Too Late For Regret: My Ex-Wife's Empire

The first thing I did was call my lawyer. I met him at his downtown office an hour later, the signed agreement in my hand. He was shocked, but he saw the resolve in my eyes and immediately got to work filing the paperwork to make the property transfer and the divorce ironclad.

"It will be finalized after the mandatory cooling-off period," he explained. "But his signature on this agreement is binding. The Malibu property is yours."

I nodded, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. "Thank you."

My next stop was a private clinic. The stress of the last twenty-four hours, the reliving of my death, had taken a toll. I felt a familiar, sickening churn in my stomach.

The doctor, a kind-faced woman, ran some tests. She came back into the room with a gentle smile.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Kramer. You're about six weeks pregnant."

The words hung in the air, cold and heavy. Pregnant.

In my first life, I had a child with Graves once before. It was early in our marriage. He had just started his affair with his then-assistant. The stress, the constant fighting, the sleepless nights—I miscarried at ten weeks. He had held my hand in the hospital and sworn he would change, that our baby's loss was a wake-up call. He lied.

This new life, growing inside me now, was a child conceived in betrayal. It would be born into a world where its father was a monster and its mother was consumed by a quest for revenge. It would be a constant, living reminder of him.

I remembered the fetus from my first life. The one I lost. I remembered the pain, the blood, the emptiness. I would not let another child of mine suffer because of that man.

"I want to terminate it," I said, my voice firm.

The doctor's smile faded. "Are you sure, Kimberly? This is a big decision."

"I am sure," I said. My heart was a block of ice. There was no room for sentiment. Only survival. "And I have a special request. I want to schedule a CVS test—chorionic villus sampling. I need the fetal cell samples sent to a specific private lab for genetic analysis. I'll pay for everything."

The doctor looked at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of pity and confusion. She didn't understand. She didn't need to. She just nodded slowly and made the arrangements.

The procedure was quick and clinical. As I lay in the recovery room, the anesthesia wearing off, leaving a dull ache in its wake, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Graves.

"Where did you go? Alex is scared. She thinks you hate her."

I stared at the message. The concern in his words was not for me, his wife of ten years, who had just walked out on him. It was for the girl he had known for a few weeks. The hollowness in my chest deepened, but it was a cold, empty feeling, not the hot agony of my past life.

I pressed my hand against my flat stomach. The ache there was a grim reminder of the sacrifice I had just made. I had cut out the last piece of him from my life.

My phone buzzed again. This time, I didn't look. I deleted the message thread, blocked his number, and closed my eyes.

The memories of my first life came flooding back. Not the death, but the slow, agonizing decline that led to it. It started with that party. The party Graves threw for Alex.

It was her twenty-first birthday, just a few weeks after she moved in. He had insisted on throwing a lavish party for her at our penthouse. "To make her feel welcome," he had said.

I had to play the role of the gracious hostess, smiling as our friends and business partners showered attention on this young woman who was sleeping in my husband's bed.

I remembered how he had presented her with the main gift. A brand-new sports car, the keys dangling from his fingers. The same model I had told him I wanted for my own birthday just a month prior. He had told me it was too extravagant.

The crowd had oohed and aahed. Someone had jokingly called Alex "the new Mrs. Kramer." I had stood there, a champagne flute in my hand, my smile frozen on my face, while my world crumbled around me.

The memory was so vivid I could almost hear the laughter, feel the sting of humiliation. But this time, the memory didn't bring tears. It brought a chilling clarity.

I had to go to that party again. I had to live through it one more time. But this time, I wouldn't be the victim. I would be the one holding the script.