Too Late To Want Me Back

I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Pressing my hands against my burning cheek, I smoothed down the front of my crimson silk gown, forced a calm smile onto my face, and stepped back into the grand ballroom.

But the moment I approached the main floor, I realised the seating arrangements for the executive dinner had been altered.

When I reached the primary tier where the Brown family and lead investors sat, my name card was gone. A head waiter appeared beside me, his expression fixed in an apologetic, tight grimace.

“Mrs. Brown, my apologies,” he murmured, his voice lowered so the surrounding elite could hear every word. “Madam Eleanor requested a last-minute adjustment. Your seat has been moved to Table Fourteen.”

Table Fourteen. Tucked away in the back corner of the ballroom, right next to the kitchen doors, where minor press staff and low-tier contractors were placed. It was a deliberate, public execution of my social standing, orchestrated by my mother-in-law.

I looked across the room toward the head table. Dominic was already seated, surrounded by billionaire board members, and directly to his right, in the seat that belonged to his wife, was Selena Whitmore.

Selena didn’t just look beautiful; she looked triumphant. Her flawless white gown glowed under the chandeliers, her neck and ears glittering with the blinding Céleste diamond set. I recognised that exact design immediately.

Three years ago, Dominic had shown me the blueprints, promising those very diamonds for our fifth anniversary. When the date came and went, he had coldly dismissed it as a delayed corporate investment. He hadn’t delayed it. He had saved it for her.

“The diamonds are breathtaking, Selena,” a senior investor’s wife cooed loudly from the main tier. “Dominic truly has impeccable taste. It’s so wonderful to see the two of you representing Brown Holdings together again.”

Dominic didn’t correct her. He lifted his wine glass, offering a smooth, charming nod while Selena slid her manicured hand possessively over his arm.

To the entire room, Selena was the real partner, the rightful queen, while the woman in red standing by the kitchen doors was invisible.

“I heard a rumour,” a board member whispered, just loud enough for my ears.

“Dominic secretly funded her entire return gala through a private Brown Holdings subsidiary. He planned her comeback months ago.”

The room began to spin. The quiet dread in my stomach exploded into agonising reality. Everything I had built my life around was publicly humiliating me. My belief that patience and sacrifice could fix our love cracked and died right there.

I couldn’t sit at Table Fourteen like discarded trash. Gathering the last shred of my pride, I marched straight toward the head table, ignoring the mocking stares and pointing fingers.

“Dominic,” I said, my voice tight but steady as I stopped right behind his chair.

He didn’t turn immediately. He finished speaking to an investor, took a slow sip of his drink, and finally looked up. His dark eyes were vacant, irritation flickering beneath the surface. Selena’s smile never faltered; she watched me with cold, competitive amusement.

“We need to speak privately. Right now,” I whispered, desperation leaking through.

His expression hardened into a ruthless mask. Without a word, he stood and led me out.

The penthouse was oppressively silent when we got back. I stood by the tall windows, arms wrapped around myself.

The bedroom door opened behind me. In the mirror, I watched Dominic loosen his tie with unhurried steps, his face completely at ease, like a man returning from a successful dinner.

He walked to the wardrobe and started unbuttoning his shirt, not sparing me a glance.

“You left early,” he said flatly. “Mother had to make excuses for your sudden departure to the press.”

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped my lips. I turned around, the crimson silk rustling like a dying flame. “Your mother slapped me in front of the entire board, Dominic. She moved me to Table Fourteen by the kitchen doors, and you sat there and let Selena wear the Céleste diamonds you promised me three years ago.”

Dominic sighed, irritated, and tossed his tie onto the bed. “We’ve discussed this, Bianca. Tonight was about securing the European sector. Selena is an international fashion executive; her presence was strategic. The diamonds were part of the corporate image.”

“Strategic?” I stepped closer, my voice rising. For six years, I had shrunk myself, believing patience would fix the cold distance. But now, staring into his vacant eyes, dread hardened into rage. “Did you secretly fund her return gala? Did you plan her comeback months ago while I was managing your home and defending your name?”

Dominic’s jaw tightened. He paused, staring at me with those cold, unreadable eyes for a long, heavy moment. The silence stretched, thick with tension. Then he turned back to his shirt, deliberately unbuttoning the rest with slow, precise fingers, revealing the hard lines of his chest as if my words barely touched him.

“Selena was my first love, Bianca,” he admitted, the words striking my chest like a physical blow. He didn’t blink, showing only cold interest. “You knew that when we married. I don’t understand why you’re being this way when you clearly know everything about it. You’re making me the villain here.”

How could I have forgotten? The thought ripped through me, fresh pain blooming hot in my chest. How could I have ignored how miserable he was when she left?

How could I have foolishly believed our marriage could ever replace what they shared? That elite, passionate connection his family had always wanted. I had been nothing but a warm body filling the space, pouring love into a man whose heart had never truly belonged to me.

What a pathetic fool I’ve been. Tears stung my eyes, my throat tight with the weight of six wasted years. My hands trembled as betrayal and self-anger crashed over me in waves.

Slowly, deliberately, I reached down to my left hand. My fingers wrapped around the platinum wedding band, pulling it off my finger for the first time in six years.