Too Late For Regret, Mr. Carlson

Alexia stood at the edge of the crowd, a black blot on their perfect canvas. A couple passed by her, their whispers loud enough to cut.

Is that the wife?

She looks like his assistant. Or his accountant.

God, look at Aubree though. Now that is a match.

The name on the screen was a command, not a notification. Eleanor Carlson.

Alexia stared at the phone vibrating against the polished mahogany of the desk. Her fingers hovered over it, trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the sharp, twisting cramp that had been wringing her stomach for the last three hours. She took a breath, holding it in her chest to stabilize her core, and pressed answer.

Alexia, Eleanor's voice was a drill bit, piercing through the quiet hum of the penthouse. "You are late. The Pierre. Now."

Alexia closed her eyes. The pain in her abdomen flared, hot and jagged.

Eleanor, Alexia started, her voice raspy. "I just finished the patch for the server migration. I'm not feeling well. I think I need to-"

Eleanor didn't let her finish. She never let her finish.

Jensen needs a ride. His driver is unavailable, and the optics of him standing on a curb waiting for an Uber are unacceptable. Do you understand? This is about the family image, Alexia. Try to be useful for once.

The line went dead.

Alexia lowered the phone. The silence of the apartment rushed back in, heavy and suffocating. It was a beautiful cage, this penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city that felt a million miles away. She pressed her hand against her right side, doubling over as another wave of nausea rolled through her.

Useful. That was the word. Not wife. Not partner. Useful. Like a printer or a coffee machine.

She walked into the walk-in closet. Rows of designer gowns hung like colorful ghosts, bought by Eleanor, chosen by stylists, worn by a mannequin. Alexia bypassed them all. She reached for the black wool coat at the back. It was severe. It was invisible. It was perfect.

In the mirror, her reflection stared back. Her skin was the color of parchment. Her eyes looked too big, too dark, hollowed out by sleepless nights and the silent, grinding stress of the last three years. She uncapped a tube of red lipstick and applied it like war paint. It didn't make her look alive; it just made her look like a corpse that was trying too hard.

Her hand brushed against the folded paper in her pocket. The referral slip from the doctor she had seen secretly last week. Suspected acute appendicitis. Recommended immediate follow-up if pain persists.

Alexia let her hand drop.

The drive to the Pierre Hotel was a blur of rain-slicked asphalt and red taillights. The rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers was a metronome counting down the seconds of her patience. Every bump in the road sent a shockwave through her right side. She gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white, grounding herself in the physical exertion to ignore the internal screaming.

When she pulled up to the entrance, the valet recognized the car. The Carlson family crest on the license plate frame commanded a respect Alexia never received personally. He opened the door with a flourish.

Good evening, Mrs. Carlson.

Alexia nodded, unable to speak, and handed him the keys. The lobby air was warm, perfumed with expensive lilies and old money. It hit her cold, damp face like a physical wall. She felt dizzy.

She walked toward the ballroom. The sound of clinking crystal and polite laughter grew louder. It was the sound of her husband's world. A world where emotions were liabilities and marriage was a merger.

Alexia scanned the room. It didn't take long.

He was in the center, standing under the crystal chandelier as if the light existed solely to illuminate him. Jensen.

He wore a Tom Ford tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. He held a flute of champagne, his posture relaxed, confident, the master of his universe. And standing next to him, so close that their arms brushed with every breath, was Aubree.

Aubree Boyer.

She was wearing red. Backless. Dangerous. She looked like a flame, and Jensen looked like the moth that didn't mind burning. Her hand was on his forearm. Her fingers were long, manicured, resting there with a familiarity that made Alexia's stomach lurch harder than the illness. Aubree leaned in, whispering something into his ear.

Jensen laughed.

It was a sound Alexia hadn't heard directed at her in years. A genuine, low rumble of amusement. His eyes crinkled at the corners. He looked... happy.

The air in Alexia's lungs turned into broken glass.

She dug her fingernails into her palms. The pain was sharp, grounding. It kept her from screaming. It kept her from falling over.

Then, he saw her.

Jensen's head turned. His gaze swept over the room and landed on Alexia. The smile vanished instantly. It was like a shutter coming down over a lens. His eyes went cold, flat. He looked at her not with hate, but with something worse. Annoyance.

Aubree followed his gaze. She didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she smiled. It was a bright, sharp smile. A winner's smile.

Jensen handed his glass to a passing waiter and walked toward Alexia. He didn't rush. He moved with the deliberate, heavy grace of a predator.

You're late, he said. No hello. No kiss. Just an accusation.

Traffic, Alexia managed to say. Her voice felt thin. "And Eleanor called..."

He waved his hand, cutting her off. "The car?"

Valet.

Good. Let's go. I've had enough of this.

He started to walk past her. He didn't notice her pallor. He didn't notice the way she was holding her side. He didn't notice her at all.

Aubree glided up, her arm slipping from Jensen's but her presence lingering. "Don't be too hard on her, Jen," she cooed. "The traffic is terrible in the rain."

She turned to Alexia, her eyes scanning her black coat with pity. "You look tired, Alexia. You really should take better care of yourself. Jensen worries, you know."

The lie was so bold Alexia almost laughed.

Jensen turned back, his hand on the door. He looked at Aubree, his expression softening just a fraction. "Go home, Bree. It's late."

Text me when you get back? Aubree asked.

He nodded.

Then he turned his back on Alexia and walked out into the rain.

Alexia stood there for a second, the pain in her stomach pulsing in time with her heart. She was the wife. She was the one taking him home. But she was the intruder.

She took a breath that rattled in her chest and followed him.

The door of the Maybach thudded shut, sealing them inside. The silence was instant and absolute.

The air in the car smelled of rain, leather, and him. Beneath that, faint but undeniable, was the scent of her. Aubree's perfume. Something heavy and floral, like gardenias left out in the heat too long. It clung to his jacket. It filled Alexia's nose and made the bile rise in her throat.

Jensen leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. He looked exhausted. For a second, the mask slipped, and Alexia saw the lines of tension around his mouth.

Alexia's hand twitched. The instinct to reach out, to touch his forehead, to ask if he had a headache, was a phantom limb. It was an old habit from a time when he used to look at her and see her. She clenched her hand into a fist on her lap.

Next time, he said, his eyes still closed, "don't dress like you're attending a funeral. It's depressing."

Alexia swallowed. The words tasted like ash. "I'm not feeling well, Jensen."

He didn't open his eyes. "You're never feeling well, Alexia. It's always something. A headache. A stomach ache. It's exhausting."

Alexia looked out the window. The city lights smeared into long, neon streaks. It wasn't an excuse. It was a fact. But facts didn't matter in the Carlson court of law. Only perceptions mattered.

His phone buzzed.

His eyes snapped open. He pulled it from his pocket, the screen lighting up his face in a ghostly blue. Alexia saw the name. Bree.

Thanks for tonight. You saved me from that bore from Goldman. XOXO.

A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He typed a reply, his thumbs moving quickly. Then he flipped the phone face down on his thigh.

Alexia's stomach cramped violently. A gasp escaped her lips before she could stifle it. She fumbled with the clasp of her purse, her fingers shaking. She needed the painkillers. She needed something to stop the burning.

The pill bottle rattled against her keys.

Jensen's head snapped toward her. "What is that noise? Stop fidgeting."

Alexia froze. She dropped the bottle back into the depths of the bag. "Mints," she whispered. "Just mints."

He sighed, a sound of pure irritation.

The rest of the ride passed in a silence so heavy it felt like it had mass. When they pulled into the underground garage of the penthouse building, the darkness felt appropriate.

In the elevator, he watched the numbers climb. Alexia watched the floor.

As soon as the doors opened into the foyer, he walked away. "I'm going to the study," he said over his shoulder. "Don't wait up."

The door to the study clicked shut.

Alexia stood alone in the dark living room. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window. She was twenty-six years old. She was married to one of the most powerful men in New York. And she had never been more alone.

The next morning, the fluorescent lights of Carlson Global felt like an interrogation.

Alexia swiped her badge-Alexia Pierce, Technical Consultant-and walked toward the R&D department. Her right side was a dull, throbbing ache now, a constant companion.

She passed the break room. Laughter spilled out.

Alexia heard Vivian from Marketing. "Did you see the photos on Page Six? Jensen and Aubree. They look like royalty."

Another voice. "Where was the wife?"

Vivian snorted. "Probably fixing a printer somewhere. Honestly, I don't know why he stays married to her. It's like watching a swan try to date a pigeon."

Alexia stopped. Her hand gripped the strap of her laptop bag.

A throat cleared loudly behind her.

She turned. Alf Snider, the head of engineering and the only person in this building who knew Alexia had written the core code for the new AI interface, was standing there. He looked furious.

Back to work! Alf barked at the break room. The laughter died instantly.

He turned to Alexia, his expression softening into concern. "Alexia. You look terrible."

She managed a weak smile. "Good morning to you too, Alf."

He didn't smile back. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Seriously. You're pale. You're sweating. Go home."

I can't, she said. "The migration isn't stable yet."

He reached out and gently took her arm, steadying her as she swayed slightly. "You are the only stable thing in this entire company, Alexia. But you're going to collapse."

Alexia opened her mouth to argue, but a shadow fell over them.

Jensen was standing at the end of the corridor. He was flanked by the CFO and two board members. But his eyes were fixed on Alf's hand on Alexia's arm.

The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees.

Jensen walked toward them. The executives trailed behind him, sensing blood.

Mr. Carlson, Alf began, stepping back, dropping his hand. "We were just discussing the-"

Jensen ignored him. He looked at Alexia. His gaze was a physical blow.

This is a place of business, he said, his voice low and lethal. "Not a singles bar."

Alexia felt the blood drain from her face. "Jensen..."

If you want to flirt with the staff, do it on your own time. Not on my payroll. And certainly not in my hallway.

The injustice of it choked Alexia. He had been with Aubree all night. He had let her touch him, whisper to him. And now this?

She looked down. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carlson."

Alf looked like he wanted to punch him. Alexia caught Alf's eye and shook her head slightly. Don't.

Jensen let out a short, derisive huff. "Get back to work. Both of you."

He walked away. He didn't look back.

Alexia stood there, shaking, while the whispers in the break room started up again, louder this time.

The door to the CEO's office was heavy mahogany, a barrier meant to intimidate. Alexia didn't knock.

She pushed it open and walked in.

Jensen was behind his desk, signing a stack of documents. He didn't look up.

I didn't order coffee, he said. "Get out."

Alexia walked to the desk. Her legs felt like lead, but her mind was strangely clear. The pain in her side had sharpened into a singular point of focus. It clarified things.

She placed the blue folder on top of the document he was signing.

He stopped writing. He stared at the blue folder for a second before looking up. His eyes were narrowed.

What is this? Another invoice for one of your charities?

Alexia took a breath. "It's a divorce agreement, Jensen. I've already signed it."

For a moment, there was no sound but the hum of the central air. Jensen stared at her. Then, a short, sharp laugh escaped his lips.

He flipped the folder open, glancing at the pages with a look of utter boredom. "Is this the new strategy? Brinkmanship?"

He didn't read it. He didn't see the clauses where Alexia waived her rights to the spousal support. He didn't see the section where she relinquished claim to the penthouse.

If you want a higher allowance, Alexia, talk to the CFO. Don't waste my time with theatrics.

Alexia reached out and placed her hand on the folder. "I don't want your money. I'm leaving with what I came with. Nothing."

He looked at her then. Really looked at her. For a second, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. But he crushed it instantly, replacing it with arrogance.

You? Leave?

He stood up and walked around the desk. He towered over her. He smelled of expensive soap and authority.

You wouldn't last a week without the Carlson name, he said softly. "You like the credit cards. You like the galas. You like pretending you belong."

Alexia looked up at him. She saw the man she had loved since she was nineteen. The man she had given up a PhD for. The man she had written code for in the middle of the night so he could take credit in the morning.

I don't want any of it, she said. "I just want to breathe."

His jaw tightened. He grabbed the folder from the desk.

You are my wife, he said. "That is a lifetime contract. We have a merger pending. We have the shareholder meeting next week."

He walked to the shredder in the corner of the room.

Jensen, don't, Alexia said, but her voice was calm.

He fed the document into the machine. The grinding noise was loud, violent. It ate the paper, strip by strip.

There, he said, dusting his hands off. "Negotiation over."

He walked back to her, leaning in close. His voice was a low growl. "Stop acting like a child. Go home. Get ready for the dinner on Friday. And never pull a stunt like this again."

He turned his back to her.

Alexia watched him. She realized then that he didn't keep her because he loved her. He kept her because he owned her. She was an asset. A depreciating one, perhaps, but still his.

I have another copy, she whispered.

He didn't turn around. "Get out."

Alexia walked out. She closed the door softly behind her.

She leaned against the wall in the corridor, her knees giving way. She slid down until she was crouching on the floor. She couldn't breathe. The pain was blinding now.

But through the pain, she felt something else. Rage.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely type. She scrolled past Jensen's name. She scrolled past Eleanor's.

She pressed the contact for the one person in the Carlson family who hated Jensen almost as much as she did right now.

Clark.

She put the phone to her ear.

Clark, she said when he answered. "I need a favor."