My Ex-Husband's Regret: The Billionaire's Return

Anderson's head snapped forward as the taxi hit a pothole.

The motion sent a fresh wave of pain radiating from his temples down to the base of his skull. He pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, grinding in slow circles. The pressure did nothing. His mouth tasted like stale whiskey and regret.

"Hey, watch it back there," he muttered.

The driver, a heavyset man with a name tag reading Sal, didn't respond. Anderson slumped against the worn leather seat and watched Manhattan blur past the window. Early morning light cut between buildings in sharp, unwelcome angles.

The brakes screamed.

Anderson's forehead cracked against the glass. The sound echoed inside his skull like a gunshot.

"Jesus Christ!" Sal yelled, leaning on the horn. "You see this idiot? Red light means stop, moron!"

A cyclist had shot through the intersection, missing their bumper by inches. Anderson pressed his palm against the window, feeling the vibration of Sal's continued shouting. His headache tripled in intensity.

"Turn off the radio," Anderson said.

Sal's eyes found his in the rearview mirror. The morning talk show host was shrieking about some political scandal, the volume cranked to maximum. Sal's jaw tightened. He reached out and slapped the power button. The silence that followed felt heavy, accusatory.

The meter ticked past forty-seven dollars.

Anderson reached for his wallet. His fingers brushed against empty leather. He checked his other pocket, then the inner compartment. Two twenties. A handful of change. Not enough.

"Come on," Sal said, watching him in the mirror. "Don't tell me you're gonna-"

"I have a card."

"Shoulda said that before. These people, I swear. No cash, no tip, nothing."

Anderson's jaw clenched. He pulled out his credit card and slammed it against the reader mounted on the back of the front seat. The plastic cracked against metal. Sal flinched.

The reader's screen flickered. Processing, it read. Then: Network delay. Please wait.

Anderson stared at the spinning icon. Sal stared at Anderson. The taxi idled at the curb, exhaust seeping through the floor vents. Anderson's chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a belt around his ribs and pulled.

Thirty seconds passed.

The reader beeped. Approved.

Anderson shoved the door open before Sal could speak. The morning sun hit his retinas like a physical blow. He stumbled, throwing up one hand to shield his eyes. Spots danced in his vision.

Someone collided with his shoulder. Hard.

Anderson spun, blinking through the afterimages. A man in a charcoal suit strode past without breaking stride, phone pressed to his ear, briefcase swinging.

"Asshole," Anderson breathed.

He pulled his trench coat tighter. The wool smelled like last night's bar smoke. His apartment building was three blocks north. He counted the steps in his head, focusing on the rhythm of his own footsteps against the sidewalk.

The doorman wasn't at his post. Anderson fumbled in his pocket for his key card. His fingers closed around something sticky.

He pulled his hand out. Black grease coated his fingertips, thick and smelling of motor oil. He must have brushed against something in the taxi. He wiped his hand down the front of his coat, leaving dark smears on the tan fabric.

He looked up.

A woman stood in the shadow of the entrance awning. Black suit, black pumps, hands clasped in front of her like she was attending a funeral. The morning light didn't reach her face.

Anderson squinted. The silhouette resolved into features he recognized. Debra Hampton. His sister's former assistant. The woman Elianna used to send when she couldn't be bothered to deliver bad news herself.

His stomach dropped.

He turned, already scanning the street for another exit. Maybe he could circle around to the service entrance. Maybe-

"Anderson."

Debra's voice cut through the traffic noise. She stepped out of the shadows, moving fast. Her heels clicked against the concrete. She positioned herself directly in front of the glass doors, blocking his path.

Anderson stopped. Three feet separated them. He could smell her perfume, something sharp and professional.

"What do you want?" The words came out flat, cold. He kept his hands in his pockets, fingers still sticky with oil.

Debra didn't answer immediately. She looked at him with an expression he couldn't read. Her throat moved, swallowing.

"Anderson Calhoun."

She said his full name. The formality of it, the dryness in her voice, made something cold settle in his chest. His headache receded, replaced by a different kind of pressure. The kind that came before bad news.

Debra reached into her bag. The leather was worn at the corners, the same bag she'd carried for six years. She withdrew a thick envelope, brown paper, legal-sized. She held it out.

Anderson didn't move. His hands stayed buried in his pockets.

"Another severance letter?" He heard the sneer in his own voice. "Elianna running out of ways to tell me I'm not family anymore?"

Debra's hand trembled. Just slightly. Enough to make the envelope rustle.

Her eyes were red.

Anderson's sneer froze on his face.

"Elianna," Debra said. Her voice cracked on the second syllable.

A garbage truck rumbled past, hydraulics screaming, engine roaring. The noise swallowed whatever came next. Anderson saw Debra's lips move, but he heard nothing.

He stepped closer. Close enough to smell the coffee on her breath, close enough to see the tear tracks cutting through her foundation.

"What?"

Debra closed her eyes. A tear broke free and ran down her cheek. When she opened her eyes again, she looked directly at him. Her voice rose above the dying engine noise, clear and terrible.

"Elianna is dead."

The words didn't register immediately. Anderson stood there, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for Debra to break into laughter, to tell him this was some twisted joke his sister had orchestrated.

Then his ears began to ring.

The street sounds faded. The taxi horns, the pedestrian chatter, the distant construction-all of it compressed into a single high-pitched tone that filled his skull. He took a step backward.

His heel caught the edge of the entrance step.

Anderson felt himself falling. His arms windmilled, searching for balance. The sky tilted. The building facade rushed toward him.

Debra lunged forward. Her fingers closed around his sleeve, gripping the wool. The fabric tore with a sound like ripping paper. She didn't stop his momentum.

His tailbone hit concrete first. The impact jarred up his spine. His palm slapped against the rough step surface, skin scraping against stone. He felt nothing.

He stared up at Debra. Her face was all wrong. No smile, no satisfaction, none of the triumph Elianna's messengers usually carried. Just grief. Raw, unmistakable grief.

The envelope lay on the step beside his foot. He could see his sister's handwriting on the front. The familiar sharp angles of her capital letters.

Anderson Calhoun.

The letters blurred. He blinked, and the blur spread, and he realized his face was wet.

Anderson's body moved before his brain caught up.

He launched himself off the concrete step, fingers finding Debra's shoulders. His grip tightened until she winced, until he felt the bone beneath the wool of her jacket.

"Call her." The words tore out of his throat, ragged and wrong. "Call her right now. Tell her this isn't funny. Tell her-"

"Anderson." Debra twisted, breaking his hold. She stumbled back, rubbing her shoulder. Her eyes were dry now, focused. "She's gone. I'm sorry. She's gone."

He kicked the trash can.

The metal cylinder tipped, spilling coffee cups and newspaper across the sidewalk. A woman walking her dog crossed to the other side of the street. Anderson didn't see her. He saw only Debra's face, steady and certain, refusing to give him the denial he needed.

"How?" The question came out as a bark. "Car accident? Heart attack? What?"

Debra looked down. Her gaze fixed on a point somewhere near his shoes. Her lips parted. Closed. Parted again.

"Suicide."

The word hit him like a closed fist to the back of the head. Anderson swayed. His palm found the brick wall beside the entrance, the rough surface the only thing keeping him upright.

Suicide.

His mind flashed to Elianna six months ago, the last time he'd seen her. She'd been at some gallery opening, surrounded by people in clothes that cost more than his rent. She'd looked at him across the room, raised her champagne glass in a mock toast, and turned away.

She'd been wearing red. She'd looked alive. Fierce.

"You're lying." The words felt hollow even as he spoke them. "Elianna wouldn't-she's not-she doesn't give up. Ever."

Debra said nothing. She bent down, retrieving the envelope from where it had fallen. Dust smudged one corner. She held it out again, closer this time, pressing it against his chest.

Anderson flinched like it burned.

"She left instructions." Debra's voice had gone mechanical, reciting. "This is for you. Only you."

His fingers closed around the paper without his permission. The weight of it felt wrong. Too heavy for a letter. Too light for what it contained.

"What's inside?"

"Her wishes." Debra's eyes flicked away. "And guardianship papers. For her son."

Anderson's head snapped up. "What son?"

The silence stretched. Debra's eyebrows drew together, confusion replacing her grief. "Elon. Her son. He's fifteen."

Fifteen years.

Anderson did the math. Fifteen years of silence, of occasional hostile encounters at family events he couldn't avoid. Fifteen years of Elianna cutting him out, building walls, constructing a life he wasn't allowed to see.

She'd had a child. A child old enough to drive, to date, to hate his parents.

Anderson had known nothing.

"Why didn't anyone-" He stopped. The question was stupid, useless. He knew why. Because he'd walked away from that funeral fifteen years ago and never looked back. Because he'd told her he didn't need her, didn't want her, didn't care.

Because she'd believed him.

"She asked me to deliver this." Debra was already moving toward the street, toward a black sedan idling at the corner. "My obligation ends here. Mr. Hayes will contact you. He's the estate attorney."

"Wait-"

She didn't. Her heels struck the pavement in sharp, final beats. The car door opened before she reached it, a driver he couldn't see. She slid inside without looking back.

The sedan pulled into traffic. Exhaust fumes washed over Anderson's pant leg.

He stood alone on the sidewalk, envelope in hand, watching the taillights disappear. The morning cold finally registered, seeping through his thin coat. He shivered.

The glass doors behind him reflected his own image. Pale, unshaven, clutching a brown paper envelope like a life preserver. He looked like a man who had already drowned.

He swiped his key card. The lock clicked. He pushed through, into the lobby's artificial warmth, and made for the elevator.

The car arrived empty. Anderson stepped inside and leaned against the mirrored wall. His reflection multiplied, infinite pale men in wrinkled coats, all holding the same envelope, all wearing the same expression of stunned disbelief.

His legs gave out.

He slid down the wall until he crouched on the floor, knees drawn to his chest. The envelope crinkled against his thigh. He pressed his face into his hands, and the sound that came out of him didn't sound human. It sounded like something breaking.

The elevator chimed. Tenth floor.

Anderson wiped his face with his palms, smearing oil and tears across his skin. He stood, straightened his coat, and walked out into the hallway like a man sleepwalking.

His key missed the lock twice. On the third try, the metal slid home. He pushed into his apartment, kicked the door shut behind him, and collapsed onto the sofa.

The envelope sat on his coffee table, accusing him.

Anderson stared at it, breathing hard, waiting for his hands to stop shaking.

Anderson's finger was halfway under the envelope flap when his phone screamed.

The sound jolted through him like electricity. He fumbled the device from his pocket, nearly dropping it. The screen glowed with a name he hadn't expected to see today.

Beatrice Calhoun. His mother.

The ringtone cut through the apartment's silence. Anderson watched the name pulse, feeling his heart rate spike. If she knew-if Elianna had contacted her first, if she was calling to-

He swiped answer.

"Andy?" His mother's voice flooded the speaker, bright and irritable and alive. "Are you there? The connection's terrible, you know how Florida is, everything's terrible here, the humidity, the neighbors, did I tell you about the neighbors?"

Anderson's free hand found his mouth. He bit down on his knuckle, hard enough to leave marks.

"No," he managed. The word came out steady. Miraculously steady. "What about them?"

"Their dog. Every morning, five AM, barking. I've called the association three times. Three times, Andy. They do nothing." She paused. "You sound strange. Are you sick?"

"Just tired." He pressed his forehead against his palm, feeling sweat gather at his hairline. "Early meeting."

"Work, work, work." His mother's sigh carried static. "Your sister never calls anymore. Has she contacted you?"

Anderson's fingers spasmed around the phone. "No."

"Typical. Too busy being important." Another pause, longer this time. "Well. I won't keep you. Take your vitamins."

"I will."

"Love you, Andy."

"Love you too, Mom."

The line went dead.

Anderson let the phone fall to the carpet. It landed face-down, silent. He sat motionless, staring at the wall, feeling the lie settle into his bones like sediment.

He couldn't tell her. Not yet. Not with her blood pressure, her arrhythmia, her doctor's warnings about stress. He would have to carry this alone. For now. For however long he could manage.

His eyes found the envelope.

No more delays. No more interruptions.

Anderson ripped the flap open. The glue gave with a sound like tearing skin. He upended the envelope, and papers spilled across his coffee table. A handwritten letter on top. Legal documents beneath.

He picked up the letter first.

The handwriting was unmistakable. Elianna's penmanship had always been aggressive, each letter stabbed into the paper like an accusation. The first line had no greeting.

Forgive my cowardice. I couldn't face the aftermath.

Anderson's vision blurred. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, smearing more oil across his face, and kept reading.

I know you hate me. You have every right. But I'm asking anyway, because you're the only one I trust.

His name is Elon. He's fifteen, and he's the only thing I've done that matters. I'm leaving him to you. Not because you owe me. Because you'll protect him. Even from me. Especially from me.

Anderson turned the page. His hand was shaking badly now, making the paper rustle.

The next paragraph stopped him cold.

The trust is substantial. Three hundred million dollars. It belongs to Elon. All of it. He'll need guidance. He'll need someone to teach him that money isn't armor.

Three hundred million.

Anderson read the number three times, waiting for it to make sense. Elianna had been successful, but not this successful. Not unless-

He thought of the mergers she'd mentioned, the deals she'd closed while their father died alone. The math started to add up in ways that made him nauseous.

He forced himself to continue.

For your service as guardian, I've allocated three million dollars and the Manhattan apartment. Consider it a stipend. I know you'll refuse more. I know you'll be angry. Take it anyway. For him.

Three million.

Anderson laughed. The sound cracked in his throat, ugly and broken. Three million dollars to raise a stranger's child. Three million to buy his silence, his compliance, his life.

He was still laughing when he reached the final paragraph. The handwriting changed here, deteriorating. The letters sprawled, pressed so hard they nearly tore the paper.

DO NOT INVESTIGATE MY DEATH. Accept what I've given you. Protect my son. Forget I existed.

The warning hit him like a physical blow. Anderson set the letter down, suddenly aware of the sweat cooling on his spine. The words reeked of fear. Of desperation. Of secrets that had followed his sister to the grave.

He reached for the legal documents. Kasper Hayes, Attorney at Law. The letterhead was embossed, expensive. The papers inside detailed guardianship transfer procedures, trust fund management structures, clauses and sub-clauses in language designed to obscure meaning.

One page stood out. A single sheet, separate from the others. Sign here, it instructed, above a blank line. Upon execution, three million dollars will be transferred to designated account.

Anderson stared at the line. His signature would commit him to years of responsibility for a child he'd never met. Years of living in the shadow of his sister's final manipulation.

He stood. Paced to the window. The Manhattan skyline stretched before him, indifferent to his crisis. Somewhere out there, a fifteen-year-old boy was waking up to the news that his mother was dead. That a stranger held his future in his hands.

Anderson thought of the letter. You're the only one I trust.

Fifteen years of silence. Fifteen years of hostility. And still, at the end, she'd reached for him.

He turned back to the coffee table. Picked up the envelope. Gathered the scattered papers and slid them back inside, careful not to crease the corners.

The decision wasn't made. Not really. But his feet were already moving toward the bedroom, toward his closet, toward the suit he wore when he needed armor.

He would meet the lawyer. He would see the boy.

He would find out what kind of woman his sister had become, and what kind of monster had driven her to leave such a desperate warning.