Too Late For Regret: My Billionaire Husband

The plastic chair in the waiting area of Mount Sinai had a crack running down the center of the seat. Cressie Winters knew this because she had been staring at the floor for forty-five minutes, and every time she shifted her weight, the plastic pinched the back of her thigh.

She didn't move often. Moving required effort, and effort was something her body currently had in short supply. At twenty-five weeks pregnant, she felt less like a human woman and more like a water balloon that had been overfilled and left out in the sun. Her ankles, usually slender, were currently spilling over the edges of her loafers. She had tried to hide them by pulling down the hem of her coat, a wool trench she had bought three years ago when her father's credit cards still worked without a decline code. It was too tight across the shoulders now. Everything was too tight.

Around her, the waiting room was a sea of couples. Husbands holding wives' hands. Partners rubbing lower backs. A man in a navy sweater was currently kneeling in front of a woman, tying her shoe because she couldn't reach it.

Cressie looked away. The sight made bile rise in her throat, a sour reminder of the breakfast she hadn't been able to keep down. She clutched the crumpled appointment ticket in her hand until her knuckles turned white. She was Mrs. Ellsworth Banks on paper, but in this room, she was just the woman in the corner with the gray skin and the coat that didn't button.

"Mrs. Banks?"

The nurse's voice was flat, professional. Cressie pushed herself up. It took two tries. She had to use the armrests, her breath hitching as a sharp pain shot through her lower back. No one offered a hand. Why would they? She looked like she had walked in off the street to get out of the cold.

The appointment was a blur of cold gel and colder words. Fetal weight is low. Blood pressure is high. Preeclampsia markers are visible. You need to reduce stress. The doctor didn't look her in the eye. He looked at her chart, then at her swollen hands, and wrote a prescription for vitamins she couldn't afford to buy at the pharmacy downstairs.

When Cressie finally exited the clinic, the hallway was bustling. It was the VIP wing, the place where the air smelled like fresh lilies and money. She kept her head down, hugging her purse to her chest to cover the stain on her maternity top where she'd spilled water earlier. She just wanted to get to the elevator. She just wanted to disappear.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

Cressie stopped. Her feet, heavy as lead, seemed to glue themselves to the polished tile.

Inside the elevator stood a group of people who looked like they had been cut from the pages of a magazine and pasted into reality. In the center was Ellsworth.

He was wearing a charcoal suit, bespoke, the fabric draping perfectly over his broad shoulders. He looked impeccable. He looked powerful. He looked like a stranger. His hand was resting protectively on the small of a woman's back.

Jolie Maxwell.

She was petite, delicate, wrapped in a white cashmere coat that probably cost more than Cressie's entire college tuition. Her hair was a glossy waterfall of dark waves, her face perfectly made up, her lips curved into a soft, helpless smile as she looked up at Ellsworth.

Cressie's breath caught in her lungs. She instinctively took a step back, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Don't see me. Please, God, don't let them see me.

But her coordination was off. Her heel caught on the wheel of a janitorial cart parked against the wall.

Clang.

The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. A mop handle clattered to the floor. A bucket tipped, sloshing soapy water toward the elevator.

Every head turned.

Cressie froze. She felt the heat rush up her neck, burning her cheeks. She was bent slightly at the waist, one hand reaching out to steady the cart, looking for all the world like she belonged with the cleaning supplies.

Jolie gasped, a theatrical little sound, and pressed herself closer to Ellsworth. Her eyes, wide and innocent, swept over Cressie. For a fraction of a second, the innocence slipped. A spark of recognition flashed in Jolie's dark eyes-sharp, calculating, and cruel. She knew exactly who Cressie was. She had studied her.

Then, the mask slammed back into place. A smile. Not a warm one. A smile that looked like a razor blade wrapped in silk.

Jolie wrinkled her nose, lifting a manicured hand to cover her mouth. "Oh, Ellsworth," she said, her voice carrying clearly across the distance. "Is the hospital cutting budget on uniforms? That poor cleaning lady looks like her clothes are bursting at the seams."

The air left the hallway.

Cressie felt her stomach drop. She straightened up, her hand instinctively going to her belly. She waited for Ellsworth to correct her. She waited for him to say, That's my wife. She waited for him to step forward, to look angry, to do something.

Ellsworth's gaze shifted. His eyes, the color of frozen ocean water, landed on Cressie.

He took in the messy bun with loose strands sticking to her forehead. He looked at the old coat. He looked at the swollen ankles.

For a second, Cressie saw something in his eyes. Recognition. And then, a deliberate, crushing choice.

The shutters came down. His expression went blank. Cold. Indifferent.

"Just ignore it," Ellsworth said. His voice was low, smooth, and utterly devoid of emotion. He didn't look at Cressie. He looked at his assistant standing by the buttons. "Close the doors. We're running late for the gala."

It.

He had called her it.

The assistant jabbed the button. The doors began to slide shut.

"Wait!" Cressie's lips moved, but no sound came out. She watched as the gap narrowed. She saw Jolie lean in and whisper something in Ellsworth's ear, laughing softly. She saw Ellsworth adjust his cufflink, turning his back to the door before it even fully closed.

And then they were gone.

Cressie stood alone in the hallway, the smell of Chanel No. 5 lingering in the air like a toxic cloud.

"Hey, watch it, lady!"

A heavy-set woman in blue scrubs pushed past her to grab the mop. "You made a mess. Move."

Cressie nodded mechanically. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

She bent down to help pick up a fallen spray bottle. As she squatted, a sharp cramp seized her abdomen. She gasped, dropping the bottle, and clutched her stomach. The pain was blinding for a second, a physical manifestation of the humiliation that was eating her alive.

She stumbled toward the exit, her vision blurring. Not with tears. She wouldn't cry. Crying was for people who had hope that someone would comfort them.

Outside, the New York winter bit through her coat. She stood on the curb, shivering. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out with trembling fingers.

From: Dad

Subject: Urgent

Cressie, the bank is calling the loan on the warehouse. I need you to talk to Ellsworth tonight. Please. We are desperate.

Cressie stared at the screen. The letters swam before her eyes. She looked up just in time to see a sleek black Maybach pull out of the VIP driveway. It glided past her, the tinted windows reflecting her own pathetic image back at her-a gray, bloated ghost on the side of the road.

The car didn't slow down.

She put the phone away. She didn't reply. She couldn't tell her father that his savior, his son-in-law, had just looked at her and seen nothing but a stain on the scenery.

She raised her hand for a taxi. A yellow cab slowed, the driver looking her up and down with skepticism before unlocking the door.

Cressie climbed in, the vinyl seat cold against her legs.

"Where to?" the driver asked, eyeing her in the rearview mirror.

"The Banks Estate," she said. Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears. Hollow. "Upper East Side."

The driver scoffed, likely thinking she was the help, but he hit the meter.

Cressie leaned her head against the cold glass. She placed a hand on her stomach, feeling a faint flutter.

"He didn't see us, baby," she whispered to the window. "He didn't see us at all."

---

When Cressie walked in, the Grand Dame, Beatrice Banks, was holding court in the solarium. She sat in a high-backed velvet chair, a cup of bone china tea balanced precariously in her hand. She looked like a hawk perched on a branch, waiting for a field mouse to make a mistake.

Cressie tried to walk past the doorway quietly, but her shoes squeaked on the parquet.

"You're late," Beatrice said without turning her head.

Cressie stopped. She took a breath, steeling herself. "The doctor kept me waiting."

Beatrice turned then. Her eyes scanned Cressie with the same clinical detachment Ellsworth had shown. "You look dreadful. Have you been eating that salty rubbish again? Your face is puffy."

Cressie didn't defend herself. It was preeclampsia, not salt, but Beatrice didn't believe in medical conditions that marred the aesthetic of the family.

Cressie walked into the room and placed the folded ultrasound report on the tea table. "It's a girl," she said softly.

Beatrice's hand froze halfway to her mouth. The tea in the cup rippled.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, a slow, terrifying smile spread across the old woman's face. She set the cup down with a clatter.

"A girl," Beatrice breathed. "Finally. The curse is broken. Three generations of boys, and finally a girl."

She stood up, ignoring Cressie entirely, and rang the bell for the butler. "Higgins! Get the decorator on the line. We need the nursery done in pink. Pale pink, not that garish bubblegum shade. And get the family lawyer. We need to update the trust."

Cressie stood there, invisible again. She was just the vessel. The packaging for the gift.

"I'm going to my room," Cressie said.

Beatrice waved a dismissive hand. "Go, go. Rest. We can't have you looking like a drowned rat for the christening photos."

Cressie climbed the stairs, her legs burning. She made it to her room-the guest room she had been subtly migrated to over the last month-and closed the door. She leaned her back against it and slid down until she hit the floor.

Her phone buzzed again. She thought it was her father, and a wave of exhaustion hit her. But when she looked at the screen, it was a California number.

She frowned and swiped accept. "Hello?"

"Cressie? Is that you?"

The voice was warm, energetic, and achingly familiar. It was a voice from a life she had buried.

"Professor Mayer?" she whispered.

"Evan. Please, I told you to call me Evan five years ago." There was a rustle of papers on the other end. "Look, I know this is out of the blue. I know you're... married now. But I'm looking at the candidate list for the doctoral program at Stanford, and frankly, it's depressing. None of them have your brain, Cressie. Your thesis on market volatility is still being cited."

Cressie closed her eyes. Tears leaked out, hot and fast. "Professor... that was a long time ago."

"It was three years ago. Your brain didn't atrophy just because you got a ring on your finger. I have a spot. A fully funded PhD spot. It's yours if you want it."

Cressie looked across the room. There was a mirror on the wardrobe door. She saw herself-the swollen face, the dull eyes. She didn't look like a scholar. She looked like a victim.

"I can't," she choked out. "I'm... I'm having a baby."

"So? Bring the baby. We have daycare. We have housing." Evan's voice dropped, becoming serious. "Cressie, are you happy?"

The question hung in the air.

Happy? She was drowning.

Downstairs, she heard the front door slam. Heavy footsteps echoed in the foyer. Ellsworth was home.

Panic spiked in her chest.

"I have to go," Cressie whispered.

"Think about it," Evan urged. "The offer stands until the semester starts."

"I... I accept." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "But I need time. I have... baggage to clear. And I will need resources. Independent resources."

"I can set you up as a consultant for my private research firm," Evan said immediately, matching her sudden shift in tone. "Legitimate income. Safe."

"Do it."

Cressie hung up and deleted the call log immediately. Her heart was racing, but for the first time in months, it wasn't from fear. It was from adrenaline.

The door handle turned.

Cressie scrambled to her feet, wiping her face.

Ellsworth pushed the door open. He didn't knock. He looked tired, his tie loosened, his jacket over his arm. He stopped when he saw her standing by the door.

"Grandmother is screaming about pink paint downstairs," he said, his voice devoid of enthusiasm. "Is it true?"

"Yes," Cressie said. "A girl."

Ellsworth stared at her. His gaze dropped to her stomach, then back to her face. There was a moment-a fleeting second-where he looked like he wanted to say something. To ask how she was.

But then he sniffed the air. He frowned.

"You smell like antiseptic," he said.

"I was at the doctor," Cressie reminded him. "Remember? The elevator?"

Ellsworth's jaw tightened. "Right. The cleaning lady incident." He walked past her to the closet, tossing his jacket on the bed. "Beatrice wants us at the Hamptons tonight for a dinner. Get changed. Wear something... that fits."

As he walked past her, the air shifted. The scent of him hit her.

It wasn't just his cologne. Underneath the sandalwood and musk, there was something floral. Sweet.

It wasn't Chanel No. 5.

Cressie froze. It wasn't Jolie. Or perhaps, it was a different scent Jolie wore for him.

She turned to look at him, her stomach churning. "Ellsworth?"

"What?" He was rummaging through his tie rack.

"Nothing."

She realized then that the rot in their marriage went deeper than a mistress. It was a lifestyle. He didn't just have a lover; he had a separate existence where she didn't exist.

Two hours later, she was sitting in the passenger seat of his Aston Martin. The leather was supple, the engine a low purr.

Cressie tried to stretch her legs. Her ankles were throbbing. She reached for the seat adjustment controls on the side.

The seat slid back. Way back.

It stopped at a setting that was tailored for someone with legs much longer than hers. Someone tall. Like Jolie.

Cressie stared at the dashboard. She pressed the button to move it forward.

"Stop fidgeting," Ellsworth snapped, his eyes on the road.

"The seat was moved," Cressie said quietly.

"The valets move it," he lied. He didn't even blink.

Cressie looked at the infotainment screen. The Bluetooth connection history was open.

Jolie's iPhone connected.

October 14, 11:42 PM.

Cressie felt cold. October 14th. The night he claimed he was in London for the merger talks. He hadn't been in London. He had been here, in this car, with her.

She looked out the window as the city lights blurred into streaks of red and gold. She placed a hand over her belly.

I accept, she thought, repeating Evan's offer in her mind like a mantra. I accept. I accept.

---

Cressie was seated at the far end, near the kitchen door.

Beatrice tapped her spoon against her wine glass. "Attention, everyone. A toast. To the future of the Banks dynasty. A girl."

"Finally," Victoria, Ellsworth's cousin, drawled from across the table. She swirled her red wine, her eyes locking onto Cressie. "Let's hope she gets the Banks height and not the Winters... constitution."

A ripple of polite, cruel laughter went around the table.

Ellsworth was at the head of the table. He didn't laugh. He didn't scold her either. He just cut his steak, the knife slicing through the meat with surgical precision.

Cressie stared at her plate. She hadn't touched her food.

After dinner, the air in the house was thick with cigar smoke and brandy. Ellsworth caught Cressie's eye and jerked his head toward the study.

She followed him.

The study was dark, lit only by a green banker's lamp on the mahogany desk. The family lawyer, Arthur, was already there. He looked uncomfortable.

"Sit," Ellsworth said. He didn't sit. He leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms.

Arthur slid a thick document across the leather surface.

"What is this?" Cressie asked, though she knew.

"A settlement," Ellsworth said. "We're ending this farce. The child will be a Banks. You will have visitation rights, of course. Generous alimony. A lump sum to pay off your father's debts."

He said it so casually. Like he was buying a company.

Cressie looked at the papers. Dissolution of Marriage.

She should have been devastated. She should have been crying, begging him to reconsider, to think of the baby. That's what the old Cressie would have done.

But the old Cressie had died in an elevator at Mount Sinai.

She picked up the Montblanc pen lying on the document. It felt heavy in her hand.

"I have conditions," she said. Her voice was steady. It surprised her.

Ellsworth raised an eyebrow. "You're in no position to negotiate, Cressie."

"I want the debt restructuring rights for Winters Inc.," she said. "Not a payoff. I want legal control of the restructuring process and the removal of the Banks lien on the Brooklyn property."

Ellsworth laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "You? You want to play CFO? You haven't looked at a spreadsheet in three years."

"And," Cressie continued, ignoring him, "I keep the baby until she is weaned. Full physical custody for the first year. No nannies. Me."

Ellsworth looked at Arthur. Arthur shrugged. "It's reasonable, Mr. Banks. Courts favor the mother for nursing infants."

Ellsworth sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked bored. "Fine. Whatever. Just sign the damn thing so we can move on."

He thought she was bluffing. He thought she wanted the restructuring rights so she could funnel money to her father. He had no idea she intended to save the company, not just pay its bills.

Cressie uncapped the pen. She didn't hesitate. She signed her name with a flourish, the ink dark and permanent.

Cressida Winters. Not Banks. She signed her maiden name.

She pushed the papers back. "Done."

Ellsworth blinked. He seemed taken aback by her speed. He had expected a fight. He had expected tears.

"That's it?" he asked.

"That's it," Cressie said. She stood up. "I'm going to bed."

She walked out of the study, leaving the two men in silence.

As she climbed the stairs, she heard voices from the parlor.

"Is she gone yet?" It was Victoria again. "God, imagine having to co-parent with that frump."

Cressie didn't stop. She went to her room-the guest room-and pulled out her suitcase. She didn't pack clothes. She packed her diploma. She packed the framed photo of her valedictorian speech. She packed the hard drive containing her old research.

She went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She stripped off the expensive, ill-fitting dress Ellsworth had bought her. She stood there, naked, tracing the curve of her belly.

"We're leaving, baby," she whispered. "But first, we are going to burn their house down from the inside."

She put on noise-canceling headphones. She opened her laptop. She typed into the search bar: Forensic Audit Tools: Banks Capital.

Downstairs, Ellsworth was on the phone. "Yes, Jolie. It's done. She signed... No, she didn't cry. It was... weird."

Cressie couldn't hear him. She was already gone.

---