Too Late For Regret, Mr. Sterling

Ada Kowalski stared at her husband's phone, the glowing screen revealing a truth that shattered her quiet life: Heathcliff was having an affair with a college student.

The phone on the desk lit up, a slash of white in the dim study. "Thinking of you. Same old place. The St. Regis, Room 2501." Ada's hand froze, the dust cloth hovering inches from the polished mahogany. Her throat tightened. Her fingers fumbled, the cloth slipping to the floor. She reached for the phone. It wasn't locked. Heathcliff Sterling never bothered with a password around her. She was part of the furniture. She tapped the screen. The contact name glaring back at her was "College Girl." The two words were a brand on her skin. A mockery of her quiet existence, the degree she never earned, the small town the Sterlings never let her forget. Heat crawled up her neck, burning her cheeks.

Her hand trembled as she set the phone down. She tried to breathe, but the air felt thin, stolen. On her own phone, she opened an app she'd installed three years ago, a week after their wedding. A GPS tracker, buried in the chassis of Heathcliff's Mercedes. A secret she had prayed she would never need.

The red dot pulsed. Parked on East 55th Street.

Adjacent to The St. Regis.

She moved through the house on stiff limbs, each motion detached, mechanical. In their bedroom, she went to her jewelry box, pushing aside the cold diamonds Heathcliff had bought for occasions he barely remembered. Her fingers dug into the velvet lining at the back, closing around a thin piece of plastic. A master keycard for The St. Regis presidential suites. A contingency from a life he knew nothing about.

She stripped off her simple housedress, pulling on worn jeans and a plain gray T-shirt. A pale woman with hair pulled into a severe bun stared back from the mirror. She put on the large, black-framed glasses she always wore.

The drive was a smear of slick streets and distorted lights. Three years of marriage compressed into a single, sharp point: the burn of spices on her tongue from a meal she'd learned to cook for him, a meal she hated.

She parked and walked into the lobby, the frantic beat of her own blood loud in her ears. She didn't need to ask for the floor. 2501 was already burned into her mind.

The elevator ascended in silence, her own reflection a ghost in the gilded walls. The doors slid open onto plush carpet that deadened the sound of her footsteps. Outside the suite, she could hear it. A low murmur of voices, then a woman's laugh-light, carefree.

Bile rose in her throat.

She raised the keycard, her hand shaking so badly she had to steady it with the other. The lock clicked green.

She pushed the door open.

A man's suit jacket-Heathcliff's-was tossed over a chair. A pair of his Italian leather shoes were kicked into a corner. Beside them, a silk slip dress the color of champagne.

The living room was empty. The sound of running water came from the bathroom, along with the soft humming of a woman.

Ada stood in the center of the room. The ticking of a clock on the wall was a sharp, steady count against her skull. She waited.

The bathroom door swung open. A woman emerged, long dark hair pinned up, a silk robe cinched at her waist. Through the crack of the open door, Ada caught a glimpse of a familiar blue and white pleated skirt tossed on the counter-the exact uniform of a local college girl. She was dabbing perfume onto her wrists, her head down.

Then, she looked up.

Her eyes met Ada's. There was no shock. No panic. Just a flicker of amusement, a slow, cruel smile spreading across her lips. "Oh, don't look so tragic, Ada," Georgiana purred, her voice dripping with practiced sweetness. "It's not as if you ever actually knew how to keep him satisfied. Did you honestly think he'd stay with a ghost like you forever?"

The air punched out of Ada's lungs. A deep, icy shudder violently ripped through her core, freezing the blood in her veins. The woman wearing the college girl outfit wasn't a stranger. It was her own sister, Georgiana Kowalski. Georgiana was a born beauty, universally hailed as the city's Red Rose. With her captivating grace and absolute perfection as a dancer, men had always fallen helplessly at her feet. And now, her darling sister had used that exact same undeniable charm to seduce her own brother-in-law.

The bedroom door opened. Heathcliff walked out, dressed in suit trousers and a crisp white shirt, his tie loosened. He saw Ada, and his face-the face she had loved with a desperate, foolish hope-tightened not with guilt, but with sharp annoyance. Georgiana immediately glided toward him, wrapping her slender arms around his waist and resting her head against his chest with a possessive, smug look cast over her shoulder at Ada.

Across the room, two untouched glasses of wine sat on a coffee table. His jacket was draped neatly over the arm of a chair, as if he had been sitting there, maintaining a careful distance. He had come, but he had not crossed a line he'd drawn for himself.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice cold.

Ada couldn't draw a breath. No scream came. No tears. She just turned and walked out.

She didn't drive back to the manor. Her hands steered the car toward the one place that was supposed to be a sanctuary. Her mother's house.

She burst through the door. Leanne was in the living room, trimming the stems of white roses, her movements precise. She didn't look up.

"Mom," Ada choked out. "Heathcliff... Georgiana..."

Leanne set down her shears and sighed, a sound of weary patience. "Henry," she called. "Come in here."

Her stepfather appeared. He looked at Ada, his lips thinning in distaste.

"Ada, Heathcliff never actually liked you, and you know it," Henry said, his tone sharp and dismissive. "Do you have any idea how many women in this city are desperate for a man like him? Rather than letting some stranger have him, it's better to keep him in the family and give him to your sister."

Ada's hands clenched into tight fists, her nails biting into her palms. "Mom, Dad... I am your daughter too!"

She turned to leave, suffocating in the toxic air of the room. Leanne's voice cut through the silence, stopping her in her tracks. "Ada, let me ask you something. Has Heathcliff even touched you?"

Ada froze, a humiliating heat rising to her face.

Henry scoffed, his words feeling like twisted blades. "Don't act like we owe you anything. Heathcliff and Georgiana were the golden couple of high society. She just didn't want to give up her position as principal dancer, which is the only reason we let you take her place as a substitute bride."

Leanne looked Ada up and down, her gaze dripping with blatant disgust. "Look at yourself, Ada. For the past three years, you've been nothing but a drab housewife orbiting her husband. Meanwhile, Georgiana is a star, the absolute center of the stage. You are an ugly duckling, and she is a swan. How could you possibly compete with her? Do the right thing and give Heathcliff back."

Every word was a jagged knife twisting deep into Ada's chest. Her eyes burned with unshed tears as she realized the harsh truth. Her marriage was a transaction. She was a substitute. A placeholder.

She looked at their faces. No sympathy. Only irritation at the disruption. She wasn't their daughter. She was a complication.

The tears stopped. A terrifying calm settled over her, cold and heavy.

She stood up and walked out of the house that had never been a home.

Outside, a cold rain had begun to fall. The drops hit her skin, but she felt nothing. She stood on the manicured lawn, looking up at the gray, unforgiving sky.

A sound tore from her throat-not a sob, but a raw, broken laugh.

She stood in the rain until her clothes were plastered to her skin, until the chill sank past her bones and settled deep in her marrow.

Only then did she move, pivoting back toward the car.

The GPS lit up, showing the route home.

To Sterling Manor.

The grand house was pitch black and suffocatingly quiet. She had given the staff the night off, leaving her entirely alone. She let herself in, moving through the cavernous rooms where oversized furniture cast long, mocking shadows.

Her feet carried her to the kitchen. On the marble island, under a glass dome, sat a perfect, three-layer carrot cake. His favorite.

Today was his birthday. Their anniversary. She had spent the morning baking it.

She sat alone at the dark table, the cold silence pressing in on her. She remembered their wedding day, the hope that had beat like a trapped bird in her chest. Heathcliff and Georgiana had been the golden couple of high society, but when a tragic accident left Heathcliff in a vegetative state, Georgiana refused to sacrifice her soaring career as a principal dancer to play nursemaid. So, Ada's parents had forced her to take her sister's place. She had agreed willingly, her foolish heart already desperately in love with him.

For three grueling years, she had stayed by his bedside day and night. She gave up her social life, isolated herself from the world, and dedicated every waking second to his recovery. She had believed her devotion would be enough, that she could heal him. And she did. He woke up.

She had studied him. Learned his preferences until they became her own. She gave up coffee for his tea, filled their home with the scent of sandalwood he found calming, learned to be invisible.

Ada lit a single candle on the table. In the faint, flickering light, she caught her reflection in the glass. She saw a drab, lifeless housewife trapped in a severe dress. While she had withered away in this silent house, Georgiana had blossomed into a vibrant, dazzling swan on stage. And the moment Heathcliff opened his eyes, he had flown right back to the swan, discarding the ugly duckling who had saved him.

The bitter realization burned in her chest. For three years, the only person moved by her sacrifice was herself. A tear slipped down her cheek as she blew out the candle, plunging the room back into absolute darkness.

All for nothing.

Ada lifted the glass dome. The scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the air. For a moment, she felt nothing. Then, with a calm, deliberate motion, she picked up the cake stand, walked to the trash can, and scraped the entire thing into the bin.

It landed with a soft, wet thud.

Suddenly, the blinding glare of headlights sliced through the dark windows. A sleek Rolls-Royce Phantom tore up the driveway. Ada's breath caught. He was home. She had assumed he would spend the entire night wrapped in Georgiana's arms.

The heavy door swung open, and Heathcliff stepped inside, bringing the chill of the night air with him. He was the golden boy of the city's elite-a ruthless business prodigy with two degrees from Harvard who had conquered Wall Street by his twenties and now ruled the Sterling empire. He stood there in his bespoke black suit, possessing a lethal, untouchable grace.

"Why is it so dark?" he asked, his low, magnetic voice laced with habitual distance. He reached out and flipped the switch, flooding the room with harsh light.

Ada squinted against the glare, looking at him. He brought the reek of whiskey and expensive cigars with him. Underneath it all, a scent that clung to his clothes, faint but unmistakable. Peonies and blush suede.

Georgiana.

"Today is your birthday," Ada said, her voice steady, empty.

He didn't look at her. He never did. He merely glanced lazily at the dining table, his handsome face devoid of emotion. "Don't waste your time next year. I don't celebrate it."

A mocking smile curved Ada's lips. "Is it that you don't celebrate it, or you just don't want to celebrate it with me?"

He finally gave her a freezing side-glance, clearly impatient. "Think whatever you want." He walked straight toward the stairs, the silence between them heavier than any argument.

Ada stood up, watching his broad, unyielding back. "Since it's your birthday, I prepared a gift for you."

Heathcliff didn't stop walking. "I don't need it."

A chilling, beautiful laugh escaped Ada's lips. The weak, pleading woman was gone, replaced by a sharp, unbreakable presence. "We're getting a divorce, Heathcliff."

He froze, one foot already on the stairs. He stared at her as if she'd spoken in a foreign language. He turned around, his deep, dark eyes locking onto hers.

Ada met his gaze without flinching. Her eyes, which had always held a pleading hope, were now two chips of ice.

"I said," she repeated, each word perfectly formed, "Let's get a divorce, Heathcliff. Do you like your birthday gift?"

He stepped down from the stairs and stared at her. For the first time, Heathcliff Sterling truly saw his wife. The quiet woman was gone. In her place was a stranger with her face and eyes that held a chilling, remote distance.

He saw the dismissal in her eyes and felt nothing. No anger. No pain.

Just a blank wall where there used to be adoration.

Ada swallowed the bitter ache in her chest. "Let's end this sexless marriage, Heathcliff."

He laughed. A short, sharp sound.

"A divorce?" he repeated, one dark eyebrow arching in a mock inquiry. "Sexless?"

He closed the distance between them, his shadow falling over her. He leaned in, his hand shooting out not to strike, but to capture her delicate chin. His thumb brushed against her lower lip, pressing into the soft, red flesh with a deliberate, ambiguous heat. "Is that why you're throwing this little tantrum? What, do you want it?"

Ada's pale face burned, a furious crimson rushing to her cheeks like a ripe berry. That wasn't what she meant at all! But his thumb continued its slow, wicked caress over her lips. She had never seen this side of the aloof billionaire-this dangerous, predatory edge.

For the first time in three years, Heathcliff was actually looking at his wife. She had always drowned herself in severe, drab clothing, hiding behind those hideous, oversized black-framed glasses like a sterile spinster. But up close, the illusion shattered. Her face was impossibly small, her skin flawless. Beneath the awful frames, her features were arresting-delicate, ethereal, and paired with wide, furious doe eyes that held a startling, breathtaking beauty. The realization hit him like a physical blow. A strange, dark heat unfurled in his chest.

The assumption was so insulting, it was freeing.

Ada didn't step back. "I'm tired of playing, Heathcliff. This marriage. This life. I'm done."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers tightened around her jaw, sliding down to clamp around her wrist. She winced.

"You don't get to say when it's over," he snarled, his control snapping, using anger to mask the sudden spike of unwanted desire. He shoved her backward until her back hit the cold bedroom wall. He trapped her there, his body pressing against hers. The scent of him-sandalwood, whiskey, and his sister-was suffocating.

He lowered his head, his lips brushing her ear, his breath hot. "Don't forget, the Kowalski family still needs Sterling money. Without me, your pathetic family is nothing."

The mention of them extinguished the last spark inside her. Her body went still.

"They are not my family," she said, her voice flat. "And you are no longer my husband."

Her resistance pushed him over the edge. His free hand grabbed her chin again, the grip bruising, forcing her to look at him.

"It seems I've spoiled you," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Let you forget who's in charge."

As his mouth aimed for hers, a white-hot rage burned through Ada. She channeled all the pain, all the betrayal of the day into one explosive movement.

Her other hand swung up.

A sharp crack echoed off the walls.

Heathcliff's head snapped to the side. A stunned silence fell. The red imprint of her hand bloomed on his cheek. In three years, she had never so much as raised her voice. That she would dare to strike him was inconceivable.

In his moment of shock, Ada shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled back.

She stood there, breathing heavily, her eyes blazing.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice shaking but laced with ice. "You disgust me."

Heathcliff slowly turned his head back to face her. His gray eyes were flat, cold pits. A slow, cruel smile twisted his lips.

"Good," he growled. "You've finally managed to make me angry."

Ada didn't flinch. She let her eyes travel down his body in a slow, insulting appraisal.

"I'm just done wasting my time on a toy," she said, her voice laced with a contempt so profound it was absolute, "that I have no interest in playing with anymore."

Toy.

He flinched, the word landing with more force than the slap. It was a direct assault on his pride, his masculinity, his identity.

His face contorted in a brief, ugly flash of rage.

But he didn't move. Instead, he laughed. The sound held no amusement. It was a promise.

"Ada Kowalski," he said, enunciating each word with chilling precision. "You will pay for every single thing you did tonight."