The 100-Point Plan For His Regret

For three years, I documented the slow death of my marriage in a black journal. It was my 100-point divorce plan: for every time my husband, Blake, chose his first love, Ariana, over me, I deducted points. When the score hit zero, I would leave.

The final points vanished the night he left me bleeding out from a car crash. I was eight weeks pregnant with the child we had prayed for.

In the ER, the nurses frantically called him-the star surgeon of the very hospital I was dying in.

"Dr. Santos, we have a Jane Doe, O-negative, bleeding out. She's pregnant, and we're about to lose them both. We need you to authorize an emergency blood transfer."

His voice came over the speaker, cold and impatient.

"I can't. My priority is Miss Whitfield. Do what you can for the patient, but I can't divert anything right now."

He hung up. He condemned his own child to death to ensure his ex-girlfriend had resources on standby after a minor procedure.

Chapter 1

Blake Santos never expected to find the notebook.

He was searching for his favorite platinum cufflinks, a gift from his father, in the back of the shared closet. His fingers brushed against a leather-bound journal tucked away in a shoebox, hidden behind Caroline' s winter boots. It wasn't hers; her journals were always brightly colored, filled with architectural sketches. This one was plain black. Curiosity, a rare emotion for him, took hold. He opened it.

The first page was titled in Caroline' s neat, precise handwriting: The 100-Point Divorce Plan.

Blake frowned. He read the rules written below.

Starting Points: 100.

For every action that proves this marriage is a mistake, points will be deducted.

When the score reaches zero, I will file for divorce. No exceptions.

He let out a short, humorless laugh. A game. It had to be some silly game his wife was playing. He flipped through the pages. Each entry was dated, a meticulous log of his supposed transgressions.

-1 Point: He forgot our anniversary. Again. He was having dinner with Ariana.

-2 Points: He canceled our vacation because Ariana' s dog was sick. He spent the weekend at her apartment.

-1 Point: He called me Ariana by mistake.

-3 Points: He bought the last bottle of a vintage wine I' d been searching for, only to give it to Ariana for her birthday.

The list went on, page after page. A detailed, painful chronicle of his neglect. Blake felt a flicker of annoyance, not guilt. He saw it not as a record of his failures, but as a testament to Caroline' s obsession with his friendship with Ariana Whitfield. Ariana was his first love, the one who had shattered him when she left years ago.

Caroline knew that. He had married Caroline on the rebound, a convenient, stable choice from a good family, a person who could manage the Santos household while he focused on his career and, if he was honest, nursed his broken heart.

He shut the notebook, his annoyance hardening into cold indifference. He tossed it back into the box. A ridiculous, childish list. It meant nothing. He found his cufflinks and shut the closet door, the notebook already fading from his mind. He had more important things to think about. He had a custom-made necklace for Ariana in his briefcase. Her art gallery was having its grand opening, and he needed to be there.

He walked into the living room. Caroline was on the couch, sketching on a large pad, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked up when he entered, a hopeful light in her eyes that he had long ago stopped noticing.

"You' re home early," she said, her voice soft.

"I have to go out again soon," he replied, loosening his tie. "Ariana' s gallery opening."

The light in her eyes dimmed. "Oh. Right."

He saw the notebook on the coffee table, a different one, one of her sketchbooks. He glanced at an open page. It was a drawing of a nursery, detailed and full of soft light. A crib, a mobile with tiny stars, a rocking chair. He felt a strange pang in his chest, an unfamiliar emotion he couldn't place. They had been trying for a child for over a year.

"Is that for a client?" he asked, his voice flat.

Caroline quickly closed the sketchbook. "Just an idea."

He didn' t press. He didn' t care. His mind was on Ariana. He looked at the clock. He should leave soon. He wanted to be the first one there, to see her face when she saw the necklace.

He stood there, a silent wall between them, when his phone rang. It was his best friend, Mark.

"Blake! Turn on the news! Now!" Mark' s voice was frantic.

Blake grabbed the remote and switched on the television. A live news report filled the screen. A building was engulfed in flames. Thick black smoke billowed into the night sky. The reporter' s voice was urgent.

"Firefighters are on the scene at the new Whitfield Gallery downtown, where a massive fire broke out just an hour before its scheduled grand opening..."

Blake' s blood ran cold.

Ariana.

The world narrowed to that single thought. He grabbed his keys, his coat, and bolted for the door without a word to Caroline. He didn' t look back. He didn' t see the look of utter devastation on her face as she watched him go.

Caroline followed him. She didn' t know why. Some desperate, foolish part of her needed to see it for herself. She drove through the city, her hands tight on the steering wheel, her heart pounding a sick rhythm against her ribs.

When she arrived, the scene was chaos. Police barricades, flashing lights, the roar of the fire. Blake had abandoned his car and was arguing with a firefighter, his face a mask of raw panic.

"She' s in there! I have to get her!" Blake yelled, trying to push past the man.

"Sir, it' s too dangerous! The structure is unstable!" the firefighter shouted back.

"I don' t care! She' s trapped!"

Mark was there, trying to restrain him. "Blake, calm down! They' ll get her!"

"They' re not fast enough!" Blake' s voice was ragged with a desperation Caroline had never heard from him. Not for her. Never for her. He looked at the burning building as if it held his entire world. In that moment, Caroline knew it did.

He shoved Mark away and made a run for the entrance.

"My hands!" he screamed at the firefighter who grabbed his arm. "Do you know who I am? I' m Blake Santos! These hands are insured for millions! They perform miracles! But I would trade them, I would trade my entire career, just to know she' s safe! Let me go!"

It was a declaration. A confession. A truth so brutal it felt like a physical blow.

Mark saw Caroline then, standing in the shadows, her face pale. He looked horrified.

"Caroline... I..."

She heard Mark' s wife, Sarah, whisper to him, "God, Mark, he' s been obsessed with Ariana since high school. I thought marrying Caroline would fix him, but he' s just gotten worse."

Sarah' s words confirmed everything. It wasn' t just neglect. It was a love story she had no part in. She was just an obstacle. An afterthought.

For three years, she had tried. She had loved him with everything she had, hoping that one day he would see her. She had decorated their home, managed his social obligations, comforted him after long surgeries, and endured his family' s cold scrutiny. She had believed her love could eventually heal his old wounds, that it could be enough.

It was a lie she had told herself. The truth had been there all along, in every missed anniversary, every canceled plan, every time he looked through her as if she were made of glass.

The 100-point plan wasn't a game. It was a lifeline. A way to quantify the slow, bleeding death of her love. A way to give herself a finish line, an escape hatch from a marriage that was hollowing her out. And tonight, watching him ready to burn for another woman, she felt a massive chunk of those points crumble away.

A cheer went up from the crowd. Blake emerged from the smoke, carrying Ariana in his arms. She was conscious, coughing, but otherwise seemed unharmed. He held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, his face buried in her hair. He carried her to the ambulance, whispering things only she could hear.

He never once looked for Caroline.

After ensuring Ariana was safely with the paramedics, Blake' s body finally gave out. The adrenaline faded, and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious from smoke inhalation.

In the sterile white waiting room of the hospital, the smell of antiseptic sharp in her nose, Caroline' s mind drifted back. She remembered the charity gala where she first met him. He was the most brilliant, captivating man she had ever seen. A star neurosurgeon from the powerful Santos family. She, a promising young architect, had been bold. She had pursued him.

He had been grieving Ariana' s marriage to another man. She knew that. But when he proposed six months later, she thought she had won. She thought her devotion had finally broken through his reserve.

The illusion shattered a year into their marriage. At a party, she overheard one of Blake' s friends, drunk and loose-lipped, telling someone the truth. "Blake only married her because Ariana got married. He needed a distraction, a wife to satisfy his family. Poor girl thinks he actually loves her."

That was the day Ariana became a thorn in her heart, a constant, painful presence in her marriage. It was the day she went out and bought the plain black journal. It was her last act of self-preservation. A way to measure the pain until it became too much to bear.

Ariana' s return to Boston after her own divorce a year ago had accelerated everything. The points on her list disappeared with terrifying speed. Her heart, once full of hope, had grown cold and heavy.

A doctor approached her, pulling her from her thoughts. "Mrs. Santos? Your husband is stable. He inhaled a lot of smoke, but he' ll be fine. Miss Whitfield is also fine, just a few scratches."

Mark and Sarah came over, their faces etched with pity. "Caroline, he' ll come to his senses," Sarah said, placing a hand on her arm. "The Santos family will make sure he treats you right."

Caroline just looked at them, a bitter taste in her mouth. She stood up and walked out of the waiting room, leaving them behind.

Back home, in the silent, empty house, she walked to the closet and took out the black journal. She opened it to the last entry.

-5 Points: He ran into a burning building for her.

-10 Points: He said he would give up his career for her.

She uncapped her pen. Her hand was steady.

-10 Points: He collapsed after saving her, and his first and last thought was of her, not me.

She did the math. Only a few points left. Very few. The end was near.

The next morning, Caroline didn' t go to the hospital. She went to see a lawyer. The office was on the 30th floor of a glass skyscraper, with a view of the entire city. It felt fitting. She was finally getting a new perspective.

She handed over a file containing her prenuptial agreement and a summary of her assets.

"I want to file for divorce," she stated, her voice calm and even. "I want to prepare the papers now, so they are ready to be signed the moment I decide."

The lawyer, a sharp woman named Ms. Davis, looked at her with professional sympathy. "Of course, Mrs. Santos. We can have everything drafted and waiting for your signal."

Leaving the lawyer' s office, Caroline felt a strange sense of lightness. It wasn' t happiness, but it was a release. She stopped at a small cafe and bought a container of chicken noodle soup and a thermos of hot tea, the kind Blake liked when he was sick. It was a force of habit, the ghost of a duty she had performed for years.

When she arrived at the hospital, she paused outside Blake' s room. Through the glass panel in the door, she saw Ariana sitting by his bed. She was trying to feed him soup, but her movements were clumsy. She spilled a spoonful on his hospital gown, then another on the pristine white sheets.

"Oh, I' m so sorry, Blake!" Ariana cried, dabbing at the mess with a napkin. "I' m just so useless."

"It' s okay," Blake' s voice was hoarse but gentle. He reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek. "It' s just soup."

"But you' re hurt because of me," she sobbed, her shoulders shaking. "The doctor said the smoke inhalation was severe. It could have damaged your lungs, your hands... your career..."

"Shh," he soothed her. "It was worth it. As long as you' re safe."

Ariana looked at him, her eyes wide and shining with adoration. "You always wanted to be a neurosurgeon. You gave up your dream of being a painter for it."

Blake' s gaze softened. "I didn' t give it up. I became a surgeon because of you."

Ariana looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"Do you remember that day in high school?" he asked, his voice low. "You fell off the bleachers and hit your head. You were unconscious for almost a minute. I' ve never been so scared in my life. That was the day I decided I wanted to be a doctor. The best doctor. So I could always be there to save you if you needed me."

The soup container slipped from Caroline' s hand, falling to the floor with a soft thud. She didn' t notice. The words echoed in her head, a deafening roar.

His entire career. His life' s ambition. It was all for Ariana.

Ariana gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Blake... I never knew."

She threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his chest. "Oh, Blake."

He hesitated for only a second, his eyes flickering towards the door as if he sensed something. But then his arms wrapped around her, holding her tight. A perfect, painful tableau of love and devotion.

Caroline felt a sharp, suffocating pain in her chest. Her vision blurred. She turned and walked away, her steps silent and numb. She left the soup and tea on the floor outside his door.

Downstairs, in the hospital lobby, she bumped into one of Blake' s colleagues, Dr. Evans. He was rushing, a stack of files in his hands.

"Caroline! I was just coming to see Blake. How is he?"

"He' s fine," she said, her voice hollow.

"Good, good. Listen, I have an emergency surgery. Can you give this to him?" He thrust a manila folder into her hands. "It' s his resignation paperwork from the research board. He needs to sign it."

"Resignation?" Caroline asked, confused. Blake loved his position on the research board.

"Yeah, he' s stepping down to fund a new private clinic. Crazy, right? Sacrificing his own research... but he said it' s for someone important." Dr. Evans' s pager went off. "Gotta run!"

He disappeared down the hall. Caroline stood alone in the bustling lobby, holding the folder. Her hands trembled as she opened it. Inside was Blake' s official letter of resignation. And clipped to it was the business proposal for the new clinic.

It was a state-of-the-art mental health and wellness facility. The primary beneficiary and director listed on the proposal was Ariana Whitfield.

The world tilted on its axis. It wasn' t just his past. It was his future, too. Every part of his life was built around Ariana. He had become a doctor for her. Now he was giving up his prestigious research position to build a sanctuary for her.

Caroline was just a name on a marriage certificate. A placeholder. A ghost in her own life.

She thought of the day he' d been celebrated for a groundbreaking surgical technique. She had been so proud, her heart swelling with love for this brilliant, dedicated man. Now she realized, with sickening clarity, that even that moment belonged to Ariana. Every achievement, every success, was just another step on his path back to his first love.

It was time to get off that path. It was time to find her own.

She walked out of the hospital and into the bright, unforgiving sunlight. She pulled out her phone and dialed a number she hadn't called in years.

Bridget Kelly. Her best friend from architecture school. The one who had always told her she was meant for more than just being Mrs. Blake Santos.

Bridget picked up on the second ring. "Caroline? Is that you?"

"It' s me," Caroline said, her voice surprisingly steady. "You know that architecture firm we always dreamed of opening?"

There was a pause, then Bridget' s voice, full of excitement. "Are you serious?"

"I' m serious," Caroline said, a faint smile touching her lips for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. "I' m leaving Blake. I' m ready to start."

"Oh, thank God!" Bridget squealed. "I' ll start looking for office space! Something in Boston, close to your home, so it' s convenient for you?"

Caroline looked up at the skyline, at the towering buildings she had once dreamed of designing.

"No," she said, her voice clear and firm. "Not Boston. Somewhere new. Somewhere far away from here."

Caroline told Bridget she was getting a divorce and wanted to set up their firm, "Phoenix Arch," in San Francisco. Bridget, ever loyal, asked no questions and immediately started making arrangements. The name felt right. A new life rising from the ashes of her old one.

For the next week, Caroline lived in a blur of activity. She bought books on modern design, building codes, and business management. She spent hours online, studying the work of top architects, her mind once again buzzing with the creative energy she had suppressed for years. She felt a part of herself, long dormant, waking up.

She didn' t call Blake. She didn' t visit the hospital. She ignored the texts from his mother demanding to know why she wasn' t by her husband' s side. She was building a firewall around her heart, brick by brick.

A week later, on the day of their third wedding anniversary, Blake came home. He found her in the home office, surrounded by stacks of books and blueprints.

He looked surprised. "What' s all this?"

"I' m going back to work," Caroline said, not looking up from her drafting table. "Bridget and I are starting our own firm."

"That' s... great," he said, though he sounded more confused than pleased. He was used to her life revolving around him. "I guess you won' t have time to make my post-surgery recovery meals anymore."

Caroline finally looked at him. Her gaze was cool, distant. "No. I won' t."

He remembered how she used to fuss over him, a tiny papercut earning his hand a bandage and a week of her worried attention. Her sudden indifference was strange, but he dismissed it. He was tired.

"Well, I support you," he said, the words feeling hollow even to him. "It' s good for you to have a hobby."

A hobby. Three years of marriage, and he still saw her lifelong passion as a hobby.

"Blake," she began, her voice low. "If I said I wanted a divorce, would you fight it?"

Before he could answer, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen. It was Ariana.

"Excuse me," he said, walking into his study and closing the door.

Caroline could hear the low murmur of his voice, the gentle, soothing tone he never used with her. She didn' t need to hear the words. She knew. She turned back to her blueprints, her resolve hardening into steel.

Later that evening, he emerged from the study. "I' m taking you out for our anniversary," he announced.

She agreed. There was one last thing she needed to see.

He drove them to a fancy downtown restaurant. He pulled up to the curb. "I' ll go park. You go on in."

She got out of the car and watched him drive off. A few minutes later, he returned, not alone. He was holding a huge bouquet of white gardenias and a beautifully wrapped gift box. For a dizzying second, her heart stuttered. He had never given her flowers. Not once.

"Blake..." she started, a flicker of some old, foolish hope igniting within her.

And then Ariana appeared at his side, linking her arm through his.

"Caroline! So good to see you," Ariana said, her smile bright and triumphant. "Blake told me you were joining us to celebrate my gallery' s successful relaunch. It' s so sweet of you."

The flicker of hope died, turning to ash.

Blake didn' t seem to notice Caroline' s frozen expression. He smiled at Ariana.

"These are for you," he said, handing her the flowers and the gift. "A little something to celebrate."

It was for Ariana. Of course, it was for Ariana. The dinner, the flowers, the gift. She was just the third wheel. A prop in their perfect love story.

"Oh, Blake, you remembered," Ariana cooed, burying her face in the gardenias. "They' re my favorite." She unwrapped the gift to reveal the diamond necklace he had been so excited about. "And this... it' s the exact one I pinned on my inspiration board last month. How did you know?"

"Just a lucky guess," Blake said, his eyes fixed on Ariana, a soft, loving expression on his face.

Caroline felt the air leave her lungs. She was suffocating. She reached out and took the bouquet from Ariana' s hands, forcing a smile onto her face.

"Let me hold these for you," she said, her voice a strained whisper. Her hands were trembling.

Ariana beamed. "Thank you, Caroline. You' re such a good wife."

The words were a mockery. Caroline knew then that Blake hadn' t just brought her along. He had used her. He had used their anniversary as a cover to celebrate with the woman he truly loved. She was not his wife. She was his excuse.