Too Late for Sorry, Mr. Billionaire (Chasing my Wife Back)

THE kitchen felt unusually quiet after the heavy front door shut behind Adrian. The faint echo of his polished shoes against the marble floor lingered in Amelia’s ears long after he had gone. She stood still for a moment, her fingers brushing over the back of the chair he had occupied for a snappy breakfast, staring at the untouched piece of toast on his plate. He had barely eaten, as usual, too preoccupied with the day’s looming appointments.

Amelia sighed softly. She gathered the plates and set them in the sink, forcing herself into motion. The clinking of ceramic was the only sound filling the room, accompanied by the hum of the refrigerator. She didn’t like silence, at least, not this kind. It wasn’t peaceful; it was hollow.

From the hallway came the sound of small, eager footsteps.

“Mommy!” Hazel, called, dragging her schoolbag along the floor. “Is Daddy gone already?”

Amelia turned, her heart tightening at the sight of her little girl’s expectant face. Hazel was barely seven, with her father’s sharp brown eyes but her mother’s soft features.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Amelia said gently, kneeling to meet Hazel's gaze. “Daddy had to go to work.”

Hazel's lips pushed into a pout.

“I hope he would be back early for dinner?” She held up the colorful sheet of paper she was holding with pride, stick figures holding hands beneath a bright sun, a house with smoke curling from the chimney, and the words *Me, Mommy, Daddy*. It was a newest drawing from her.

Amelia pulled her into a hug, inhaling the scent of her strawberry shampoo.

“Yes, he would,” she turned to the paper, “this is beautiful, darling. I’m sure Daddy will love it when he sees it later tonight.”

Hazel’s small shoulders sagged.

“He is always busy. I hope he makes it this time,” she pouted.

The words pierced Amelia like a needle. They weren’t said with anger, only with the innocent honesty of a child who wanted nothing more than time with her father. Amelia smoothed Hazel’s hair and forced a smile.

“That is why we will remind him gently, hmm? And when your birthday comes, he will make it up to you.”

The mention of her birthday brightened Hazel’s face a little. She nodded and skipped off toward the door. Amelia followed behind, grabbing Hazel's water bottle and carefully packing the lunchbox she had prepared.

The drive to school was filled with Hazel’s chatter about her classmates and the storybook her teacher promised to read. Amelia listened, smiling, though her thoughts drifted back to Adrian. She remembered the way he had responded that morning when she mentioned being present for dinner, his response had shown more concern for his meetings than with the thought Hazel had wanted this.

By the time Amelia kissed Hazel goodbye at the school gate, her smile felt tight around the edges. Watching her daughter run into the building with her backpack bouncing made her both proud and sad. Proud of how bright Hazel was, and sad that Adrian kept missing these fleeting moments.

On the way back home, Amelia detoured to the grocery store. The housekeeper they barely hired for a day's job would usually handle shopping, but Amelia found comfort in the simple act of choosing vegetables and smelling ripe fruit. It grounded her, gave her a sense of normalcy she craved in the midst of Adrian’s high-flying world of deadlines and expectations.

She lingered over the bakery section, picking out Adrian’s favorite brioche. Even if he had barely touched his toast this morning, some part of her still hoped to catch him with a fresh slice tonight.

By the time she returned home, the sunlight streamed warmly across the living room. Amelia placed the groceries in the kitchen and, out of habit, walked into Adrian’s study.

It was pristine, almost cold. His desk was stacked with files, his laptop still open, as if the space itself never truly rested. Amelia’s eyes fell on a framed photo by the desk: the three of them smiling on a rare holiday at the beach. Adrian’s arm had been looped around her shoulders, his eyes softer then, his smile unforced. She remembered how he had carried Hazel on his shoulders, laughing when the waves splashed against their legs.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the frame.

“Where did that Adrian go?” she whispered.

The ringing of her phone startled her. She quickly straightened, pulling it from her pocket. It was her friend Clara.

“Amelia!” Clara’s cheerful voice burst through.

Amelia sighed. And her friend wondered if that sigh was out of tiredness or out of something else.

“Morning Clara,” she greeted, splaying her right fingers on her eyes.

“Hey, chill. You sigh whenever you pick up my call. What's up again? And happy birthday to Adrian,” she added.

A small smile played on her lips.

“Thank you baby girl. How are you? Leonard and the kids?”

“Everyone is fine, but don't evade my question.”

She sighed again, saying nothing. Clara exhaled.

“Lunch today? Now, you sound like you need a break.”

Amelia hesitated. Clara knew her too well.

“I can’t, Clara. There is still a lot to do around here.”

“You mean there is a lot of waiting for Adrian to do,” Clara teased knowingly. Then her tone softened. “Come on, Amy. You need time for yourself, too.”

Amelia smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Maybe next week.”

“No,” Clara thundered, “I will drop by at the boutique minutes before lunch. We are having that lunch today. I insist.”

Amelia rolled her eyes.

“Going to the boutique today wasn't in my agenda—”

“There you go again,” Clara interrupted, “how are you going to make sales?”

Amelia chuckled.

“I have a manager, and three sales representatives walking about my boutique, Clara.”

“Madam CEO, come out today, I want us to meet. There is this Versace gown I want to get as well, I want us to check it out together.”

“Alright, fine,” she gave in, “but I ain't promising,” she added.

After ending the call, she returned to the kitchen and started preparing dinner in advance. It felt foolish sometimes, this ritual of cooking meals Adrian rarely ate at home, but she couldn’t stop herself. Every slice of the knife against the cutting board was a silent hope that tonight might be different.