Too Late For Regret, Mr. Sterling

The wine in her glass was the same temperature as her skin. Cold.

Arden Price watched a single drop of rain trace a path down the vast, floor-to-ceiling window of the master bedroom. It blurred the lights of the distant shore, turning them into hazy, indistinct stars. A shiver, sharp and unwelcome, ran up her spine, having nothing to do with the room's climate control.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. She looked down at her other hand, at the simple, unadorned platinum band on her ring finger. It felt heavier tonight. Colder. A permanent, metallic reminder of a wedding three years ago with no guests, no celebration, just the sterile quiet of a judge's chambers and the flash of a single, contractually obligated photograph. A familiar ache bloomed in her chest, a dull, chronic pain she had learned to live with.

The antique grandfather clock in the hall chimed, its deep, resonant tones counting the first second of a new day. Twelve o'clock. Their third anniversary was officially over.

Her shoulders, held straight and proud for hours, finally slumped in defeat.

The bedroom door opened with a soft click. Brenda, the housekeeper whose quiet presence had been a fixture in the Sterling estate for decades, entered carrying a small tray. A porcelain cup of steaming chamomile tea sat upon it.

The older woman's eyes, full of a pity Arden couldn't bear to acknowledge, took in her solitary figure by the window. Brenda said nothing. She didn't need to. Her sigh was a novel's worth of unspoken sympathy.

Arden forced a smile onto her lips, a brittle, practiced thing that didn't reach her eyes. She turned from the window.

"Thank you, Brenda. You didn't have to."

She took the cup, the warmth a small shock against her icy fingertips. They trembled, just slightly, a betrayal she tried to hide by gripping the cup tighter.

As she turned back to the room, the screen of her phone, lying face-up on the marble coffee table, lit up. The sharp, intrusive buzz of a news alert shattered the suffocating silence.

She set the tea down and picked up the phone. Her breath caught in her throat.

The headline came from a sleazy gossip website, but the photo was heartbreakingly clear. Julian, her husband. He was at the private terminal of JFK Airport, his tall frame acting as a shield against the wind and rain. He held his dark wool coat over the head of a small, delicate woman, his body leaning in to shelter her completely.

Arden's heart felt as if it had been plunged into ice water. She recognized that woman. Sloane Kensington-the woman Julian truly loved, his one that got away.

Her thumb moved with a will of its own, zooming in on the image. On Julian's face. He was smiling. Not his public, press-conference smile, all sharp angles and corporate power. This was a soft, gentle curve of his lips she hadn't seen directed at her in three years. A tenderness reserved for someone else.

The air left her lungs in a painful rush. It felt like a physical blow, a fist clenching tight around her heart and squeezing until it threatened to stop.

"Mrs. Sterling? Are you alright?" Brenda's voice was laced with alarm.

The housekeeper moved closer, her gaze falling on the phone screen. A sharp intake of breath was her only response. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but no words came. What could she say?

Arden slammed the phone face down on the table. The force of the impact knocked over a silver picture frame beside it. The sound of glass shattering on the marble was sharp and violent.

The frame held the one photo from their wedding day.

She knelt, a choked sound escaping her lips, and reached for the shards of glass. Her vision was blurred by a sudden rush of hot tears. A sharp edge bit into the pad of her index finger.

A single, perfect drop of red blood welled up, then fell onto the plush white carpet.

"Oh, dear God!" Brenda gasped, rushing to her side. "Don't touch it, ma'am, you'll hurt yourself worse."

Arden stared at the blood, a tiny, vibrant stain against the pristine white. She felt nothing. The cut was a distant, unimportant fact.

Then, from downstairs, came the low, familiar rumble of an engine.

A wild, desperate hope surged through her. He came. He actually came home.

She scrambled to her feet, the sudden movement making the room spin. She ignored the throbbing in her finger and rushed back to the window, pressing her face against the cool glass.

A black SUV was idling by the fountain. The driver's door opened, and a man in a tailored suit stepped out.

It wasn't Julian. It was Caleb, his executive assistant.

The fragile hope inside her shattered into a million pieces, leaving a void colder and darker than before. She sagged against the window frame, closing her eyes as the tears she'd held back finally streamed down her cheeks.

A few minutes later, a polite knock echoed at the bedroom door. Caleb.

He entered with a practiced, impersonal smile, holding a large, perfectly wrapped Hermès orange box.

"Mrs. Sterling," he said, his voice smooth and devoid of any real emotion. "Mr. Sterling sends his deepest apologies. An urgent M&A deal with the Tokyo office came up. He won't be able to make it back tonight."

Arden stared at him. At his calm, professional face. He knew. He had to know where Julian really was. The lie was so blatant, so insulting, it made her stomach churn.

She didn't move. She didn't speak. She just stared, her gaze so intense that the seasoned assistant, a man who faced down corporate sharks daily, faltered. His eyes flickered away from hers for a fraction of a second.

Brenda, ever the diplomat, stepped forward to break the unbearable tension. She took the box from Caleb's hands. "Thank you, Caleb. I'll see that she gets it."

Caleb looked relieved. He gave a slight, formal bow and practically fled the room.

The orange box now sat on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. It looked like a mockery. A joke at her expense. Arden walked towards it, a bitter, self-deprecating smile twisting her lips.

She pulled at the silk ribbon. It came undone with a soft whisper. She lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, was a diamond necklace. A gaudy, ostentatious piece from the brand's latest, most commercial collection. The price tag was still attached.

She recognized it from a VIP lookbook the brand's PR had emailed her last week. It was the kind of piece a man with no taste and a lot of money would buy. The kind of piece an assistant would be sent to pick up five minutes before the store closed.

She lifted the necklace from the box. The diamonds were cold and heavy in her palm, lifeless stones that represented nothing. This soulless object was the final nail in the coffin of her marriage. It was the period at the end of a three-year-long sentence of loneliness.

With a cry that was more rage than pain, she hurled the necklace at the full-length dressing mirror.

It struck the glass with a sickening crack. A spiderweb of fractures radiated from the point of impact. The necklace fell to the carpet with a dull, muffled thud.

She stared at her reflection in the broken mirror. A woman with wild hair, red-rimmed eyes, and a bleeding finger. A stranger.

A deep breath shuddered through her body. And then another. The pain in her chest began to recede, replaced by something else. Something hard and cold. Resolve.

She turned and walked with purpose into her massive walk-in closet. She pushed past the gowns and designer dresses Julian's stylists had picked for her. In the very back, she found what she was looking for. A perfectly tailored, severe black pantsuit. She pulled it out and hung it on the valet stand, ready for the morning.

She retrieved her phone from the coffee table. Her finger was still bleeding, smearing a small streak of red across the screen. She ignored it.

She found Julian's contact. Her husband. She didn't delete it. That would be too emotional. Instead, she methodically went into the settings and silenced all notifications from him.

She was done waiting for his world. It was time to re-enter her own.