Between Ruin And Revenge: Her Regret

Finn Briggs POV:

I pushed my shoulder against the heavy brass doors of the Manhattan private club. The cold winter wind died the second I stepped past the velvet curtain. I stood in the foyer, looking down at my damp coat, and used my free hand to brush the New York rain off my shoulders.

My other arm was wrapped tightly around a velvet-textured Lady M cake box. I held it against my chest like a fragile organ, making sure not a single drop of dirty rain had touched the pristine packaging.

A bouncer in a tailored suit stepped into my path. The man looked at my cheap wet boots and worn jacket, raising a hand to stop me.

"Members only tonight."

I did not argue. I reached into my pocket, my cold fingers fumbling for a second, and pulled out the sleek black credit card with Arleen's name stamped on the front. I held it up.

The bouncer looked at the card, then back at me. The disdain vanished, replaced by a practiced, hollow smile. He stepped aside and gestured down the hall.

I put the card away and walked past him. I stepped onto the thick Persian carpet that lined the corridor. The fabric absorbed the sound of my wet boots. A sharp burst of jazz music drifted from the main lounge, making the dull ache in my temples throb. I had worked three double shifts at the garage this week just to afford the cake, and my body was running on fumes.

A group of Wall Street men in expensive suits walked toward me, their faces flushed with expensive liquor. I pressed my back against the silk-lined wallpaper, pulling the cake box closer to my chest, and let them pass.

I continued down the hall until I reached the heavy mahogany door marked VIP-3. I stopped. I took a deep breath, letting the air fill my tired lungs, trying to force a warm smile onto my face. Arleen had been so distant lately, her memory still fractured from the accident. The doctors said patience was key. I just wanted to see her smile.

I raised my knuckles to knock.

My hand stopped in mid-air. The door was not shut. It was cracked open about two inches.

The sharp clink of crystal glasses touching came from inside. I lowered my hand.

"How much longer are you going to keep up this pathetic amnesia act?"

The voice belonged to Jaquez Ross. It was low, thick with amusement.

My lungs forgot how to pull in air. My heart missed a beat, leaving a hollow vacuum in my chest. I held my breath and shifted my weight, leaning closer to the crack in the door. I peered into the dim light of the private room.

Arleen was sitting on the center of the leather sofa. She wore a silk slip dress that clung to her body. She did not look confused. She did not look like a woman recovering from trauma. She looked entirely relaxed.

Jaquez was kneeling on the floor right at her feet. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against her bare calf.

The visual hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. My pupils contracted so hard my vision blurred at the edges.

Arleen did not push Jaquez away. She tilted her head back and let out a soft laugh, swirling the clear liquid in her martini glass.

"I'll keep it up as long as I need to," Arleen said, her voice completely steady. "It gets my family off my back about the marriage arrangements. They treat me like glass now. It is perfect."

Jaquez moved his hands up her leg. "And forgetting the boyfriend? Was that just a bonus?"

"I only forgot Finn because I knew he would stay," Arleen said casually, taking a sip of her drink. "He is a poor boy from Queens. He has nothing else. I can do whatever I want, and he will just sit there waiting for me to remember him. He will never leave."

Jaquez let out a loud, mocking laugh. "He follows you around like a loyal dog."

Arleen laughed with him. "Exactly."

The sound of her laughter sliced through my eardrums. A violent wave of nausea surged up my throat. The taste of bile flooded my mouth. I clamped my jaw shut, my teeth grinding together so hard my jawline ached, and forced the sickness back down.

I needed to get away. I took a step back.

The rubber sole of my wet boot caught the edge of the marble border next to the carpet. It made a short, dull squeak.

The laughter inside the room stopped instantly.

"Did you hear that?" Arleen asked, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. She turned her head toward the door.

I threw my body backward, pressing my spine flat against the wall outside the room. I slid into the shadow cast by a broken wall sconce, making myself as small as possible.

I heard the rustle of clothing inside. Jaquez was standing up. Footsteps approached the door.

I closed my eyes. My fingers dug into the cardboard of the cake box. I braced myself for the door to swing open, preparing for the most humiliating confrontation of my life.

"Hey! Get back here with my drink!" a loud, slurred voice echoed from the far end of the hallway. A drunk patron stumbled out of the restroom, shouting at a waiter.

The footsteps inside the VIP room paused.

"It is just some drunk idiot," Jaquez muttered. The sound of his footsteps retreated. The leather sofa groaned as he sat back down. "This club needs better security."

The crisis passed.

I opened my eyes. The warm, anxious love that had filled my chest just five minutes ago was gone. In its place was a freezing, dead silence. The blood drained from my face, leaving my skin cold and tight.

I looked down at my hands. I was still holding the velvet cake box. It was a symbol of my pathetic, blind devotion.

The corner of my mouth twitched upward in a slow, self-deprecating smile. I did not feel angry anymore. I just felt stupid.

I turned away from the door. I did not look back. I walked down the long corridor, my legs moving with stiff, mechanical precision. I passed the lounge, passed the bouncer, and pushed the heavy brass doors open.

I stepped back out into the freezing New York rain.

The bouncer held out a large black umbrella. I ignored it. I walked straight past the awning and into the downpour. The cold water soaked through my hair and ran down my neck, but I did not shiver.

I walked to the corner of the street and stopped in front of a metal trash can. I looked at the cake box one last time. I opened my hands and let it drop. The expensive box hit the garbage inside with a wet thud.

I stood under the glow of a flickering neon sign. I reached into my wet pocket and pulled out my phone. I wiped the rainwater off the screen with my thumb. I opened the browser, my fingers completely steady, and typed a single phrase into the search bar.

New York State legal name change process.

I hit search, staring at the results as the rain washed over me.

Finn Briggs POV:

I pushed open the door to my cheap shared apartment in Brooklyn. I brought the smell of damp wool and cold rain inside with me. The apartment was completely silent. My roommate was working a night shift.

I did not reach for the light switch. The streetlamps outside cast long, pale shadows across the living room floor. My eyes adjusted to the dark, locking immediately onto the corner of the room.

A stack of Arleen's Hermès Birkin bags sat there. She had left them at my place because her own closets were full.

I walked past the bags and went straight into the small kitchen. I opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a roll of heavy-duty black industrial trash bags. I tore three bags off the roll.

I walked back to the corner. I opened the first black bag. I bent down, grabbed the handle of a bag worth tens of thousands of dollars, and shoved it into the plastic. I grabbed the next one and did the same. The sharp metal zipper of the third bag caught on the plastic, tearing a small hole, but I did not blink. My movements were mechanical, stripped of any hesitation.

I tied the first trash bag tight and dragged it to the front door.

I walked into the narrow bathroom. The glass shelves above the sink were lined with Arleen's custom La Mer face creams and expensive French perfumes. I held the second trash bag open under the edge of the shelf. I raised my forearm and swept everything off the glass.

The heavy jars and bottles tumbled into the bag. Several glass bottles shattered against each other. The sharp sound of breaking glass echoed against the bathroom tiles. The overwhelming scent of jasmine and vanilla filled the small space. The smell used to make my heart race. Now, the sound of the destruction brought a cold, sick sense of relief to my chest.

I tied the second bag and left it in the hallway.

I walked into my bedroom. I opened the bottom drawer of my nightstand and reached all the way to the back. My fingers brushed against a smooth wooden picture frame. I pulled it out.

It was a photo of me and Arleen from our first anniversary. She was smiling, looking at me with what I used to think was pure adoration.

I stared at her perfect smile for exactly three seconds.

I gripped the edges of the frame. I pressed my thumbs against the glass and pushed hard. The glass cracked. I ripped the wooden backing off, pulled the photograph out, and tore it straight down the middle. I tore the halves into quarters, then dropped the pieces and the broken frame into the final trash bag.

The physical environment was clean.

I grabbed the three heavy bags, dragged them out of the apartment, and hauled them down the stairs. I threw them into the large public dumpster on the street corner. I wiped my hands on my jeans, turned around, and walked toward the subway station.

I did not take the train to Manhattan right away. I rode the subway aimlessly for hours, letting the rhythmic clatter of the tracks drown out the silence in my head. I watched the dark tunnels blur past until the first gray light of dawn began to bleed into the morning sky. I sat on a cold station bench, waiting for the city to wake up and the government buildings to unlock their doors. I walked up the concrete steps of the Manhattan Civil Court. I pushed through the heavy glass doors, went through the metal detectors, and found the clerk's office.

I walked up to the glass window. "I need a legal name change petition form."

The clerk, a tired-looking woman with glasses, slid a thick stack of papers under the glass slot. "Standard procedure. Are you changing your name to avoid debt collection or bankruptcy?"

"No," I said. I looked directly into the clerk's eyes. My voice was flat. "I experienced severe psychological abuse. I need to sever all ties and start over."

The clerk paused, her expression softening slightly. She nodded and pointed to the desk behind me. "Fill it out. Black ink only."

I took the papers to the desk. I picked up a black pen. I went to the box labeled Current Legal Name. I pressed the pen down hard, the tip nearly tearing through the paper, and wrote Finn Briggs.

I moved my hand to the box labeled Proposed New Name. I did not hesitate. I wrote down my mother's maiden name. Elliott Maxwell.

I filled out the rest of the paperwork. I pulled a thick manila envelope from my jacket. It was not something I had thrown together overnight. It contained a ten-page document outlining a history of harassment and emotional manipulation, carefully worded to justify a sealed record. I had spent the last three months secretly drafting it, spending my late nights in the back of the public library, pouring over legal texts and documenting every cruel text message and public humiliation, preparing for the day I would finally break. I took the entire stack back to the window. I also handed over a special request form directed to the Social Security Administration for a new SSN.

The clerk reviewed the forms. She stamped the top page with a loud thud. "The court hearing and public notice waiver will take a few weeks to process. We will mail the final order to your address."

"I understand," I said.

The clerk slid a pink receipt under the glass. I took it, folded it carefully into a small square, and tucked it into the inside pocket of my jacket, right against my chest.

I turned and walked out of the courthouse.

As I stepped down the wide stone stairs onto the sidewalk, the loud roar of an engine cut through the street noise. A bright red Porsche 911 slammed on its brakes, stopping inches from the curb right in front of me.

The passenger window rolled down. Jaquez Ross sat in the driver's seat, wearing dark sunglasses. He leaned over and blew a loud, obnoxious whistle.

Jaquez rested his left arm on the window sill, intentionally pulling back his sleeve to reveal the Patek Philippe watch Arleen had bought him. "Well, well. Look who it is."

I stopped walking. I looked down at Jaquez. My jaw did not clench. My hands did not form fists. I just stared at Jaquez with eyes so empty they looked like they belonged to a corpse. I looked at the man in the sports car the same way one might look at a piece of garbage on the sidewalk.

Jaquez's smirk faltered under the weight of that dead stare. He pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. "What are you doing at the courthouse, Briggs? Filing for bankruptcy? Finally realize you can't afford Arleen's lifestyle?"

I did not say a single word. I did not even blink. I simply shifted my gaze away from Jaquez, stepped around the front bumper of the Porsche, and kept walking toward the crosswalk.

The absolute dismissal hit Jaquez harder than a punch. His face flushed red. He slammed his hand on the horn.

"Hey! I'm talking to you, loser!" Jaquez yelled out the window. "Arleen rented out the Hilton banquet hall for my birthday tonight! You better not show your poor face around there!"

The blaring horn made several pedestrians stop and stare. I did not break my stride. The rhythm of my footsteps remained perfectly even as I crossed the street.

I reached the opposite corner and stopped. I pulled my phone from my pocket. I opened my contacts, found Arleen's name, and changed her custom ringtone to silent.

I opened the Delta Airlines app. I scrolled past the domestic flights. My thumb hovered over the screen, then tapped on a one-way ticket to London Heathrow.

I entered my payment details. I tapped confirm.

The screen flashed green. Booking Confirmed.

I locked my phone. I let out a long, slow breath, watching the white vapor disappear into the cold New York air. The bridge was burned. There was no going back.

Finn Briggs POV:

I adjusted the collar of my faded black suit jacket as I pushed open the carved wooden doors of the Hilton banquet hall.

I did not want to be here. I would have been packing my bags in Brooklyn, but my landlord, Mr. Kowalski, had called me an hour ago. Kowalski had threatened to withhold my security deposit over fabricated damages. I knew Arleen had paid Kowalski to make the threat. It was her way of forcing me to attend, ensuring her favorite toy remained on a short leash.

The heavy doors shut behind me, sealing me inside. The air in the room was thick and suffocating, heavy with the cloying scent of sweet champagne mixed with expensive floral perfumes.

I kept my head down. I walked straight to the darkest corner of the room, near the heavy velvet drapes. I picked up a glass of ice water from a passing waiter's tray. I leaned against the wall, intending to stand perfectly still and survive the next two hours.

A sudden murmur rippled through the crowd. The string quartet stopped playing.

I looked toward the entrance. Arleen walked in. She wore a custom crimson gown that swept the floor. Her hand was wrapped tightly around Jaquez's arm. They walked into the center of the room, soaking in the attention of the wealthy guests.

I watched them. I felt nothing. It was like watching a poorly acted Broadway play. The betrayal did not sting anymore; it just bored me.

Jaquez scanned the room over the rim of his glass. His eyes locked onto me standing in the shadows. A nasty, sharp smile spread across Jaquez's face.

Jaquez pulled his arm away from Arleen. He grabbed two full glasses of champagne from a table and began walking straight across the room, cutting through the crowd, heading directly for my corner.

I saw him coming. I set my water glass down on a nearby tray. I turned my body, preparing to walk out the side exit.

Jaquez suddenly sped up. He lunged forward, intentionally throwing his right shoulder hard toward the center of my chest.

My body reacted on pure instinct. I twisted my torso sharply to the left, stepping out of the path of the collision.

Jaquez hit empty air. His momentum carried him forward, throwing him off balance.

A flash of vicious calculation crossed Jaquez's eyes. Instead of catching himself, he swung his arm wide and hurled the champagne glass directly into the massive crystal champagne tower stacked on the table beside us.

The impact was explosive. The sound of shattering glass ripped through the banquet hall. Dozens of crystal coupes cascaded down, crashing onto the marble floor in a waterfall of sharp shards and foaming alcohol.

Jaquez threw himself onto the floor, landing right in the middle of the wreckage. He deliberately slammed the palm of his right hand down onto a jagged, broken stem.

Blood instantly welled up from the deep cut. The bright red liquid dripped onto the pristine white wool rug. Jaquez grabbed his wrist and let out a loud, theatrical scream of agony.

Total silence fell over the room. Every guest froze, their eyes wide with shock, staring at the corner.

Arleen shoved her way through the crowd. She ran to the wreckage and dropped to her knees. She saw the blood pouring from Jaquez's hand. All the color drained from her face.

She did not ask what happened. She did not look at the angle of the fall. She stood up, spun around, and swung her arm.

Her palm cracked against my cheek with a sickening smack.

The slap echoed in the quiet room. The force of it snapped my head to the side. A bright red handprint immediately blossomed on my pale skin.

"Are you out of your mind? !" Arleen screamed, her voice shrill and echoing off the high ceilings. She pointed a trembling finger right at my face. "You are so pathetic! You attack him because you are jealous? Because you have nothing?"

I slowly turned my head back to face her. I pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek. I tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood where my teeth had cut my lip.

I did not raise my hands. I did not open my mouth to defend myself. I just looked at her.

My eyes were completely hollow. There was no anger, no sorrow, no plea for understanding. It was the absolute, chilling emptiness of a man looking at a stranger.

Arleen's chest heaved as she breathed, but as she met my gaze, she faltered. A sudden, inexplicable panic fluttered in her throat. She could not hold eye contact with me. She quickly looked away, her hands shaking.

"Security!" Arleen yelled, turning her back to me. "Get security in here! Call an ambulance right now!"

She knelt back down and carefully wrapped her silk scarf around Jaquez's bleeding hand, treating him like fragile glass.

Jaquez leaned his head against Arleen's shoulder. He looked past her hair, straight at me, and smiled. It was the smug, victorious grin of a man who knew he had won the game.

Three large security guards rushed into the corner. They grabbed me by the shoulders, shoving me backward, forming a physical wall between me and the couple on the floor. They treated me like a violent threat.

I did not resist the guards. I let them push me back. I watched Arleen carefully help Jaquez to his feet, whispering soothing words to him.

The last remaining thread of warmth in my chest snapped and froze solid.

I reached up to my neck. I grabbed the knot of the expensive silk tie Arleen had bought me for my birthday last year. I pulled it loose, yanked it off my collar, and dropped it. The silk tie fluttered down, landing in the puddle of spilled champagne and bloody glass.

I turned around. I pushed my way through the crowd of wealthy guests. I ignored their disgusted whispers and glaring eyes. My footsteps were heavy and deliberate.

I reached the main doors and pushed them open, stepping out into the cool night air.

I stopped on the sidewalk. I reached into my jacket pocket and let my fingertips brush against the folded pink court receipt. I felt the texture of the paper. I looked back at the glowing Hilton sign, feeling nothing but total disgust for the city and the lies it held.