After Divorce:My arrogant ex-husband regrets

Deliah Hines sat alone at the long marble dining table in their Manhattan penthouse. The silence in the room was heavy, pressing against her eardrums like deep water. She stared at the plate in front of her. The truffle risotto, Jere's absolute favorite, had gone cold hours ago. The creamy texture had congealed into a stiff, unappetizing lump, much like the feeling currently settling in the pit of her stomach.

She checked the time on her phone for the fiftieth time. 11:45 PM.

The candles she had lit three hours ago were now just pools of wax, the wicks drowning in their own melt. It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that usually preceded a storm, or a funeral.

Deliah unlocked her phone again, the blue light harsh against her tired eyes. She opened Instagram, her thumb moving automatically, scrolling mindlessly to distract herself from the emptiness of the apartment. She didn't even know what she was looking for until she found it.

An anonymous account she had suspected before-one with no profile picture and a generic handle-had posted a new Story just four minutes ago.

Deliah's breath hitched. She tapped the circle.

The image filled her screen. It was low-light, intimate, taken at a table in a high-end restaurant. There was a single slice of cake with a candle, the flame blurring slightly in the capture. But it wasn't the cake that made Deliah's heart stop. It was the hand resting on the white tablecloth in the corner of the frame.

The caption was simple text overlaid in white: Finally back where we belong. Happy Birthday to me.

Deliah zoomed in on the hand. The skin was tanned, the fingers long and strong. On the wrist sat a Patek Philippe watch with a distinctive navy dial. She knew that watch. She had spent six months tracking it down for Jere as a wedding gift. And just below the thumb, there was a faint, jagged white scar-the result of a sailing accident when he was twenty.

It was undeniably Jere Bolton.

The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. Today wasn't just a late night at the office. Today wasn't a board meeting that ran over. Today was Irina Collins' birthday.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, startling her. A text message from Jere appeared at the top of the screen.

Still wrapped up in negotiations. Don't wait up.

Deliah stared at the lie. It was so casual, so easy for him. She felt a cold numbness spread from her chest outward, freezing her limbs. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just felt... hollowed out.

She stood up abruptly. The legs of her chair scraped loudly against the expensive hardwood floor, a harsh, ugly sound that echoed in the vast room. She grabbed the plates to clear the table, her movements jerky and agitated. She needed to do something with her hands. She needed to clean the mess, hide the evidence of her pathetic waiting.

She stacked the plates too quickly. A crystal wine glass tipped over, rolling off the edge of the granite countertop and shattering on the floor.

Deliah instinctively reached down to pick up the shards. She wasn't thinking. She just wanted the mess gone.

A sharp, triangular piece of crystal sliced deep into her palm.

Blood welled up immediately, dark and thick, dripping onto the pristine white counter and the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip.

She stared at the red drops, mesmerizing in their brightness. She waited for the sting, the throb, the burn. But there was nothing. She realized with a detached horror that she felt absolutely no physical pain. The emotional agony of the betrayal had completely overridden her sensory nerves. Her body was in shock.

She walked to the sink and turned on the faucet. She ran cold water over the wound, watching the blood swirl into pink ribbons and disappear down the drain. It was fascinating, in a morbid way, how easily things could be washed away.

She opened the first aid kit with trembling hands. She wrapped the gauze tightly around her palm, pulling it until the pressure was uncomfortable, perhaps too tight, just trying to feel something.

She caught her reflection in the dark kitchen window. A pale woman with hollow eyes, standing in a kitchen that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime, waiting for a man who wasn't coming home because he was celebrating the birthday of the woman he actually loved.

She turned back to the sink and shoved the cold risotto into the trash disposal. She flipped the switch. The disposal ground loudly, a mechanical roar that drowned out the sound of her own shallow, ragged breathing.

She turned off the dining room lights, plunging the penthouse into darkness. She walked to the master bedroom, the space feeling vast and cavernous. She didn't change into pajamas. She just curled up on her side of the massive king-sized bed, clutching her bandaged hand to her chest, her eyes wide open in the dark, waiting for the elevator to chime.

The private elevator doors slid open with a soft, cheerful chime that sounded obscene in the silence of the apartment.

Deliah lay perfectly still, her back to the door, listening. She heard the heavy tread of his footsteps on the floor. Jere stepped into the dark penthouse, the rustle of fabric telling her he was loosening his tie. He was home. The negotiation-the birthday party-was over.

He walked into the master bedroom. The air shifted as he entered, bringing with him the outside world. He paused near the doorway. He must have smelled the faint, lingering scent of antiseptic from her hand, but he didn't say anything. He probably assumed the cleaning staff had used a new product.

He approached the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge. Deliah could feel the heat radiating from him, a warmth that used to be her sanctuary but now felt like a threat.

He reached out to touch her shoulder. His hand was heavy, possessive.

Deliah flinched violently. Her body reacted before her mind could stop it, jerking away from his touch as if he were a hot iron.

Jere paused, his hand hovering in the air. "You're awake?"

Deliah didn't answer immediately. As he leaned closer, a scent wafted from his suit jacket. It wasn't the smell of a conference room, stale coffee, or the crisp scent of his usual cologne. It was sweet. Sickeningly sweet. Vanilla and some heavy, cloying floral note that clung to the fabric like a second skin.

It was a woman's perfume. Unmistakable. It smelled cheap to Deliah's refined nose, or perhaps it was just the association that made it repulsive, but it was alien. It didn't belong in this room. It didn't belong on her husband.

Deliah sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest, hiding her bandaged hand in the folds of the fabric. The darkness hid her face, but she knew he could feel the tension radiating off her.

"Meeting ran late," Jere said, his voice smooth, practiced. It was the voice he used for shareholders. "It was brutal. The Europeans wouldn't budge on the valuation."

Deliah stared at his silhouette. He was so good at this. If she hadn't seen the photo, she would have believed him. She would have gotten up to make him tea. She would have rubbed his shoulders.

He leaned in to kiss her. It was an instinct for him, a way to seek intimacy to assuage his own guilt, to prove that everything was normal.

Deliah turned her head sharply. His lips landed awkwardly on her cheek. His skin was cold from the night air.

Jere pulled back, irritation seeping into his tone. "What is wrong with you?"

Deliah kept her voice quiet, almost a whisper. "Did the meeting go well?"

"Yes," Jere lied effortlessly. "We closed the deal."

Deliah felt bile rise in her throat, burning and acidic. "You smell like vanilla."

Jere stiffened. It was imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him, a tiny locking of the jaw, a slight pause in his breathing. He hadn't expected her to notice. He hadn't bothered to check. But he recovered instantly. "Must be the catering. They had these dessert trays everywhere."

His eyes adjusted to the moonlight filtering in through the sheer curtains. He noticed the white gauze wrapped around her hand. "What happened?"

He reached for her hand, his voice dropping into that register of concern that used to make her knees weak. "Did you cut yourself?"

Deliah yanked her hand away, tucking it back under the covers. "It's nothing. Just a broken glass." She paused, letting the silence stretch until it was thin and brittle. "Like our anniversary dinner."

Jere froze.

The silence that followed was different. It wasn't the silence of an empty room; it was the silence of a man realizing he had made a tactical error. Their third wedding anniversary had been two days ago. He had missed it then, too, claiming work, and promised they would celebrate tonight. And he had forgotten that, too.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Deliah, I'm sorry. With the merger... it completely slipped my mind."

"You have time for 'mergers' on birthdays," Deliah said, her voice trembling slightly, "but not anniversaries."

Jere paused. He thought she was referring to his own birthday coming up in a few weeks, or perhaps hers. He didn't realize she was talking about Irina's. He didn't know she knew.

He sighed, the sound of a patient man dealing with an unreasonable child. "I'll make it up to you. I bought you something. It just... hasn't arrived yet."

Deliah lay back down, turning her back to him. She stared at the wall, her eyes burning. "Don't bother."

Jere stood there for a moment, frustrated by her coldness. He clearly felt he had done enough explaining. He stood up and walked to the bathroom. A moment later, she heard the shower turn on. He was washing away the scent of vanilla. He was washing away the evidence.

Deliah lay in the dark, listening to the water, and for the first time in three years, she didn't feel the urge to go to him. She only felt the urge to run.

At 2:00 AM, the silence of the bedroom was shattered by a vibration.

Jere's phone, resting on the nightstand, buzzed aggressively against the wood. It wasn't a call; it was a rapid succession of notifications.

Deliah was already awake, though her breathing remained rhythmic and slow. She watched through her eyelashes as Jere woke instantly. There was no grogginess, no confusion. He checked the screen, and his entire body went rigid.

He glanced over at her. Deliah didn't move a muscle. She forced her chest to rise and fall evenly.

Satisfied she was asleep, Jere slid out of bed. He grabbed his clothes from the chair where he had discarded them and dressed in the dark. His movements were urgent, frantic. He didn't even put on socks, just shoved his feet into his loafers.

He left the room quietly. A minute later, Deliah heard the soft click of the front door latching shut.

She opened her eyes. The space beside her was cold.

The next morning, the sky was a bruised purple, heavy with rain. Deliah didn't call the family driver. She took the keys to her old Audi, the one she had kept from before the marriage, and drove herself to New York-Presbyterian Hospital.

Her mother, Eleanor, had a post-op heart checkup at 10:00 AM. It was a routine appointment, but Deliah needed the normalcy. She needed to be a daughter, since she was clearly failing at being a wife.

She sat in the waiting area of the Cardiology department, clutching a paper cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. She felt exhausted, her skin pale and drawn. Every time her phone buzzed, she jumped, but it was never Jere explaining where he had gone.

She walked her mother to the examination room and then stepped out to get some air in the main lobby. As she stood near the glass doors, watching the rain lash against the pavement, a familiar black car pulled up to the VIP entrance.

It was a Maybach. Jere's Maybach.

Deliah frowned. Jere had texted her at 7:00 AM saying he was at the office, dealing with the fallout from the "European negotiations."

Curiosity and a heavy, sinking dread compelled her to move. She stayed back, blending in with a group of visitors carrying balloons.

The car door opened, and Jere stepped out. He was flanked by two large men in suits-bodyguards. Deliah felt a prick of irritation. She wasn't even allowed to have a driver half the time, yet here he was with a full security detail.

He wasn't walking toward the cardiology wing. He was heading toward the Pediatric Wing.

He stopped at a high-end gift shop kiosk in the lobby. Deliah hid behind a large concrete pillar, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.

Jere pointed at something on the top shelf. The clerk pulled down a massive, plush teddy bear. It was ridiculous, the kind of thing you bought for a child to apologize for something huge.

Jere took the bear. His face, usually so guarded and sharp, looked softer. He looked... worried.

A nurse in blue scrubs approached him. She smiled familiarly. "Mr. Bolton, this way. He's asking for you."

He.

Deliah realized with a jolt that Jere was a regular here. The nurse knew him. The security knew him.

She tried to follow him toward the elevators, stepping out from behind the pillar. But as she approached the corridor leading to the VIP elevators, a security guard stepped in her path.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, his voice polite but firm. He held up a hand. "This area is VIP access only. Do you have a pass?"

Deliah looked past him. She saw the elevator doors sliding shut. For a split second, she saw Jere's face through the closing gap. He was looking down at the bear, adjusting its ribbon.

"No," Deliah whispered. "I don't have a pass."

The doors closed, sealing him away in a world she couldn't touch.

A wave of dizziness washed over her. She stumbled back slightly. Her phone rang in her pocket, jarring and loud. It was her mother.

"Deliah? Where did you go? The doctor is ready."

Deliah forced her voice to be steady, though her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped the phone. "I'm coming, Mom. I just... I needed some water."

She turned away from the elevators. The text last night hadn't been about business. It had been about a child. The idea took root in her mind, ugly and fast. Jere had a secret family. And he was protecting them with walls she couldn't climb.