Her Cold Revenge, His Regret

The last thing I remembered was the cold night air and the unbearable pain as my body hit the pavement.

My husband, Mark, and his boss, Ms. Jenkins, had pushed me from the thirty-second-floor office window.

"She's just a trophy wife," Mark had sneered.

Ms. Jenkins had laughed, her arm wrapped around his waist.

I had walked in on them, entwined on his office desk, the contract he so desperately needed forgotten on the floor.

My heart shattered, my screams turned to accusations, and they, to protect their careers and their despicable affair, silenced me forever.

My last thought was regret for loving him, for trusting him, for giving him my entire world.

Then, a sudden jolt.

My eyes flew open. I was standing in the quiet, carpeted hallway outside Mark' s office, the thermos of soup still warm in my hands.

My phone read 9:00 PM. An hour earlier.

I was back.

Driven by a force I didn't understand, I crept closer to the door, peering through the narrow gap.

And there they were, just as before, Mark and Ms. Jenkins, mouths locked in a passionate kiss.

This time, there was no scream, just a cold, hard stone of rage in my chest.

This was a second chance.

I wouldn't waste it on tears.

The last thing I remembered was the cold night air rushing past my face.

Then, an unbearable pain as my body hit the pavement.

My husband, Mark, and his boss, Ms. Jenkins, had pushed me from the thirty-second-floor office window.

"She's just a trophy wife," Mark had sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Good for nothing but managing the house."

Ms. Jenkins had laughed, her arm wrapped around his waist.

I had brought him dinner, a foolish, loving gesture for a man working late. Instead, I found them together, their bodies entwined on his office desk. The contract he had been desperate to sign lay forgotten on the floor.

My heart had shattered. I screamed. I accused. And they, to protect their careers, their reputations, their disgusting affair, they silenced me forever.

As darkness took me, my only thought was regret. Regret for loving him, for trusting him, for giving up my entire world for him.

Then, a sudden jolt.

My eyes flew open. I was standing in the quiet, carpeted hallway outside Mark' s office, the thermos of soup still warm in my hands. The heavy oak door was slightly ajar.

I glanced at my phone. 9:00 PM. An hour earlier.

My breath hitched. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the building's air conditioning. I was back.

Driven by a force I didn't understand, I crept closer to the door, peering through the narrow gap.

And there they were. Just as before.

Mark was pressed against his desk, Ms. Jenkins in his arms, their mouths locked in a passionate kiss. Her hands were tangled in his hair, his were roaming her back. It was a scene of raw, unapologetic betrayal.

This time, there was no scream caught in my throat. The rage was still there, a cold, hard stone in my chest, but the shock was gone. I had already lived through the worst of it.

This was a second chance.

I wouldn't waste it on tears.

Quietly, I backed away from the door. I walked to the empty reception desk down the hall. Lying on the corner was the business contract Mark had been chasing for months, the one that would secure his promotion. The one I had used my family connections to help him even get a meeting for.

My hands didn't shake.

I picked it up and walked to the shredder in the copy room. The machine whirred to life, devouring the pages one by one, turning Mark' s future into a basket of meaningless paper strips.

Then, I walked back to his office door. I raised my phone, the lens perfectly framing the scene through the crack. Mark had his hand on Ms. Jenkins' s thigh now, pushing her skirt up.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Five clear, damning photos. I saved them to a secure folder, my movements calm and methodical. Then, I turned and walked away, leaving the thermos of soup on the floor outside his office.

Let it get cold.

Mark stumbled into our apartment at 2 AM. The slam of the door echoed in the silent space.

"Ava!" he called out, his voice loud and demanding. "I'm starving. Is there anything to eat?"

Normally, I would be waiting on the sofa, no matter the hour. I would have gotten up immediately, gone to the kitchen, and heated a meal for him, asking about his long day.

Tonight, I lay in our bed, the bedroom door closed, and didn't move. I stared at the ceiling, my body rigid.

I heard him grumble from the living room. "Asleep already? Useless."

He stomped around for a bit, then went into the bathroom. A moment later, I heard the buzz of a phone from the living room, where he' d tossed his jacket.

A single message lit up the screen. I had seen it in my previous life, too, but it had meant nothing then. Now, it meant everything.

"My love, I miss you already. -J"

I didn't sleep. I lay awake all night, the events of my past life and my new present replaying in my mind. The fall, the pain, the betrayal. The quiet click of my phone's camera.

The next morning, I rose before him. I went into the living room and picked up the shirt he had carelessly thrown over a chair. There, on the collar, was a smear of dark red lipstick. Not my shade.

He came out of the bedroom, stretching and yawning. When he saw the shirt in my hands, his eyes widened in panic.

"Oh, that!" he said, snatching it from me with a nervous laugh. "That's just a joke from one of the girls at the office. You know how they are."

I said nothing. I just looked at him, my expression blank. I didn't need to expose his lie. I already knew the truth.

He tried to recover, forcing a cheerful tone. "I took the day off for you! I'll make you breakfast. To make up for being so late."

He bustled around the kitchen, making a clumsy attempt at pancakes. He set a plate in front of me, a sticky, lopsided mess. Then his phone rang.

"Hello? Oh, right now?" His face fell. "Yes, of course. An urgent company matter. I'll be right there."

He turned to me, his face a mask of fake regret. "Ava, I'm so sorry. I have to go."

He grabbed his keys and rushed out the door, not even looking back.

I sat alone at the table, staring at the untouched plate. I recalled the years of sacrifice, the endless support, the belief that his ambition was our shared dream.

With a steady hand, I picked up the plate. I walked to the kitchen and scraped the entire meal into the trash can.

It was garbage. Just like his love.

Two years ago, I met Mark Miller at a job interview for my family's company.

I was a newly appointed assistant manager, trying to prove I could make it without my last name. I was nervous, and on my way to the conference room, my heel caught on the carpet. I twisted my ankle and sent a stack of files scattering across the floor.

People stopped, stared, and then walked around me. All except one.

Mark.

He knelt, his expression calm, and helped me gather the papers. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice steady and reassuring. It grounded me. He helped me to a chair and made sure I was settled before he went in for his own interview.

He didn't get the job. His qualifications were thin, his experience lacking. But I remembered his composure, his kindness in that moment of my own panic.

I made a call. I told my father' s HR director that I saw potential in him. Mark was hired the next day.

We started dating in secret. He was from a modest background, burning with an ambition that I found attractive. He wanted to climb, to prove himself. I wanted to help him. I used my knowledge of the industry to guide him, edited his reports late into the night, and celebrated his small victories as if they were my own.

"Ava, what would I do without you?" he would say often, holding me tight. "You're my everything."

I believed him.

My family was against our relationship. "He's not for you, Ava," my brother had warned. "He sees you as a stepping stone."

I didn't listen. I was in love. I married Mark against their wishes, in a small city hall ceremony. To avoid any accusations of favoritism at work and to fully dedicate myself to his career, I quit my job. I became what he would later call me-a woman fit only for managing the home.

I never imagined my unwavering trust would be rewarded with such a brutal betrayal.

The day after he rushed out on his "day off," I didn't stay home waiting for him. I spent the day at the public library, reading and planning. It was his birthday, and I knew from my past life that he was throwing a party for his colleagues at our apartment. A party I wasn't meant to attend.

I let my phone battery die.

When I returned home late that night, the apartment was dark. I assumed the party was over. I fumbled in my purse for my keys, then remembered I' d left them on the kitchen counter that morning.

I rang the doorbell.

A few moments later, the door opened a crack. It was Mark. His hair was messy, his shirt unbuttoned. When he saw me, the color drained from his face.

"Ava? What are you doing here?" he whispered, his body blocking the entrance. "Didn't I text you to come back later?"

"My phone died," I said simply.

Just then, a woman's voice, husky and familiar, called out from the bathroom. "Honey, who is it?"

It was Ms. Jenkins.

Mark' s eyes darted nervously back into the apartment. He turned back to me, his expression hardening into something ugly.

"Nobody," he called over his shoulder. "Just the junk collector."

He slammed the door in my face.

The click of the lock severed the last, fragile thread of affection I had for him. I stood there in the silent hallway, not with hurt, but with a profound, chilling clarity. The man I had given up everything for saw me as trash to be discarded.

I didn't knock again. I didn't scream. I simply waited.

About an hour later, the door opened again. Ms. Jenkins, looking smug and satisfied, walked out. She didn't even glance at me as she strutted towards the elevator, the keys to her BMW dangling from her fingers.

Mark found me sitting on the floor by the door. He rushed over, his face a mess of feigned concern and panic.

"Ava! There you are! It was all a misunderstanding," he began, the words tumbling out of him. "Ms. Jenkins just spilled some wine on her dress. She needed to use the bathroom to clean up, that's all."

I stared at him, my silence more powerful than any accusation.

He continued, his desperation growing. "Look, I'm in a critical phase of my career. It would ruin me if my colleagues knew I married a former employee from the company. It would look like I used you."

The irony was so thick it was suffocating.

I remembered a time, not so long ago, when he had stood on a crowded street and declared his love for me, not caring who heard. He had said he wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

Now, he was ashamed to even admit I was his wife.

Love, I realized, could truly vanish overnight. Or perhaps, it had never been there at all.