.

When I confronted them, Brenna deliberately smashed my priceless, century-old family heirloom watch.

In a blind rage, I slapped her. But instead of defending me, his wife, Jace violently shoved me to the floor. My head hit the hard marble, the physical pain nothing compared to the shock of his betrayal.

He stood over me, his face twisted with fury, protecting her.

"Don't you ever lay a hand on her!" he roared.

He had put his hands on me. For her. In that moment, all the love I had for him died, replaced by a cold, burning rage. He had taken my dreams, my family's money, and now my dignity.

I picked up my phone and made a single call. "Father," I whispered, my voice shaking. "It's over. And I want him ruined."

Chapter 1

Chloe POV:

My breath hitched, a cold knot tightening in my chest. I stood in the doorway of what I had once considered our living room, the soft glow of the city lights doing little to soften the scene before me. Jace was there, his back to me, his hands gently kneading Brenna' s shoulders. Her head was tilted back, resting against his arm, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips. It was too intimate, too tender, for mere platonic comfort.

A sharp, painful echo resonated in my mind.

It was exactly the way he used to massage my shoulders after a long, stressful day.

I had married Jace Malone, the ambitious tech CEO, believing in a future built on shared dreams and unwavering support.

I gave up my own burgeoning architectural career, silencing the passion that had once defined me.

I did it for him, for us, for the picture of domestic bliss we were building.

Our lavish penthouse apartment, a symbol of our success, now felt like a gilded cage.

Jace' s company, the empire he so proudly built, had been founded on the seed money from my family.

My family, the Padillas, with their old money and even older power, had silently backed his rise.

I was his wife, his partner, his silent strength. Or so I thought.

Brenna Duran, the supposed pregnant fiancée of Jace' s deceased business partner, arrived at our doorstep like a storm front no one saw coming.

She was fragile, tear-stained, and undeniably vulnerable.

Jace, with a paternalistic flicker in his eyes that I hadn't seen before, declared it his duty to protect her.

He said it was for his late friend's legacy.

He said she had nowhere else to go.

He said it without consulting me, without even a glance at my uneasy expression.

"She'll stay here," he announced, his voice firm, leaving no room for discussion.

"Just until she's settled, Chloe."

My father, Benjamin Donovan, the patriarch of our corporate empire, had raised an eyebrow when I told him.

He hadn't said much, but that single, unspoken question in his gaze was enough.

Are you sure about this, my dear?

I swallowed my apprehension, trying to be the supportive wife, the understanding hostess.

I tried to tell Jace my concerns, tried to explain how uncomfortable it made me.

He simply waved my words away like bothersome flies.

"She's grieving, Chloe. And pregnant. She needs our kindness."

Our kindness. It felt like a shield, protecting her from my perfectly valid feelings.

My place in our home, in Jace' s life, felt subtly eroded, like sand disappearing under a rising tide.

I became a ghost in my own penthouse, watching Brenna weave her subtle manipulations.

Her "accidental" spills in my favorite armchair.

Her "innocent" requests for Jace's time, always when I was present.

The way her eyes, wide and innocent, would flicker with a knowing glint when Jace wasn't looking.

I watched her lean on him, literally and figuratively, until he seemed to forget I was even there.

I saw them through half-closed doors, sharing hushed conversations, her hand often resting on his arm.

It started small.

A late-night request for Jace to fetch her a glass of water, interrupting our rare moments of quiet.

A sudden "dizzy spell" requiring Jace's immediate attention, derailing our dinner plans.

Jace would always rush to her side, his brow furrowed with concern, leaving me to sit alone.

He was oblivious, or perhaps willfully ignorant, to the transparent charade.

I remembered the girl I used to be, the ambitious architect with blueprints and dreams.

I remembered putting those dreams aside, one by one, for him.

For us.

Now, that girl felt like a distant memory, a stranger I had betrayed.

The constant erosion of my identity had left me brittle, on the verge of shattering.

And now, this. This intimate shoulder massage, in our living room, under the pretense of grief and duty.

It wasn't just a massage. It was a declaration.

A chilling confirmation of a betrayal far deeper than I had allowed myself to acknowledge.

A wave of nausea washed over me, mingling with a burning humiliation.

My family' s name, my legacy, was being dragged through the mud in my own home.

I backed away silently, my movements as quiet as a predator in the night.

My hand instinctively reached for my phone.

My fingers, trembling slightly, scrolled through my contacts.

"Father," I whispered into the receiver, my voice barely audible.

His deep, calm voice, usually a comfort, now felt like the sharp edge of a sword. "Chloe? What is it?"

"It's over," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Everything. And I want him ruined."

A pause stretched between us, thick with unspoken understanding.

"Consider it done, my dear," he finally replied, his voice devoid of warmth.

"Tell me everything, and then we will begin."

I closed my eyes, a new, cold resolve hardening my features. The old Chloe was dead. A queen was about to rise from the ashes.