Too Late For Regret: My Cold Husband's Tears

Simone clapped her hands together lightly. The sound was soft, but the gallery staff reacted instantly. The overhead track lighting dimmed, plunging the room into a moody twilight. A single, harsh spotlight beamed down onto the center of the room, illuminating a large easel covered by a red velvet cloth.

"This is the heart of my collection," Simone announced, her voice trembling with theatrical emotion. "I call it 'Longing'."

She pulled the cloth. It pooled on the floor like spilled blood.

A collective gasp sucked the oxygen out of the room.

It was an oil painting. Large scale. It depicted a man from behind, standing by a window, half-naked. The play of light and shadow was masterful, but it was the detail on the subject's back that mattered.

A jagged, distinctive scar ran across the right shoulder blade.

Frederica felt the blood drain from her face. Her stomach dropped to her feet. She knew that scar. She had traced it with her fingertips in the dark. She had kissed it. It was a private map of Easton's history, something he hid from the world.

And now it was on display for three hundred people to gawk at.

"Oh my god, is that Reilly?" a man whispered loudly behind her.

"The rumors are true then," a woman tittered.

Simone looked at Frederica. Her eyes were wide and innocent, but the malice behind them was sharp. It was a power move. She was telling the world she knew Easton intimately. She was stripping Frederica of her wife title and reducing her to a spectator.

The auctioneer stepped up to the podium. "Opening bid is fifty thousand dollars."

Frederica's mind raced. If this painting sold, if it hung in someone's penthouse, the tabloids would run with it for months. The humiliation would be eternal. This wasn't about money. It was about control. Using her traceable trust fund was a fool's move. But moving millions from her anonymous crypto wallets for something so public would trip every digital alarm she had so carefully set. It would link her hidden identity to this very public feud.

"One hundred thousand," Frederica said. Her voice shook, but it was audible. She chose the lesser of two evils.

Heads turned. The room went silent.

Simone brought a hand to her chest. "Oh, Frederica. You want it? But this is about... love."

"One hundred and twenty thousand!" a voice called from the back. Someone enjoying the drama.

"Two hundred thousand," Frederica countered immediately. She was bleeding money from an account that would be scrutinized in the divorce, a deliberate act of self-sabotage to prove a point.

The price climbed. Three hundred. Four hundred. Frederica's palms were sweating. She was up to half a million dollars. She was buying her own dignity back from her husband's mistress.

"This is getting tedious," a voice boomed.

It wasn't a bidder. It was Easton.

He moved before anyone could process it. He didn't surge onto the stage. He simply raised his phone to his ear, his eyes locked on Simone, his expression chillingly calm.

He spoke into the phone, his voice amplified by the auctioneer's still-live microphone. "Yates. Purchase a controlling interest in the Sinclair Gallery's parent company. The price is irrelevant. Once the transaction is complete, dissolve the gallery. Liquidate all assets. Send this piece," he gestured to the painting with a flick of his wrist, "to the incinerator."

Easton! Simone cried out, her facade cracking. "It is for charity! You cannot-"

Easton ignored her. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the stunned crowd before landing on Frederica. He didn't look at Simone. He walked straight to Frederica.

She stood frozen, her hand still raised with her paddle.

Easton didn't speak. He reached out and clamped his hand around her wrist. His grip was iron. It wasn't a hold; it was a shackle.

"Let go," Frederica hissed, trying to twist her arm away. "Everyone is watching."

"Let them watch," Easton muttered, his voice a low growl near her ear. "What did you think you were accomplishing with this public spectacle?"

He yanked her. She stumbled, forced to follow him or be dragged. He pulled her through the stunned crowd, moving like a battering ram toward the exit.

As they passed a pale, trembling Simone, Easton didn't even slow down.

"My legal team will be in touch regarding the dissolution," he threw the words over his shoulder like a grenade.

He pushed through the glass doors, dragging Frederica out into the cold night air. He shoved her toward the waiting black Maybach at the curb. The valet scrambled to open the door.

Easton practically threw her into the backseat. He climbed in after her.

"Lock the doors," he ordered the driver.

The locks engaged with a heavy, final thud. The tinted windows rolled up, sealing them in a soundproof box of leather and tension.