Too Late For Regret, Mr. Morgan

The ultrasound picture slid across the smooth marble tabletop, stopping just short of her coffee cup. A grainy, black-and-white image. Evelyn's eyes traced the name typed neatly at the top: Morgan, Francisco.

"I call him Frankie, you know," Britt Maddox said, her voice as smooth and sweet as the cream she stirred into her latte. She rested a perfectly manicured hand on her flat stomach. "I'm three months along, Evelyn."

The air in Evelyn's lungs turned to glass. She could feel the delicate porcelain of her coffee cup threatening to crack under the pressure of her grip. Her fingers were white. For three years, she had been Mrs. Morgan in secret, a title that felt more like a job description than an identity. Now, even that felt like a lie.

She forced herself to meet Britt's gaze, a carefully constructed mask of indifference sliding into place. "So?"

The single word was a monumental effort. Inside, a fault line had just ripped through the foundation of her world. The tiny, fragile hope she'd nurtured for this anniversary dinner-a hope that maybe, after three years, something real could begin-shattered into dust. A sharp, physical pain seized the muscle of her heart, making it hard to draw a full breath.

She reached for her cup, but her hand trembled. A slight, almost imperceptible tremor that betrayed everything. She quickly used her other hand to steady it, the simple act draining her of all remaining strength.

Britt's smile widened. She had seen it. "So, don't you think you should step aside? For the sake of our family."

The words were polite, but the meaning was a blade. "You've been married to him for three years. Has he ever even touched you, really? Or is it just... a duty?" Britt leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't fool yourself, Evelyn. Your marriage is just a piece of paper."

Evelyn's stomach clenched. Britt knew about the contract. She knew the intimate, humiliating details of their arrangement. That could only mean one thing: Francisco had told her. He had shared the secrets of their marriage with this woman, laying Evelyn's shame bare for her to inspect.

Britt reached into her Hermès bag and pulled out a checkbook. She wrote with a flourish and slid a slip of paper across the table, next to the ultrasound. "Here's five million dollars. Enough for you and your mother to live comfortably for the rest of your lives. Take the money, and disappear."

She capped her pen with a decisive click. "File the divorce papers tomorrow. It's better for everyone."

A sound escaped Evelyn's throat, something between a gasp and a laugh. It was a raw, ugly sound that didn't belong in the quiet elegance of the café. "Five million?" she asked, her voice shaking with a strange, hysterical amusement. "Are you trying to tip me, Britt?"

The image of a different check flashed in her mind. The one for one million dollars that Francisco left on the nightstand after each of their cold, scheduled encounters. The irony was so bitter it burned her throat. Five million to end it all. In Francisco's world, maybe that was her market price.

She set her coffee cup down with a firm click. Leaning forward, her voice dropped, low and steady. "As long as I don't sign anything, I am the only legally recognized Mrs. Morgan."

She let her eyes travel over Britt, from her designer dress to her smug smile. "And you," she said, each word precise, "are, at best, a mistress. A homewrecker who can't be seen in public."

Britt's smile faltered, the first crack in her perfect facade.

"And don't forget," Evelyn continued, the words tasting like victory and ash, "a bastard child can't inherit a single cent from the Morgan family trust funds. It's all in the bylaws."

The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken violence.

Britt shot to her feet, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. Her voice was shrill, losing its carefully modulated softness. "Do you really think he'll let you keep that title? You're so naive!" she hissed. "He loves me! It has always been me!"

Evelyn didn't look at her again. She picked up her purse, her movements deliberate and slow. She walked towards the door, her back straight, each step an act of will.

The moment she stepped outside, the cold November wind hit her like a physical blow. The rigid control she had maintained inside the café shattered. Tears, hot and furious, streamed down her face, blurring the glittering lights of Manhattan.

She fumbled for her car keys, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Once inside, she collapsed against the steering wheel, the dam of three years of repressed misery finally breaking. A ragged, silent scream tore from her throat. It was the sound of a caged animal, wounded and utterly alone.

Francisco Morgan, you bastard, she cursed him in her mind, over and over again.

She started the car and drove, with no destination in mind, weaving through the city streets as if she could outrun the suffocating pain in her chest. Eventually, she found herself parked by the Hudson River, the dark water a mirror for the emptiness inside her. She let herself cry until her eyes were swollen and dry, until there were no tears left.

Hours later, she looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror. The woman staring back was a wreck. Carefully, methodically, she repaired her makeup, wiping away the tear tracks, reapplying her lipstick. She forced the calm, composed mask of Evelyn Guthrie back into place.

She drove back to the Upper East Side, to the cold, sprawling mansion they called home. The house was dark and silent. She sat down in the cavernous living room, the ticking of the grandfather clock the only sound. She watched the hands move, waiting for the man who was supposed to be celebrating their anniversary with her, the man who was never coming home. The hope she'd felt just hours ago was gone, replaced by a vast, silent graveyard of feeling.

The doorbell rang the next morning, a shrill, insistent sound that cut through the fog of a sleepless night. Evelyn's head throbbed from the two glasses of wine she'd had before finally passing out on the sofa. She pulled herself up, her joints aching, and walked to the door.

It was Britt Maddox. She stood on the doorstep holding a high-end thermal food carrier, a bright, proprietary smile on her face. "Francisco drank a little too much last night. I came to make him some soup," she said, her tone suggesting this was the most natural thing in the world. "You don't mind, do you, Evelyn?"

Evelyn didn't move. She blocked the doorway, her body a rigid line of defense. "What are you doing here?"

Britt didn't answer. She simply pushed past Evelyn, her shoulder brushing against hers, and walked into the foyer as if she owned the place. She looked around, her eyes taking in the grand staircase and marble floors. "Francisco told me you never set foot in the kitchen. I bet all the appliances are brand new."

She turned back to Evelyn, her smile turning sharp at the edges. "He held me all night, you know. Kept saying my name... He said he finally felt free."

Each word was a needle, piercing the fragile numbness Evelyn had wrapped around herself. The home she had so carefully managed, the life she had tried to build within the confines of her contract-it was all a joke in Britt's telling.

"This is my house," Evelyn said, her voice trembling with a rage that was starting to burn through her exhaustion. "Get out."

She pointed to the door.

The smile vanished from Britt's face, replaced by a venomous sneer. "Your house? Evelyn, you're just a commodity he purchased. You have no right to call anything 'home'."

She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper. "Francisco says you're like a block of ice. Boring and frigid. A woman who would sell her own body for money. It's disgusting."

The words were surgical, cutting away at Evelyn's last shreds of self-respect.

"Do you know what he does?" Britt continued, her eyes gleaming with malice. "After he touches you, he goes and takes a shower. Immediately. He says he feels dirty."

That detail-that private, humiliating ritual that only the two of them knew-coming from Britt's lips, was the final blow. It shattered Evelyn's defenses completely. Her face went pale, and she took an involuntary step back, wanting to flee from the poison this woman was spewing. She wanted to cover her ears, to block out the sound.

Britt pressed her advantage, pulling a credit card from her wallet. "There's ten million on this. Double what I offered yesterday. Take it and get lost before I have to get my hands dirty."

The monetary insult, again.

"I'm not getting a divorce," Evelyn bit out, the words tasting like blood. It was the only thing she had left to hold onto. "I am his wife."

Britt laughed, a short, ugly sound. "Wife? He's going to throw you out with nothing! You'll get nothing!"

"You bitch!" The word was a raw nerve, touched and exposed.

All the accumulated anger, the humiliation, the pain of the last twenty-four hours exploded. Evelyn raised her hand and slapped Britt across the face. The sound cracked through the silent mansion.

Britt froze, stunned for a second. Then, a flicker of triumph, of a plan coming together, flashed in her eyes. She clutched her cheek, her body going limp as she staggered backward in a ridiculously theatrical performance. She collapsed onto the expensive Persian rug with a pained moan.

Evelyn stared down at her, her heart hammering against her ribs with a delayed rush of fear. "Now," she said, her voice a hoarse rasp, "get out."

Just then, the heavy front door swung open. Francisco Morgan strode in, bringing a gust of cold air with him. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, immediately took in the scene: Britt crumpled on the floor, and Evelyn standing over her, her face a mask of fury.

His handsome features hardened, turning into a thunderous scowl.

"Evelyn Guthrie!" he roared, his voice laced with a disgust and disappointment that hit her harder than any physical blow. "What the hell are you doing?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He rushed past Evelyn, kneeling beside Britt and gathering her into his arms with a tenderness Evelyn had never seen, let alone received. He handled her as if she were made of spun glass.

He lifted Britt effortlessly. She buried her tear-streaked face in his chest, but not before casting a victorious, mocking glance at Evelyn over his shoulder.

Evelyn stood frozen, a block of ice in her own home, watching her husband hold another woman and look at her as if she were a criminal.

"Frankie, don't be mad at Evelyn," Britt murmured from the safety of Francisco's arms, her voice weak and trembling. "She's probably just having a hard time accepting... After all, she is Mrs. Morgan."

The words were a masterclass in manipulation. On the surface, a plea for understanding; underneath, a sharp reminder to Francisco that Evelyn was using her position to bully his beloved.

Francisco's gaze on Evelyn turned glacial. "Apologize to Britt," he commanded. The words were flat, devoid of emotion, an order from a superior to a subordinate.

Evelyn stared at him, a chasm of disbelief opening in her chest. The pain was so intense it was almost a physical thing, a hand squeezing her heart until it couldn't beat. "Francisco," she whispered, her voice cracking, "what am I to you? Am I your wife, or just some stranger your friend can walk all over?"

She needed to know. She needed him to define the last three years of this sham.

He didn't even look at her. Cradling Britt, he started towards the stairs, moving around Evelyn as if she were a piece of furniture in his way. As he passed, he dropped the words that would become her brand.

"Know your place, Evelyn."

The sentence was a bucket of ice water, drenching her, shocking the very marrow in her bones. It extinguished the last ember of warmth she had held for him.

"And what is my place?" she called after him, her voice rising with desperation.

He paused on the landing, turning his head slightly. A cruel, chilling smile touched his lips. "You're the commodity I purchased for a price. That is your place."

He had finally said it. He had stripped away the pretense of marriage and laid bare the ugly transaction at its core. Evelyn flinched as if he had struck her. She felt naked, exposed, utterly humiliated.

"So she can just barge into my home and insult me?" she demanded, her voice shaking.

He didn't answer. He simply continued up the stairs and disappeared with Britt into one of the guest rooms. The soft click of the door closing was the sound of her own heart shutting down.

"She provoked me!" Evelyn screamed at the empty staircase, but her words echoed in the cavernous space, unheard and unanswered. In his eyes, she had no credibility, no voice.

She stumbled into the kitchen, a ghost in her own house. On the counter sat the tiramisu she had made yesterday for their anniversary. A dessert he would never eat. She dug her fingers into the soft cake and brought a messy scoop to her mouth. The bitterness of the espresso and the cloying sweetness of the mascarpone cheese filled her senses. It tasted like her marriage.

She remembered the first time she saw him, at a gala years ago. He had seemed like a god, impossibly handsome and powerful. She had fallen for him instantly, a secret, foolish crush that was the real reason she had agreed to his contract. She had hoped, somewhere deep down, that he might one day see her.

That night, she fell into a fitful sleep on the living room sofa. She was jolted awake by a heavy weight pressing down on her, the reek of expensive whiskey filling her nostrils.

She panicked, trying to push the body off her. "Get off me!"

In the dim moonlight filtering through the tall windows, she saw his face. It was Francisco, his eyes dark and clouded with drink.

He should be with Britt, was her first confused thought. For three years, he had only come to her bed on one designated day a month, performing his duty with cold, detached efficiency. He never kissed her. He never spoke a word of affection.

He grabbed her chin, his grip painfully tight. "What's wrong? Unwilling?" he slurred, his voice a low, mocking growl. "Isn't this the job you're best at?"

His thumb traced the line of her jaw, his gaze roaming over her face as if he were inspecting a piece of property for defects.

"Evelyn..." he murmured her name, the sound a strange mix of anger and something else she couldn't identify. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he tore the silk of her nightgown.