Beyond His Billion Dollar Regret

My fiancé, Arthur Mckay, had just beaten leukemia. A bone marrow transplant saved his life, and we were supposed to be planning our engagement party, celebrating our future.

Then she walked in. Diana, the donor's beautiful, fragile ex-girlfriend. Arthur became obsessed, claiming he had "cellular memory" and that the donor's cells were compelling him to protect her.

He postponed our wedding plans for her. He let her invade our home, touching my art, sleeping in my robe. He called me possessive and cruel when I protested. The man who once promised to cherish me was gone, replaced by a stranger who used a medical procedure as an excuse for his cruelty.

The final straw was my mother's locket, the only thing I had left of her. Diana saw it and decided she wanted it, weeping that her dead boyfriend had owned one just like it.

When I refused, Arthur's face hardened. "Don't be a child," he ordered. "Give it to her."

He didn't wait for my answer. He strode forward and ripped the chain from my neck, the metal stinging my skin.

He fastened my mother's locket around Diana's throat. "This is a punishment, Ella," he said calmly. "Maybe now you'll learn some compassion."

As he wrapped a protective arm around her and led her away, I knew the man I loved was truly dead. I picked up my phone, my decision made.

"Dad," I said, my voice steady. "I'm coming home."

Chapter 1

The engagement party was supposed to be tonight.

Instead, Arthur Mckay, my fiancé and heir to a real estate empire, was in a private hospital room, recovering. A bone marrow transplant had saved him from leukemia. We were supposed to be celebrating a new life, a new beginning.

That' s when she walked in.

"Are you Arthur Mckay?" she asked, her voice soft.

She was beautiful in a fragile way, her eyes wide and searching. Arthur, still weak, nodded from his bed.

"I'm Diana Hess," she said. "Gavin Welch... the donor... he was my boyfriend."

The air in the room went still. The donor program was anonymous. We weren't supposed to know his name, let alone meet his ex-girlfriend.

Arthur looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry for your loss. And I'm grateful. But I don't think you should be here."

Diana' s face crumpled. "Please. You have a part of him inside you. It's the only part of him left in the world."

Her words were strange, obsessive. A chill ran down my spine.

"Diana, this is inappropriate," I said, stepping forward. "We appreciate the gesture, but Arthur needs to rest."

She ignored me completely. Her eyes were fixed on Arthur. The next day, we found her in the hospital lobby, refusing to leave. She staged a scene, crying, telling everyone who would listen that she just wanted to be near the man who carried her lost love's "soul."

Arthur was furious at first. "Get her out of here," he told security. "She's unstable."

But Diana was clever. As the guards approached, she pulled a small, sharp object from her purse and drew a thin, red line across her wrist. It wasn't deep, but it was enough. Gasps filled the lobby.

"I have nothing left to live for without him," she sobbed.

Something shifted in Arthur's eyes. He called off the guards. He walked over to her, his movements still stiff from his recovery, and gently took the object from her hand.

"Don't do that," he said, his voice surprisingly soft.

From that moment, everything changed. He started spending time with her, listening to her endless stories about Gavin. He'd sit with her in the hospital garden, leaving me alone in his room for hours.

"She's just grieving, Ella," he'd say when I tried to protest. "We have to be understanding."

Then he looked at me, his eyes distant. "I'm postponing the engagement party."

"What? Arthur, no. Everyone is expecting it."

"We'll do it later. Diana isn't in a state to see people celebrating."

It wasn't about us anymore. It was about her. The news spread through our elite New York circle like a disease. Ella Farmer, the up-and-coming artist, was being sidelined for the tragic, beautiful ex-girlfriend of a dead man. I saw the pitying looks, heard the whispers at the galleries and charity events I now had to attend alone. I became a walking punchline.

"It's just... strange," Arthur tried to explain one night, his hand rubbing his chest over his new marrow. "I feel a connection to her. A guilt. It's like... cellular memory. His cells are telling me to take care of her."

The excuse was so absurd it left me speechless. He was using a medical procedure to justify his cruelty.

"Please, Ella," he said, taking my hands. His grip was tight, desperate. "Just wait for me. Be patient. I'll make it up to you."

I looked at the man I loved, the man who had fought a deadly disease and won. I saw the exhaustion in his face, and my heart ached. I had been by his side through every chemo session, every terrifying night. I couldn't abandon him now.

So I nodded, a lump forming in my throat.

I remembered how he used to be. The way he looked at my art, his eyes full of pride. He' d hold my hand and tell me I was the most talented person he' d ever met. He made me feel seen, cherished.

The memory of his proposal was a fresh wound. He' d rented out an entire floor of the Met, surrounding us with Monet' s water lilies because he knew they were my favorite. He went down on one knee, his voice thick with emotion as he promised me a lifetime of love and support. "You are my world, Ella," he had sworn.

Where was that man now? Where did all those promises go?

The next week, Diana was at our apartment. She walked through the rooms as if she owned them, touching my things, my paintings, my life.

She picked up a framed photo of me and Arthur from the mantelpiece. "We would have looked so good in a picture like this," she sighed, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Arthur, standing beside her, just nodded. He didn't even look at me.

"She just misses him," he said later, as if that explained everything. "Don't be so possessive of things, Ella. They're just things. I can buy you a hundred new frames."

But it wasn't about the frame. It was about her invading my space, my life, with his permission.

The real fight came over my mother's locket. It was a simple, vintage piece, the only thing I had left of her. I wore it every day. Diana saw it and her eyes lit up with a sick, covetous gleam.

"Gavin gave me one just like this," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I lost it."

I clutched the locket at my neck. "I'm sorry to hear that, but this was my mother's."

"Please," she begged, turning to Arthur. "It would mean so much to me. It would feel like he was with me again."

I stood my ground. "No. This is not negotiable. It's mine."

Diana' s face twisted into a mask of pain. She looked like a wounded animal. "You're so cruel," she choked out, tears streaming down her face. "You have everything, and you won't give me this one small thing."

Arthur' s face hardened. He turned to me, his eyes cold steel. "Ella. Don't be a child. Give it to her."

"Arthur, you can't be serious. This was my mother's!"

"And Gavin is dead!" he shot back. "She's been through enough. Don't you dare make her feel worse."

I tried to argue, to make him see how unreasonable this was. "She's lying, Arthur, can't you see..."

He cut me off. "Enough."

Suddenly, Diana gasped and stumbled, clutching her arm. "My wrist... the cut... it's bleeding again."

It was a lie. I had seen the cut earlier; it was a faint, healed line. But it was the only excuse Arthur needed.

He rushed to her side, his voice full of panic and concern. "Diana! Are you okay? Let me see." He cradled her arm as if it were a priceless treasure, ignoring me completely.

His gaze flickered back to me, filled with rage. "You did this. You upset her."

Before I could react, he strode over to me. His hand shot out and yanked the locket from my neck. The delicate chain snapped, stinging my skin.

I gasped, a sharp pain radiating from my neck, but the pain in my heart was a thousand times worse.

He held the locket in his palm, a trophy. "This is a punishment, Ella," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Maybe now you'll learn some compassion. Don't ever upset her again."

He walked back to Diana, who was now sobbing into his shoulder. He gently fastened the locket-my mother's locket-around her neck. "There," he murmured, stroking her hair. "It's yours now. Everything is going to be okay."

I watched them, him comforting her, her clinging to him. My mother's last gift to me was now on the neck of a stranger, a thief.

He didn't even glance back as he led her out of the room, his arm wrapped protectively around her.

I stood there, my hand on my stinging neck, the place where the locket used to be now cold and empty. I remembered him giving it back to me after the chain broke once before, his fingers so gentle, his eyes full of love. "I'll always fix what's broken for you, Ella," he'd promised.

I stood in the silent apartment for a long, long time. The pain in my neck slowly faded, but the one in my chest just grew, a hollow ache that spread through my entire body until I was numb.

This wasn't the man I loved. He was gone.

My hope was gone, too.

I picked up my phone and dialed my father in California. His voice was a welcome warmth in the cold emptiness of the room.

"Dad," I said, my own voice sounding foreign and broken. "I want to come home."

There was no hesitation. "Thank God," he breathed. "That bastard never deserved you. When are you coming?"

My father had left New York years ago, unable to stand the city's pretentious, cutthroat atmosphere. He' d begged me to come with him, but I was young, in love, and believed Arthur was my future. "He's different, Dad," I had insisted.

How wrong I was.

"Soon," I whispered into the phone. "I'm booking a flight for the end of the month."

"Your room is ready, sweetheart. Just come home."

I hung up, a single, decisive action. The countdown had begun.

The next day, I began to pack. Not my clothes, but my memories. I pulled out a large cardboard box and started filling it with everything that tied me to Arthur.

Photographs of us smiling in Paris. The silly keychain he won for me at a carnival. The first paintbrush he ever bought me, telling me he believed in my dream. Each item was a ghost.

I had given up so much for him. When his leukemia was diagnosed, I put my art career on hold. I deferred a prestigious residency in Florence to be by his side. I learned to manage his medications, to cook the bland, sterile meals his immune system could handle. I even have a small, faded scar on my arm from where I burned myself rushing a pot of soup to his bedside when he was too weak to feed himself.

The scar tingled, a phantom pain. It was a reminder of a love that was now a source of agony.

I took the box to the fireplace. I lit a match and dropped it in. The photos curled, the faces melting away. The keychain plastic bubbled and warped. The wooden paintbrush blackened and turned to ash.

I watched the flames consume our past. The love I felt for him, the hope I had for our future, it all turned to smoke and drifted up the chimney, disappearing into the cold New York sky.

He had promised me the world. He had promised me forever. Was that all a lie? Or had the man who made those promises simply died on the operating table, replaced by this cruel stranger wearing his face?

It didn't matter anymore. I didn't care what happened to him, or to his "cellular memory," or to Diana.

I walked over to the calendar on the wall and ripped off the page. Twenty-nine days left.

I was getting out.

That evening, Arthur came into my studio. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. "What are you working on?"

His touch made my skin crawl. I forced myself to remain still, to not flinch away.

"Nothing yet," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "Just thinking."

He frowned, sensing something was off. "You've been quiet lately, Ella. Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine, Arthur."

"I know I was harsh about the locket," he said, his voice a low apology. "But Diana... she's so fragile. I feel this overwhelming need to protect her. You understand, don't you?"

I turned to him, a bitter, sarcastic smile on my lips. "Of course. It's the cellular memory."

He seemed relieved by my answer, completely missing the irony. "Exactly. I knew you'd get it. Thank you for being so understanding."

He kissed my cheek. "Get dressed. We're going to my grandfather's birthday gala tonight."

My stomach tightened. Another public parade. "Do I have to?"

"Yes. It's important. And I want you by my side."

I knew what that meant. I was a prop. A placeholder until Diana was ready to take my spot officially.

The gala was at The Plaza, a glittering affair of old money and power. As soon as we arrived, Diana was surrounded. She was wearing a stunning vintage gown that I knew for a fact Arthur had bought her. She looked perfect, every bit the real estate heiress in waiting.

"To Diana! For her strength and grace!" someone toasted.

As they raised their glasses, Arthur shot forward. "No! She can't drink."

Diana gave a small, martyred smile. "It's nothing, really. I can have one glass."

"Absolutely not," Arthur insisted, taking the champagne flute from her hand. "Gavin wouldn't want you to. Your health is too precious."

His eyes then landed on me.

"Ella," he commanded, his voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "You drink for her."

The room fell silent. All eyes were on me. This wasn't a request. It was a public humiliation.

I remembered a time I had a stomach flu and Arthur wouldn't even let me have a sip of wine, fussing over me, making me herbal tea with his own hands. That memory was a ghost now, haunting me from a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

My hand trembled as I took the glass from him. I downed it in one gulp, the bubbles stinging my throat.

Then another toast was made. And another. Each time, Arthur would intercept the glass meant for Diana and hand it to me. "Drink," he would order.

I drank until my head spun and my stomach burned. The glittering lights of the ballroom blurred. The faces of the guests morphed into grotesque masks, their whispers and stares closing in on me.

I stumbled away from the crowd, needing air. I made it to a secluded balcony, leaning heavily against the railing. My stomach lurched, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I coughed, and my hand came away from my mouth with a smear of blood.

My ulcer. The stress had made it act up again.

I was about to go back inside to find some water when I heard their voices from around the corner.

"Are you happy now?" Arthur asked Diana, his voice low and intimate.

"She was so mean to me about the locket," Diana whimpered. "I just wanted her to feel a little bit of pain, like I do every day."

"I know, my love. I know. Seeing her suffer for you... it's the only thing that makes me feel like I'm honoring Gavin's memory."

My blood ran cold. This wasn't about cellular memory. It wasn't about guilt. It was intentional. It was a targeted, sadistic punishment designed to please Diana.

"There's one more thing," Diana murmured, her hand tracing a pattern on his chest. "Gavin had a tattoo... right here. A small 'D' for Diana. Every time I see you, I imagine it's still there."

"It's not," Arthur said, his voice tight.

"I know," she sighed. "But if it were... it would be like having him back."

There was a long silence. Then I heard Arthur's voice, full of a terrifying resolve.

"I can do that for you."

I heard a sharp intake of breath, then the sound of something sharp tearing through fabric. I peeked around the corner.

Arthur had a shard of a broken champagne glass in his hand. He had ripped open his shirt, revealing the smooth skin over his heart where a small, elegant 'E' for Ella was tattooed. It was the first gift I had ever given him.

He pressed the jagged edge of the glass to his skin.

"Arthur, no!" Diana cried out, though her eyes were gleaming with triumph.

He didn't listen. He dragged the glass across his skin, slicing through the ink, through the symbol of his love for me. Blood welled up, dark and thick, dripping down his chest. He gritted his teeth, his face a mask of agony and ecstasy.

"Now," he panted, the word a ragged gasp. "Now, this heart only beats for you. For Gavin."

Diana let out a soft cry and rushed into his arms. "Oh, Arthur. You didn't have to do that."

"I did," he said, his voice thick with pain and something else... satisfaction. He held her tight, smearing his blood onto her expensive gown. "Anything for you."

I watched, frozen, as he comforted her. The man who had once promised to protect me was now mutilating himself to erase me, all for her. The tattoo had been my eighteenth-birthday gift to him, a symbol of our young, pure love. He'd sworn it was more permanent than any ring.

He wasn't the man I loved anymore. He was a monster.

My own heart felt like it was being carved out, just like the 'E' on his chest.

I turned and fled, stumbling through the glittering ballroom, ignoring the curious stares. I ran back to our apartment, my mind a blank canvas of horror.

My stomach was cramping violently. I fumbled in the medicine cabinet for my ulcer medication, my hands shaking so hard I could barely open the bottle.

I dry-swallowed two pills and collapsed onto the bed in the guest room, the room that had become my sanctuary, my prison cell.

A little while later, the door opened. It was Diana. She was wearing my silk bathrobe, the one Arthur had bought me for our anniversary.

"It's so soft," she said, running her hands over the fabric. She was smiling, a smug, victorious smile. "Arthur has such good taste."

I just stared at her, too numb to feel anything.

My silence seemed to annoy her. The smile vanished. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue? Or are you finally realizing your place?"

"Get out," I whispered.

"Oh, I will," she sneered. "But not before I enjoy the life that should have been mine. He doesn't love you, you know. He never did. He's just with you out of pity."

Suddenly, her expression changed. Her eyes widened in fake fear as she heard footsteps approaching.

"Please, Ella, don't be mad," she cried, her voice suddenly high and panicked. "I'll take the robe off, I promise! Don't hit me!"

Arthur burst into the room. He saw Diana cowering, my robe clutched around her, and his face filled with rage.

"What did you do to her?" he snarled at me.

"Nothing," I said, my voice flat. "She's lying."

"Don't lie to my face, Ella!" he shouted. "Apologize to her. Now."

Diana sobbed, playing her part perfectly. "It's my fault, Arthur. I shouldn't have worn her things. She's just upset. It's okay."

Her fake magnanimity only fueled his anger. "It is not okay! Look at you, you're trembling." He turned to me, his eyes burning with a cold fire. "I have been too lenient with you."

"I didn't do anything," I repeated, my voice rising. "She's manipulating you!"

"I'm tired of your excuses," he said, grabbing my arm. His grip was like iron. "You're going to learn some respect."

He started dragging me out of the room. I struggled, trying to pull away, but he was too strong.

"Arthur, stop! Do you really believe I would hurt her? After everything?"

He hesitated for a split second. I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes, a ghost of the man he used to be.

"Arthur, darling, my wrist hurts," Diana cried from the bedroom.

The ghost vanished. The monster was back.

"You're out of control," he hissed, his face inches from mine. He dragged me through the apartment, down the hall, to the front door.

He threw the door open and shoved me out into the cold, sterile hallway of the apartment building. I stumbled, my bare feet hitting the cold marble floor.

"Stay out here and think about what you've done," he commanded.

He slammed the door in my face. The click of the lock was the sound of my world ending.

I was in my pajamas, barefoot, locked out of my own home. I banged on the door, screaming his name, but there was no answer. I tried the handle, but it was useless.

The cramping in my stomach intensified, a sharp, stabbing pain that made me double over. The hallway started to spin. Black spots danced in my vision.

As I slid down the wall to the floor, my last conscious thought was of his promise at the Met. "I will never let anything hurt you, Ella. I swear it."

Was that promise dead now, too? Carved out of his heart along with my initial?