Too Late For Regret: My Ex-Husband's Downfall

Edwardo came home that evening in a deceptively good mood. He was carrying takeout from Le Bernardin, her favorite restaurant.

"I thought you might be tired," he said, placing the bags on the kitchen island. He moved to kiss her, but she turned her head at the last second, and his lips met her hair. He frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

"Tough day?" he asked, his voice tight.

She noticed he was wearing a new shirt, a crisp, white Brioni she'd never seen before. The fit was impeccable.

"New shirt?" she asked, her voice neutral.

He preened, adjusting a cufflink. "A gift. From a grateful patient's family. You know how it is. Sometimes it's rude to refuse."

Another lie, dropped as casually as a piece of lint. She was the one who managed his wardrobe. She knew every shirt, every suit, every size. This was a gift, but not from a patient.

They ate in near silence. He filled the space with stories of his "heroic" day in surgery, of the life he had supposedly saved. She listened, nodding occasionally, picturing him with Cleo at The Elysian Club. The food tasted like cardboard in her mouth.

His phone vibrated on the table. He picked it up, and a soft, tender look transformed his face. He stood up abruptly.

"I need to take this," he said, walking out onto the balcony and sliding the glass door almost shut, leaving just a crack.

Colette didn't move. The dose of medicine had sharpened her senses, and she could hear his low murmur.

"Darling, don't be upset... Of course I miss you... My mother ambushed me as soon as I got to the hospital... Yes, it's all her fault."

He was placating Cleo. Apologizing for not spending more time with her.

"Did you like the necklace?... I bet you look stunning... Don't worry, I'll make it up to you. I'll clear my schedule next week. We'll go to the Hamptons house. Just the two of us."

Colette's stomach clenched. The Hamptons. He had promised to take her there for their anniversary.

"What about Colette?" she heard him say, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't worry about her. She's been a little sentimental lately, but I'll handle it. She's simple. She'll never suspect a thing."

Simple.

The word echoed in the silent dining room. He didn't just betray her; he had no respect for her. He saw her as an object. A simple, foolish thing to be managed.

Any lingering trace of sentiment, any ghost of the love she once felt, died in that moment. It was a quiet, painless death.

He came back inside, the charming smile plastered back on his face. He sat down and took her hand. His touch felt like a spider crawling on her skin.

"Honey, I was just thinking," he said, his eyes full of fake sincerity. "We haven't had any time for ourselves lately. I'm going to clear my schedule next week. What do you say we go to the Hamptons? Just the two of us. We can relax."

He repeated the lie, the promise made to his mistress, without a single flicker of shame.

Colette looked into his eyes and saw nothing but a void.

She slowly pulled her hand away.

"Okay," she said, her voice a flat, dead thing. "That sounds nice."

His face relaxed, pleased with his easy victory. He launched into a description of the wonderful time "they" would have, detailing all the things he and Cleo had likely already planned.

She stood up. "I'm a little tired. I think I'll go to bed."

She walked away without a backward glance.

Lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, she felt a strange sense of peace. The war was over. She had lost the marriage, but she was about to win her freedom.

She picked up her phone and sent a text to the number Genevieve's lawyer had provided.

Tomorrow. I want the papers tomorrow.