Too Late For Regret, Mr. Carlson

Alexia stood at the edge of the crowd, a black blot on their perfect canvas. A couple passed by her, their whispers loud enough to cut.

"Is that the wife?"

"She looks like his assistant. Or his accountant."

"God, look at Aubree though. Now that is a match."

The name on the screen was a command, not a notification. Eleanor Carlson.

Alexia stared at the phone vibrating against the polished mahogany of the desk. Her fingers hovered over it, trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the sharp, twisting cramp that had been wringing her stomach for the last three hours. She took a breath, holding it in her chest to stabilize her core, and pressed answer.

"Alexia," Eleanor's voice was a drill bit, piercing through the quiet hum of the penthouse. "You are late. The Pierre. Now."

Alexia closed her eyes. The pain in her abdomen flared, hot and jagged.

"Eleanor," Alexia started, her voice raspy. "I just finished the patch for the server migration. I'm not feeling well. I think I need to-"

Eleanor didn't let her finish. She never let her finish.

"Jensen needs a ride. His driver is unavailable, and the optics of him standing on a curb waiting for an Uber are unacceptable. Do you understand? This is about the family image, Alexia. Try to be useful for once."

The line went dead.

Alexia lowered the phone. The silence of the apartment rushed back in, heavy and suffocating. It was a beautiful cage, this penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city that felt a million miles away. She pressed her hand against her right side, doubling over as another wave of nausea rolled through her.

Useful. That was the word. Not wife. Not partner. Useful. Like a printer or a coffee machine.

She walked into the walk-in closet. Rows of designer gowns hung like colorful ghosts, bought by Eleanor, chosen by stylists, worn by a mannequin. Alexia bypassed them all. She reached for the black wool coat at the back. It was severe. It was invisible. It was perfect.

In the mirror, her reflection stared back. Her skin was the color of parchment. Her eyes looked too big, too dark, hollowed out by sleepless nights and the silent, grinding stress of the last three years. She uncapped a tube of red lipstick and applied it like war paint. It didn't make her look alive; it just made her look like a corpse that was trying too hard.

Her hand brushed against the folded paper in her pocket. The referral slip from the doctor she had seen secretly last week. Suspected acute appendicitis. Recommended immediate follow-up if pain persists.

Alexia let her hand drop.

The drive to the Pierre Hotel was a blur of rain-slicked asphalt and red taillights. The rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers was a metronome counting down the seconds of her patience. Every bump in the road sent a shockwave through her right side. She gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white, grounding herself in the physical exertion to ignore the internal screaming.

When she pulled up to the entrance, the valet recognized the car. The Carlson family crest on the license plate frame commanded a respect Alexia never received personally. He opened the door with a flourish.

"Good evening, Mrs. Carlson."

Alexia nodded, unable to speak, and handed him the keys. The lobby air was warm, perfumed with expensive lilies and old money. It hit her cold, damp face like a physical wall. She felt dizzy.

She walked toward the ballroom. The sound of clinking crystal and polite laughter grew louder. It was the sound of her husband's world. A world where emotions were liabilities and marriage was a merger.

Alexia scanned the room. It didn't take long.

He was in the center, standing under the crystal chandelier as if the light existed solely to illuminate him. Jensen.

He wore a Tom Ford tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. He held a flute of champagne, his posture relaxed, confident, the master of his universe. And standing next to him, so close that their arms brushed with every breath, was Aubree.

Aubree Boyer.

She was wearing red. Backless. Dangerous. She looked like a flame, and Jensen looked like the moth that didn't mind burning. Her hand was on his forearm. Her fingers were long, manicured, resting there with a familiarity that made Alexia's stomach lurch harder than the illness. Aubree leaned in, whispering something into his ear.

Jensen laughed.

It was a sound Alexia hadn't heard directed at her in years. A genuine, low rumble of amusement. His eyes crinkled at the corners. He looked... happy.

The air in Alexia's lungs turned into broken glass.

She dug her fingernails into her palms. The pain was sharp, grounding. It kept her from screaming. It kept her from falling over.

Then, he saw her.

Jensen's head turned. His gaze swept over the room and landed on Alexia. The smile vanished instantly. It was like a shutter coming down over a lens. His eyes went cold, flat. He looked at her not with hate, but with something worse. Annoyance.

Aubree followed his gaze. She didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she smiled. It was a bright, sharp smile. A winner's smile.

Jensen handed his glass to a passing waiter and walked toward Alexia. He didn't rush. He moved with the deliberate, heavy grace of a predator.

"You're late," he said. No hello. No kiss. Just an accusation.

"Traffic," Alexia managed to say. Her voice felt thin. "And Eleanor called..."

He waved his hand, cutting her off. "The car?"

"Valet."

"Good. Let's go. I've had enough of this."

He started to walk past her. He didn't notice her pallor. He didn't notice the way she was holding her side. He didn't notice her at all.

Aubree glided up, her arm slipping from Jensen's but her presence lingering. "Don't be too hard on her, Jen," she cooed. "The traffic is terrible in the rain."

She turned to Alexia, her eyes scanning her black coat with pity. "You look tired, Alexia. You really should take better care of yourself. Jensen worries, you know."

The lie was so bold Alexia almost laughed.

Jensen turned back, his hand on the door. He looked at Aubree, his expression softening just a fraction. "Go home, Bree. It's late."

"Text me when you get back?" Aubree asked.

He nodded.

Then he turned his back on Alexia and walked out into the rain.

Alexia stood there for a second, the pain in her stomach pulsing in time with her heart. She was the wife. She was the one taking him home. But she was the intruder.

She took a breath that rattled in her chest and followed him.