Too Late For Regret: My Cold Husband's Tears

The martini glass was sweating condensation onto the dark wood of the table. Frederica stared at the olive submerged in the clear liquid, feeling much the same way-drowning in plain sight.

Chloe Vance sat across from her in the dimly lit booth of the SoHo speakeasy. Chloe was the only person in New York who knew Frederica as Freddie, not the Mccullough outcast or the Reilly accessory.

"He is a wolf in a bespoke suit," Chloe spat, slamming her own drink down. "He leaves you after you serve him divorce papers because his ex-girlfriend scraped her knee? That is not just disrespectful, Freddie. That is pathological."

Frederica didn't answer. She unlocked her phone. The screen was flooded with notifications. The algorithm knew her better than her husband did; it fed her exactly what would hurt the most.

Reilly Group CEO to Attend Muse's Return Debut.

The headline glared at her. Below it was a picture of the Sinclair Gallery in Chelsea, already swarming with paparazzi.

A wave of dizziness hit her. For a second, the face in her mind wasn't Easton's. It was Julian's. Julian Reilly, Easton's younger brother. The man she had loved first. The man who had traded her to his older brother for a percentage of the family trust three years ago. The memory was a physical blow to her gut.

Chloe reached across the table and clamped her hand over Frederica's shaking fingers.

"Do not do it," Chloe warned, reading her mind. "Going there tonight is suicide. You are walking into a firing squad."

Frederica pulled her hand away. Her eyes snapped into focus. The trembling stopped.

"If I do not go, the narrative becomes 'Frederica Mccullough, the scorned wife hiding at home.' The Mccullough stock is already volatile. I cannot look weak. Not now. Besides, this is Plan B. The whole point is to detonate this in public."

She stood up. She pulled a compact mirror from her clutch. She applied a layer of crimson lipstick with the precision of a sniper adjusting a scope. She wasn't putting on makeup; she was applying war paint.

Chloe sighed, a sound of deep frustration, but she grabbed her coat. She followed Frederica out into the cool night air and hailed a yellow cab.

The taxi dropped them a block away from the Sinclair Gallery. The line of black SUVs and limousines blocked the entrance. The red carpet was a gauntlet of flashing lights. Frederica bypassed the main entrance, leading Chloe down a side alley to a service door where a disgruntled security guard was waiting.

"Your name?" he grunted, not looking up from his list.

"We're on the catering list. Vance and McCullough," Frederica said smoothly, pulling a simple black blazer over her shoulders, instantly transforming her understated silk dress into something that could pass for a uniform. The guard waved them through. The moment her heel touched the polished concrete inside, her posture shifted. Her shoulders went back, her chin lifted. The broken woman from the closet was gone. Mrs. Easton Reilly, in a five-year-old dress that the society pages would crucify her for, had arrived.

The flashbulbs were still visible through the front windows, blinding strobes of light. The wall of sound hit her next.

She could hear the reporters shouting for Easton, for Simone. Not for her. Perfect.

Microphones were thrust toward the front door, invading the personal space of the A-listers. Frederica maintained a frozen, pleasant smile as she moved through the staff corridors. It was a mask she had been wearing since childhood.

Chloe handed her a staff pass clipped to a lanyard. "The camera feed is live," she whispered. "I've got a direct link. You make the scene, I make it go viral."

Frederica moved through the crowd, her body rigid. Every step felt like walking on broken glass. She entered the main gallery, and the noise shifted from the roar of the press to the low, vicious hum of the elite.

The air smelled of expensive perfume and stale champagne. Eyes followed her. She could feel them-heavy, judgmental, amused.

"Is that Frederica?" a voice drifted from a nearby cluster of women in Chanel. "My God, is that a vintage McQueen? Vintage as in, from five seasons ago. How brave."

Frederica didn't flinch. She kept her eyes fixed on the far end of the room.

There they were.

Simone Sinclair stood in the center of the room, radiant in a white gown that looked suspiciously bridal. Her hand was tucked possessively into the crook of Easton's arm. Easton wore a black tuxedo, looking like the devil himself. He wasn't pushing her away. He was leaning in, listening to something she was whispering.

Frederica's heart squeezed so hard she thought it might stop. The visual confirmation was worse than the phone call. It was a public declaration of where his loyalty lay.

Simone looked up. Her eyes locked onto Frederica. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. She raised a hand and waved, a gesture that looked welcoming but felt like a slap.

Easton followed Simone's gaze. He turned. His eyes met Frederica's across the crowded room.

His expression darkened. His jaw tightened. He didn't look happy to see her. He looked annoyed.

Frederica felt a surge of adrenaline. It was the fight-or-flight response, and she was done fleeing. She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, not to drink, but to have something to hold.

She walked straight toward them. The crowd parted, sensing the collision.

She stopped three feet away. She raised her glass.

"Congratulations, Miss Sinclair," Frederica said, her voice cutting through the ambient noise like a razor. "I hear there is a surprise tonight?"