Too Late For Regret: The Ruthless Wife

The darkness was absolute.

Suddenly, a sharp, metallic electronic voice echoed inside Cora's skull.

System initializing.

A violent sensation of weightlessness hit her. Cora's stomach lurched into her throat. She felt like she was falling from a ten-story building.

She gasped and her eyes snapped open.

Blinding light stabbed into her pupils. She squeezed her eyes shut and threw her hand up to shield her face. Her breathing was shallow and fast.

Slowly, she lowered her hand and squinted. A massive, ostentatious crystal chandelier hung directly above her.

She was lying on a bed. The mattress was incredibly soft, almost suffocating. She looked around. The room was huge, decorated in a heavy, oppressive Victorian style. Dark wood, thick velvet curtains, and gold accents everywhere.

Suddenly, a spike of pure agony drove through her temples.

Cora grabbed her head. She gritted her teeth to stop herself from screaming. Memories that didn't belong to her ripped through her brain.

Heloise Vance.

That was her name now. She saw flashes of a miserable life. A husband who smelled like cheap perfume and alcohol. A mother-in-law who spat insults daily. A life spent looking at the floor, apologizing for breathing.

The pain slowly faded, leaving a dull throbbing behind her eyes.

Cora pushed the heavy silk duvet off her body. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold, intricate Persian rug.

She stood up. The room spun for a second. She steadied herself and walked toward the massive vanity mirror across the room. She gripped the cold marble edge of the table and stared at her reflection.

Cora sucked in a sharp breath.

The face looking back at her was a stranger. Pale skin, dark circles under terrified eyes, and a weak, trembling jawline. She looked exhausted and broken.

Cora raised her hand and pinched her own cheek, hard.

The sharp sting of pain radiated across her skin. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't a dream. The physical sensations were too real. The cold marble, the soft rug, the pain in her face.

She let go of the vanity and opened the top drawer.

A large, orange prescription bottle sat inside. Cora picked it up. Heavy antidepressants. The label had Heloise's name on it. She tossed the bottle back into the drawer with a look of disgust.

She opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand. A small leather diary lay hidden under a stack of tissues. It had a cheap metal combination lock on it.

Cora rummaged through the top drawer of the vanity, her eyes scanning a pile of useless hair accessories. She finally found an old, bent bobby pin hidden in the corner of a cheap jewelry box. She shoved the metal tip into the lock, twisted her wrist, and popped it open in three seconds.

She flipped through the pages. The handwriting was shaky. Page after page of desperate pleas. Fear of her husband, Leland. Terror of her mother-in-law.

Cora's upper lip curled into a sneer. She slammed the book shut.

Get me out of here, Cora demanded in her mind.

Silence.

System. End simulation.

The cold, metallic voice echoed in her head again.

Logout denied. You must complete the counterattack mission to exit the simulation.

Cora let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

Claudia. This was exactly the kind of sick, expensive, immersive torture her sister would design. A forced psychological stress test.

Cora's fear vanished, instantly replaced by a cold, calculating rage. If Claudia wanted to play games, Cora would burn this virtual house to the ground.

She straightened her spine. The weak, trembling posture of Heloise Vance disappeared. Cora's eyes hardened, turning into shards of ice.

She walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. She grabbed the heavy velvet curtains and yanked them apart.

Blinding morning sunlight flooded the dark room.

Outside, a sprawling, manicured estate stretched out as far as she could see. Cora stared down at the perfect lawns. She was going to tear this family apart piece by piece.

She turned and walked into the walk-in closet.

Row after row of dull, conservative dresses hung on the racks. Grays, browns, high collars. The wardrobe of a victim.

Cora grabbed handfuls of the ugly fabric and ripped them off the hangers, throwing them onto the floor in a massive pile.

In the very back corner, she found a sleek, black silk robe. She pulled it on and tied the belt tightly around her waist.

Suddenly, the heavy, rhythmic thud of angry footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.

Cora stopped moving. She tilted her head, listening. The footsteps were heavy, fast, and completely lacking in hesitation. Someone was coming to pick a fight.

The brass doorknob rattled violently. The metal scraped loudly as someone tried to force it open.

Cora crossed her arms over her chest. She stood dead center in the middle of the bedroom. She stared at the heavy mahogany door. Her breathing was perfectly even.

Bang.

The door was kicked open. It slammed against the wall, shaking the frame.

An older woman stormed into the room. She was dripping in heavy gold jewelry. Her face was pulled tight with anger, her lips painted a harsh, blood red.

This was Marge. The mother-in-law.

Marge stopped in her tracks. She looked at Cora standing in the middle of the room. A flicker of confusion crossed Marge's face. Heloise usually hid under the covers when she entered.

But the confusion only lasted a second. Marge's habitual arrogance took over. She opened her red mouth, her eyes flashing with malice.

Cora didn't flinch. She slightly raised her chin and looked down at the older woman. Her eyes were completely dead, filled with absolute, chilling contempt.