Too Late For Regret: My Cold Husband's Tears

Frederica's sports car screeched to a halt on the gravel driveway of the Long Island estate. The tires tore deep ruts into the manicured ground. The front door of the mansion was wide open.

Screams echoed from inside. Then a loud crash.

She ran up the steps, her heels clicking frantically on the stone.

The main foyer was a war zone. A Ming vase lay in shards across the marble floor. An oil painting had been ripped from the wall, the canvas slashed.

Meredith Mccullough stood in the center of the debris. She was wearing a silk nightgown, her grey hair wild and tangled. She held a pair of garden shears in her hand, slashing at the air.

The staff huddled in the doorways, terrified.

Frederica's father, Marcus, stood on the second-floor landing. He looked down at the scene with a look of pure disgust.

"Grab her!" Marcus shouted at the security guards. "Before she destroys the tapestry!"

Meredith spun around. Her eyes landed on Frederica. For a second, recognition flickered-not of a daughter, but of a target.

"You!" Meredith shrieked. "You stole my shares!"

Frederica froze. She held up her hands, palms open. "Mom, it is me. Freddie."

Meredith didn't hear her. She grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from a side table and hurled it.

Frederica ducked instinctively. The heavy glass rocketed past her head and shattered against the wall behind her with explosive force. A sharp sting erupted on her temple as a shard of flying crystal sliced her skin.

The impact was a sharp, blinding pain. Frederica stumbled back. Warm liquid instantly gushed down the side of her face, blurring her right eye.

Meredith screamed at the sight of the blood. She dropped the shears and curled into a ball on the floor, shaking violently.

Frederica ignored the blood running into her mouth. She rushed forward, dropping to her knees to wrap her arms around her mother.

"It is okay," she whispered, rocking the trembling woman. "I am here."

Marcus walked down the grand staircase slowly. He glanced at Frederica, at the blood dripping onto the Persian rug.

"You are making a mess," he said.

Frederica looked up. Blood coated half her face. Her eyes were feral.

"Call a doctor! Where is Dr. Aris?"

Marcus signaled to his head of security. "Lock her in her room. We have a board meeting tomorrow. No police. No ambulances."

Two large men stepped forward. They pulled Frederica off her mother. They dragged the screaming Meredith up the stairs.

Frederica tried to follow, but Stone, her father's secretary, blocked her path.

"She is your wife!" Frederica yelled, wiping blood from her eye. "She needs a sedative! She needs a hospital!"

Marcus adjusted his cufflinks. "She is a liability on my balance sheet, Frederica. And right now, so are you."

A chill went through Frederica that had nothing to do with the blood loss.

Dr. Aris hurried in from the side entrance, carrying a black medical bag. He was the concierge doctor, paid to be discreet, not ethical.

Marcus stopped him. He whispered something low. The doctor nodded nervously and hurried up the stairs.

The foyer fell silent. The maids began to sweep up the glass.

Frederica felt the room spin. She leaned against the wall, sliding down until she hit the floor. She pressed her hand to her forehead, trying to stem the flow.

Marcus stood over her.

"Clean yourself up," he said. "I do not want Easton thinking we abuse our assets."

Frederica looked at the man who had contributed half her DNA. The last thread of filial obligation snapped.

She gritted her teeth. She would make them pay. Every single one of them.