Ghost of a Wife: His Regret

My husband, Mark Davis, a tech titan, paraded his 100th mistress, a social media starlet named Brittany, right in front of me at a high-profile gala.

"The young lady had an unfortunate accident; her dress is torn," he sneered, his eyes cold and sharp. "Chloe, lend her yours for the evening. And then take her to the suite upstairs. Make sure she' s perfectly clean."

I casually placed my champagne glass down, pulled a folded divorce agreement from my clutch, and handed it to him.

"Divorce Agreement," I stated, my voice devoid of emotion. The crowd whispered, scoffing that I'd be begging him back in days, as always. Mark just smirked, tenderly kissing Brittany's forehead, telling her, "She just needs to be reminded of her place."

He had no idea. My spirit, my very soul, had already departed. The woman he still believed he tormented was merely a shell. I was already gone. Mark was screaming at a ghost, and the foundations of his world were about to crumble.

The air in the grand ballroom was thick with money and perfume, a suffocating mix that Chloe Miller had learned to breathe eight years ago. Tonight was no different, yet it was entirely different. This was the 100th time. The 100th woman her husband, Mark Davis, had paraded in front of her, in front of the whole world.

Mark, a titan of the tech in

The past eight years played out in the void where Chloe' s soul now floated. It wasn't a memory, not anymore. It was just data, a sequence of events she was forced to review. Ninety-nine women. Ninety-nine nights of waiting for the sound of the front door, the unfamiliar laughter, the scent of a different perfume clinging to the man who shared her