Too Late For Regret, Mr. Sterling

The wine in her glass was the same temperature as her skin. Cold.

Arden Price watched a single drop of rain trace a path down the vast, floor-to-ceiling window of the master bedroom. It blurred the lights of the distant shore, turning them into hazy, indistinct stars. A shiver, sharp and unwelcome, ran up her spine, having nothing to do with the room's climate control.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. She looked down at her other hand, at the simple, unadorned platinum band on her ring finger. It felt heavier tonight. Colder. A permanent, metallic reminder of a wedding three years ago with no guests, no celebration, just the sterile quiet of a judge's chambers and the flash of a single, contractually obligated photograph. A familiar ache bloomed in her chest, a dull, chronic pain she had learned to live with.

The antique grandfather clock in the hall chimed, its deep, resonant tones counting the first second of a new day. Twelve o'clock. Their third anniversary was officially over.

Her shoulders, held straight and proud for hours, finally slumped in defeat.

The bedroom door opened with a soft click. Brenda, the housekeeper whose quiet presence had been a fixture in the Sterling estate for decades, entered carrying a small tray. A porcelain cup of steaming chamomile tea sat upon it.

The older woman's eyes, full of a pity Arden couldn't bear to acknowledge, took in her solitary figure by the window. Brenda said nothing. She didn't need to. Her sigh was a novel's worth of unspoken sympathy.

Arden forced a smile onto her lips, a brittle, practiced thing that didn't reach her eyes. She turned from the window.

"Thank you, Brenda. You didn't have to."

She took the cup, the warmth a small shock against her icy fingertips. They trembled, just slightly, a betrayal she tried to hide by gripping the cup tighter.

As she turned back to the room, the screen of her phone, lying face-up on the marble coffee table, lit up. The sharp, intrusive buzz of a news alert shattered the suffocating silence.

She set the tea down and picked up the phone. Her breath caught in her throat.

The headline came from a sleazy gossip website, but the photo was heartbreakingly clear. Julian, her husband. He was at the private terminal of JFK Airport, his tall frame acting as a shield against the wind and rain. He held his dark wool coat over the head of a small, delicate woman, his body leaning in to shelter her completely.

Arden's heart felt as if it had been plunged into ice water. She recognized that woman. Sloane Kensington-the woman Julian truly loved, his one that got away.

Her thumb moved with a will of its own, zooming in on the image. On Julian's face. He was smiling. Not his public, press-conference smile, all sharp angles and corporate power. This was a soft, gentle curve of his lips she hadn't seen directed at her in three years. A tenderness reserved for someone else.

The air left her lungs in a painful rush. It felt like a physical blow, a fist clenching tight around her heart and squeezing until it threatened to stop.

"Mrs. Sterling? Are you alright?" Brenda's voice was laced with alarm.

The housekeeper moved closer, her gaze falling on the phone screen. A sharp intake of breath was her only response. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but no words came. What could she say?

Arden slammed the phone face down on the table. The force of the impact knocked over a silver picture frame beside it. The sound of glass shattering on the marble was sharp and violent.

The frame held the one photo from their wedding day.

She knelt, a choked sound escaping her lips, and reached for the shards of glass. Her vision was blurred by a sudden rush of hot tears. A sharp edge bit into the pad of her index finger.

A single, perfect drop of red blood welled up, then fell onto the plush white carpet.

"Oh, dear God!" Brenda gasped, rushing to her side. "Don't touch it, ma'am, you'll hurt yourself worse."

Arden stared at the blood, a tiny, vibrant stain against the pristine white. She felt nothing. The cut was a distant, unimportant fact.

Then, from downstairs, came the low, familiar rumble of an engine.

A wild, desperate hope surged through her. He came. He actually came home.

She scrambled to her feet, the sudden movement making the room spin. She ignored the throbbing in her finger and rushed back to the window, pressing her face against the cool glass.

A black SUV was idling by the fountain. The driver's door opened, and a man in a tailored suit stepped out.

It wasn't Julian. It was Caleb, his executive assistant.

The fragile hope inside her shattered into a million pieces, leaving a void colder and darker than before. She sagged against the window frame, closing her eyes as the tears she'd held back finally streamed down her cheeks.

A few minutes later, a polite knock echoed at the bedroom door. Caleb.

He entered with a practiced, impersonal smile, holding a large, perfectly wrapped Hermès orange box.

"Mrs. Sterling," he said, his voice smooth and devoid of any real emotion. "Mr. Sterling sends his deepest apologies. An urgent M&A deal with the Tokyo office came up. He won't be able to make it back tonight."

Arden stared at him. At his calm, professional face. He knew. He had to know where Julian really was. The lie was so blatant, so insulting, it made her stomach churn.

She didn't move. She didn't speak. She just stared, her gaze so intense that the seasoned assistant, a man who faced down corporate sharks daily, faltered. His eyes flickered away from hers for a fraction of a second.

Brenda, ever the diplomat, stepped forward to break the unbearable tension. She took the box from Caleb's hands. "Thank you, Caleb. I'll see that she gets it."

Caleb looked relieved. He gave a slight, formal bow and practically fled the room.

The orange box now sat on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. It looked like a mockery. A joke at her expense. Arden walked towards it, a bitter, self-deprecating smile twisting her lips.

She pulled at the silk ribbon. It came undone with a soft whisper. She lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, was a diamond necklace. A gaudy, ostentatious piece from the brand's latest, most commercial collection. The price tag was still attached.

She recognized it from a VIP lookbook the brand's PR had emailed her last week. It was the kind of piece a man with no taste and a lot of money would buy. The kind of piece an assistant would be sent to pick up five minutes before the store closed.

She lifted the necklace from the box. The diamonds were cold and heavy in her palm, lifeless stones that represented nothing. This soulless object was the final nail in the coffin of her marriage. It was the period at the end of a three-year-long sentence of loneliness.

With a cry that was more rage than pain, she hurled the necklace at the full-length dressing mirror.

It struck the glass with a sickening crack. A spiderweb of fractures radiated from the point of impact. The necklace fell to the carpet with a dull, muffled thud.

She stared at her reflection in the broken mirror. A woman with wild hair, red-rimmed eyes, and a bleeding finger. A stranger.

A deep breath shuddered through her body. And then another. The pain in her chest began to recede, replaced by something else. Something hard and cold. Resolve.

She turned and walked with purpose into her massive walk-in closet. She pushed past the gowns and designer dresses Julian's stylists had picked for her. In the very back, she found what she was looking for. A perfectly tailored, severe black pantsuit. She pulled it out and hung it on the valet stand, ready for the morning.

She retrieved her phone from the coffee table. Her finger was still bleeding, smearing a small streak of red across the screen. She ignored it.

She found Julian's contact. Her husband. She didn't delete it. That would be too emotional. Instead, she methodically went into the settings and silenced all notifications from him.

She was done waiting for his world. It was time to re-enter her own.

The polished marble floor of the Sterling Tower lobby reflected a distorted version of Arden-a woman with a face carved from ice, moving with a speed that was almost aggressive. The click of her stilettos echoed in the cavernous space, a sharp, staccato rhythm that made heads turn.

Employees scurrying past with their morning coffees averted their gazes, their whispers dying on their lips as she approached. The air was thick with something more than the usual Monday morning tension. It was a cloying mix of pity and morbid curiosity, and it clung to her skin like a damp shroud.

She strode towards the private elevators reserved for senior executives, her back ramrod straight.

Just as the brushed steel doors were sliding shut, a hand shot out to stop them. Diane, a senior analyst from her project team, squeezed in, clutching a leather-bound folder to her chest.

"Morning, Arden," Diane mumbled, her eyes darting everywhere but at Arden's face. A flush crept up her neck.

"Diane." Arden's voice was cool and even.

Diane shifted her weight, hugging the folder closer as if it contained state secrets. An instinctive, guilty gesture.

Arden's eyes narrowed. She saw the movement, the flicker of panic in the other woman's eyes.

"Let me see it," Arden said. It wasn't a request.

"Oh, it's... it's just the final draft for the foundation event. Nothing important," Diane stammered, trying to laugh it off.

"The folder, Diane." Arden's voice dropped, losing its polite veneer and gaining an edge of steel. The authority in her tone was absolute, a dormant power she rarely used.

Defeated, Diane handed it over. Her fingers were trembling as she released her grip.

Arden flipped open the cover. The document was titled: "Sterling Foundation Annual Jewelry Exhibition: Final VIP Guest List."

Her eyes scanned the pages, moving past the names of board members, philanthropists, and city officials. She found what she was looking for on the very first page, under the heading 'Special Guests of Honor'.

There it was, in bold, twelve-point font: Sloane Kensington.

A hot rush of blood surged to her head. Her nails dug into the thick cardstock, leaving small crescent-shaped indentations. She forced her expression to remain blank, a mask of cold professionalism she had perfected over the years.

The elevator dinged, announcing their arrival on the 47th floor. The doors slid open.

Her assistant, Lauren, was waiting, her young face a mask of anxiety. Her eyes immediately locked onto the folder in Arden's hands, and all the color drained from her cheeks.

"Arden, I... I was just about to call you," Lauren whispered, rushing to her side. "It came down from the CEO's office this morning. An executive order. They... they insisted."

They insisted on putting Julian's mistress front and center at an event Arden had spent the last six months planning. They insisted on publicly humiliating her in her own professional domain.

Arden snapped the folder shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. A few interns gossiping by the water cooler jumped and fell silent, scurrying back to their desks.

She marched towards her corner office, a glass-enclosed space that offered a panoramic view of Manhattan. She was acutely aware of the eyes on her back, watching through the blinds of every office she passed. Some held sympathy. Most held a kind of cruel, detached amusement.

She pushed open her office door. A tall iced Americano, just the way she liked it, was waiting on her desk. A small, thoughtful gesture from Lauren. Arden picked it up and took a long, deep swallow, the bitter cold a welcome shock to her system, momentarily drowning out the fire in her gut.

From the common area just outside her office, she heard voices, carelessly loud.

"...can't even control the guest list for her own event. What a joke. I'm telling you, that Sloane Kensington will be the next Mrs. Sterling before Christmas."

The glass in her hand creaked under the pressure of her grip. The knuckles on her hand turned white. A drop of condensation slid down the side of the cup and landed on her silk blouse, blooming into a dark, circular stain over her heart.

She took a slow, deliberate breath. She set the cup down, picked up a napkin, and calmly blotted the moisture from the expensive fabric. The last flicker of hesitation, the last vestige of the wife who endured in silence, died in that moment.

She pressed the button on her intercom. "Lauren, get me the CEO's office. Now." Her voice was dangerously calm.

A moment later, Lauren's strained voice came back through the speaker. "I'm sorry, Arden. Caleb says Mr. Sterling is in a critical meeting and cannot be disturbed. By anyone."

A humorless smile touched Arden's lips. A critical meeting. Of course.

She clicked off the intercom without another word.

She stood up and walked to the small vanity mirror she kept by the door. She opened a tube of lipstick-a bold, defiant red-and carefully reapplied it. The woman staring back at her was no longer a victim. Her eyes were clear, her jaw was set. She looked like a general preparing for battle.

She pulled open her office door.

"Arden, where are you going?" Lauren asked, jumping up from her desk. "You can't..."

Arden walked right past her, her destination clear. She headed for the single, unmarked elevator at the far end of the hall. The one that required a special key card. The one that went directly to the top floor.

She pulled a slim, black card from her wallet. A privilege card, given to her on her wedding day, that she had never once used. It granted access to any part of the Sterling empire. A symbol of a belonging she had never truly felt.

She swiped the card. A green light flashed, and with a soft chime, the elevator doors opened.

As the car ascended, the numbers climbing higher and higher, a strange sense of peace settled over her. Her heart, which had been hammering against her ribs, grew steady. This was the point of no return. There was a terrifying freedom in that.

The elevator stopped at the penthouse level. The doors opened onto a hushed, opulent reception area staffed by a team of executive assistants. They looked up in unison, their polite smiles freezing on their faces when they saw her.

Several of them stood, moving to intercept her. "Mrs. Sterling, I'm so sorry, but Mr. Sterling is..."

Arden didn't even glance at them. She swept past the reception desk, her aura of cold fury a tangible force field that no one dared to breach.

Caleb appeared from a side corridor, his face pale and beaded with sweat. He moved quickly, planting himself in front of the massive double doors of polished mahogany that led to Julian's office. He spread his arms slightly, a human barrier.

"Arden, please," he begged, his professional composure finally cracking. "Don't do this."

She stopped a foot in front of him. She looked him directly in the eye, her voice a low, venomous whisper that only he could hear.

"Get out of my way, Caleb. Or I promise you, by noon tomorrow, you'll be updating your resume."

The threat, so uncharacteristic and so utterly believable, made him flinch. His body went rigid, his defensive posture faltering for a single, critical second.

It was all the opening she needed.

She shoved past him, her hand closing around the heavy, cold brass handle of her husband's office door.

The heavy mahogany door slammed back against its stopper with a dull, resonant thud. The sound ripped through the office's cathedral-like silence, startling its two occupants.

Arden stood frozen in the doorway, her gaze instantly locking on the scene before her. On the sprawling leather sofa in front of the fireplace, Sloane Kensington was leaning against Julian, her head nestled intimately near his shoulder. One of her hands was resting on his chest, toying with the end of his silk tie.

Sloane let out a theatrical gasp, pulling away from Julian as if she'd been burned. She scrambled to sit up straight, smoothing down the skirt of her dress with frantic, flustered movements.

Julian's face, however, showed no such surprise. It hardened instantly into a mask of cold fury. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, narrowed as he stared at Arden, his displeasure a palpable wave of energy rolling across the room.

Ignoring him, Arden reached back and pushed the door shut. The latch clicked into place with a sound of finality, sealing the three of them inside, away from the prying eyes of the entire top floor.

The only sound was the sharp, rhythmic tap of her heels on the hardwood floor as she advanced towards them. Each step was a drumbeat, counting down to an inevitable explosion.

"Arden, darling," Sloane began, her voice a saccharine sweet melody of feigned innocence. "We were just discussing the jewelry pairings for the exhibition. Julian was giving me his opinion. It's not what it looks like."

Arden's eyes didn't even flicker in Sloane's direction. She was a ghost, a non-entity. Her entire focus was a laser beam pointed directly at her husband.

She reached his massive oak desk and slapped the guest list down on its polished surface. The folder skidded to a stop right next to his hand.

"What is this?" she demanded, her voice dangerously low. "On what authority do you override my project team and alter a core document without so much as a courtesy call?"

Julian didn't even glance at the folder. He leaned back in his chair, the picture of arrogant nonchalance. "On the authority that my name is on the front of this building. And when did you learn to barge into my office like a common shrew?"

A bitter laugh escaped Arden's lips. The hypocrisy was breathtaking. "A shrew? You bring your mistress into your office, and I'm the one who lacks decorum?"

The word 'mistress' hung in the air, ugly and sharp.

Sloane's eyes immediately filled with tears. They welled up, shimmering on her lower lashes, threatening to fall but never quite spilling over. A masterful performance. She bit her lower lip and looked at Julian, her expression a perfect portrait of wounded innocence.

That was all it took.

Julian slammed his palm on the desk. The sound echoed like a gunshot. "That's enough!" he roared, surging to his feet. His sheer size was intimidating, casting a long shadow over her. "You will watch your tone when you speak to Sloane."

Arden refused to be cowed. She lifted her chin, meeting his furious gaze without flinching. Her own eyes were chips of ice. "I will not. This is not about her. This is about our marriage, and you will discuss it with me."

Sloane, seeing her opening, rose gracefully. She picked up her designer handbag, her voice trembling. "I should go. I don't want to come between you two."

Julian's jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked on Arden's defiant face. Then he gave Sloane a curt nod.

"Go," he said, his voice flat. "We'll continue this later."

Sloane's mask slipped for a fraction of a second-a flash of disbelief, then a quickly concealed flare of fury. She recovered instantly, her expression melting back into wounded grace. Without another word, she walked past Arden, her heels clicking a sharp, staccato retreat. The office door closed behind her with a soft, final click.

The silence she left behind was heavier than her presence had been.

Julian turned his full attention to Arden. He stalked around the desk, his movements predatory, backing her up until her hips hit the sharp edge of the credenza behind her. The dull pain barely registered. He loomed over her, his presence suffocating.

He leaned in close, his voice a venomous hiss in her ear. "Don't forget how you got this position, Arden. Don't forget how you got any of this. Don't push your luck."

The words were a poisoned dart, aimed with perfect precision at her deepest insecurity. The carefully constructed walls around her heart crumbled. The color drained from her face, leaving it a sickly, chalky white. Her body began to tremble.

She sucked in a ragged breath, fighting back the wave of nausea and despair. She placed her hands on Julian's chest and shoved. Hard. The unexpected move caught him off guard, and he stumbled back a step, creating a sliver of space between them.

Her voice, when she found it, was shaking but laced with steel. "Three years, Julian. Three years of being punished for something I did not do. And you've never once asked me for the truth."

He stared at her, his expression unreadable, the storm in his eyes flickering into something she couldn't name.

She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and walked towards the door, her movements stiff and robotic.