Too Late For Regret: My Cold Husband's Tears

Frederica stared up at the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the Tribeca penthouse. It was a cold, jagged thing, much like the man currently washing her scent off his body in the adjacent bathroom. The water running in the shower was a steady, rhythmic roar that filled the silence of the master bedroom. Her body ached. It was a dull, throbbing reminder of the last hour, a physical testament to an act that felt less like love and more like a hostile takeover.

She sat up, wincing as the movement pulled at her sore muscles. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the shock of the cold carpet. It grounded her. She needed that coldness. She walked to the walk-in closet, bypassing the rows of designer clothes Easton insisted she wear to the functions he deemed important-a gilded uniform she refused to touch otherwise. In her own life, the one no one here knew about, she preferred anonymity. She knelt before the hidden wall safe.

Her fingers moved automatically over the keypad. Beep. Beep. Beep. The mechanical click of the lock disengaging sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Frederica reached inside and pulled out a thick manila envelope. The wax seal of her attorney was unbroken. She held it for a moment, the paper heavy in her hands. It weighed more than the diamond on her finger. It weighed four years of her life.

The bathroom door opened. A cloud of steam rolled out, followed by Easton Reilly. He wore only a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle that she had been clinging to minutes ago. He didn't look at her. He walked straight past her to the island in the center of the closet, his attention already on the rows of crisp white dress shirts.

It was as if she were a piece of furniture. A nightstand he had used and was now done with.

Frederica took a breath that rattled in her chest. She walked over to the black marble island and slammed the envelope down.

The sound was a flat, dead thud.

Easton paused. His hand hovered over a slate-grey shirt. He didn't turn around immediately. He finished selecting the shirt, pulled it from the hanger, and then slowly pivoted to face her. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, swept over the envelope without a flicker of emotion. He arched a brow, a silent demand for an explanation he clearly felt he didn't owe her.

"Easton, I am terminating the partnership," Frederica said. Her voice was scratchy, unused, but the words were precise.

A short, sharp laugh escaped him. It wasn't a happy sound. He reached out and picked up the envelope with the same casual indifference he used for his morning financial briefings. He slid the documents out. His eyes scanned the header.

Dissolution of Marriage.

He tossed the papers back onto the marble. They fanned out, messy and chaotic against the pristine surface.

"You are bluffing, Miss Mccullough," Easton said. His voice was smooth, deep, and utterly dismissive. "Your current valuation depends entirely on me. You walk away, you crash."

Frederica curled her hands into fists at her sides. Her nails dug into her palms, creating crescent moon indentations that stung.

"This is irrevocable, Easton. I filed the intent this morning."

He moved then. He closed the distance between them in two long strides. The air in the closet seemed to vanish, sucked into the vacuum of his presence. He towered over her, radiating heat and intimidation. He reached out, his fingers gripping her chin, tilting her face up. His touch was firm, bordering on painful.

He lowered his head until his lips were inches from her ear. She could feel the warmth of his breath, a stark contrast to the ice in his tone.

"You do not leave this room without my permission, let alone this marriage."

The vibration of a phone against the marble surface shattered the moment.

Easton froze. He released her chin abruptly, his attention snapping to the device on the island. The screen lit up.

S. Sinclair.

Frederica saw the name. It hit her harder than his grip had. The air left her lungs. The little flame of defiance she had nurtured all morning flickered and died, replaced by a familiar, suffocating darkness.

Easton picked up the phone. His demeanor shifted instantly. The cold tyrant vanished, replaced by a man capable of concern.

"Simone, what is it?" he asked.

Frederica could hear the tinny, frantic sounds of a woman crying on the other end. The background noise was chaotic, like a crowd or a street.

Easton's brow furrowed. He turned his back on Frederica, grabbing his suit jacket with his free hand.

"Stay right there," he said into the phone, his voice dropping an octave, soothing and urgent. "Do not move. I am coming to get you."

Frederica stood there, naked and shivering, watching her husband dress with frantic efficiency for another woman. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab his arm and demand he look at the divorce papers, look at her. But her throat felt like it was filled with cement.

Easton strode toward the door. He passed within inches of her but didn't even blink. He didn't see her. He never really saw her.

The front door of the apartment slammed shut seconds later. The vibration traveled through the floorboards and up her legs.

Frederica's knees gave out. She sank onto the plush carpet of the closet, surrounded by his expensive suits and the smell of his cologne. Her eyes fell on the scattered papers. Dissolution of Marriage. It looked like a joke now.

She let out a dry, humorless laugh that turned into a sob. She reached for the papers, gathering them up with trembling hands. The despair in her chest began to harden, calcifying into something cold and sharp.

She reached for her own phone. Her fingers shook as she dialed.

"Chloe," she said when the line connected. Her voice was dead calm. "He took the bait. Initiate Plan B. The gallery tonight. It's happening."

The martini glass was sweating condensation onto the dark wood of the table. Frederica stared at the olive submerged in the clear liquid, feeling much the same way-drowning in plain sight.

Chloe Vance sat across from her in the dimly lit booth of the SoHo speakeasy. Chloe was the only person in New York who knew Frederica as Freddie, not the Mccullough outcast or the Reilly accessory.

"He is a wolf in a bespoke suit," Chloe spat, slamming her own drink down. "He leaves you after you serve him divorce papers because his ex-girlfriend scraped her knee? That is not just disrespectful, Freddie. That is pathological."

Frederica didn't answer. She unlocked her phone. The screen was flooded with notifications. The algorithm knew her better than her husband did; it fed her exactly what would hurt the most.

Reilly Group CEO to Attend Muse's Return Debut.

The headline glared at her. Below it was a picture of the Sinclair Gallery in Chelsea, already swarming with paparazzi.

A wave of dizziness hit her. For a second, the face in her mind wasn't Easton's. It was Julian's. Julian Reilly, Easton's younger brother. The man she had loved first. The man who had traded her to his older brother for a percentage of the family trust three years ago. The memory was a physical blow to her gut.

Chloe reached across the table and clamped her hand over Frederica's shaking fingers.

"Do not do it," Chloe warned, reading her mind. "Going there tonight is suicide. You are walking into a firing squad."

Frederica pulled her hand away. Her eyes snapped into focus. The trembling stopped.

"If I do not go, the narrative becomes 'Frederica Mccullough, the scorned wife hiding at home.' The Mccullough stock is already volatile. I cannot look weak. Not now. Besides, this is Plan B. The whole point is to detonate this in public."

She stood up. She pulled a compact mirror from her clutch. She applied a layer of crimson lipstick with the precision of a sniper adjusting a scope. She wasn't putting on makeup; she was applying war paint.

Chloe sighed, a sound of deep frustration, but she grabbed her coat. She followed Frederica out into the cool night air and hailed a yellow cab.

The taxi dropped them a block away from the Sinclair Gallery. The line of black SUVs and limousines blocked the entrance. The red carpet was a gauntlet of flashing lights. Frederica bypassed the main entrance, leading Chloe down a side alley to a service door where a disgruntled security guard was waiting.

"Your name?" he grunted, not looking up from his list.

"We're on the catering list. Vance and McCullough," Frederica said smoothly, pulling a simple black blazer over her shoulders, instantly transforming her understated silk dress into something that could pass for a uniform. The guard waved them through. The moment her heel touched the polished concrete inside, her posture shifted. Her shoulders went back, her chin lifted. The broken woman from the closet was gone. Mrs. Easton Reilly, in a five-year-old dress that the society pages would crucify her for, had arrived.

The flashbulbs were still visible through the front windows, blinding strobes of light. The wall of sound hit her next.

She could hear the reporters shouting for Easton, for Simone. Not for her. Perfect.

Microphones were thrust toward the front door, invading the personal space of the A-listers. Frederica maintained a frozen, pleasant smile as she moved through the staff corridors. It was a mask she had been wearing since childhood.

Chloe handed her a staff pass clipped to a lanyard. "The camera feed is live," she whispered. "I've got a direct link. You make the scene, I make it go viral."

Frederica moved through the crowd, her body rigid. Every step felt like walking on broken glass. She entered the main gallery, and the noise shifted from the roar of the press to the low, vicious hum of the elite.

The air smelled of expensive perfume and stale champagne. Eyes followed her. She could feel them-heavy, judgmental, amused.

"Is that Frederica?" a voice drifted from a nearby cluster of women in Chanel. "My God, is that a vintage McQueen? Vintage as in, from five seasons ago. How brave."

Frederica didn't flinch. She kept her eyes fixed on the far end of the room.

There they were.

Simone Sinclair stood in the center of the room, radiant in a white gown that looked suspiciously bridal. Her hand was tucked possessively into the crook of Easton's arm. Easton wore a black tuxedo, looking like the devil himself. He wasn't pushing her away. He was leaning in, listening to something she was whispering.

Frederica's heart squeezed so hard she thought it might stop. The visual confirmation was worse than the phone call. It was a public declaration of where his loyalty lay.

Simone looked up. Her eyes locked onto Frederica. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. She raised a hand and waved, a gesture that looked welcoming but felt like a slap.

Easton followed Simone's gaze. He turned. His eyes met Frederica's across the crowded room.

His expression darkened. His jaw tightened. He didn't look happy to see her. He looked annoyed.

Frederica felt a surge of adrenaline. It was the fight-or-flight response, and she was done fleeing. She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, not to drink, but to have something to hold.

She walked straight toward them. The crowd parted, sensing the collision.

She stopped three feet away. She raised her glass.

"Congratulations, Miss Sinclair," Frederica said, her voice cutting through the ambient noise like a razor. "I hear there is a surprise tonight?"

Simone clapped her hands together lightly. The sound was soft, but the gallery staff reacted instantly. The overhead track lighting dimmed, plunging the room into a moody twilight. A single, harsh spotlight beamed down onto the center of the room, illuminating a large easel covered by a red velvet cloth.

"This is the heart of my collection," Simone announced, her voice trembling with theatrical emotion. "I call it 'Longing'."

She pulled the cloth. It pooled on the floor like spilled blood.

A collective gasp sucked the oxygen out of the room.

It was an oil painting. Large scale. It depicted a man from behind, standing by a window, half-naked. The play of light and shadow was masterful, but it was the detail on the subject's back that mattered.

A jagged, distinctive scar ran across the right shoulder blade.

Frederica felt the blood drain from her face. Her stomach dropped to her feet. She knew that scar. She had traced it with her fingertips in the dark. She had kissed it. It was a private map of Easton's history, something he hid from the world.

And now it was on display for three hundred people to gawk at.

"Oh my god, is that Reilly?" a man whispered loudly behind her.

"The rumors are true then," a woman tittered.

Simone looked at Frederica. Her eyes were wide and innocent, but the malice behind them was sharp. It was a power move. She was telling the world she knew Easton intimately. She was stripping Frederica of her wife title and reducing her to a spectator.

The auctioneer stepped up to the podium. "Opening bid is fifty thousand dollars."

Frederica's mind raced. If this painting sold, if it hung in someone's penthouse, the tabloids would run with it for months. The humiliation would be eternal. This wasn't about money. It was about control. Using her traceable trust fund was a fool's move. But moving millions from her anonymous crypto wallets for something so public would trip every digital alarm she had so carefully set. It would link her hidden identity to this very public feud.

"One hundred thousand," Frederica said. Her voice shook, but it was audible. She chose the lesser of two evils.

Heads turned. The room went silent.

Simone brought a hand to her chest. "Oh, Frederica. You want it? But this is about... love."

"One hundred and twenty thousand!" a voice called from the back. Someone enjoying the drama.

"Two hundred thousand," Frederica countered immediately. She was bleeding money from an account that would be scrutinized in the divorce, a deliberate act of self-sabotage to prove a point.

The price climbed. Three hundred. Four hundred. Frederica's palms were sweating. She was up to half a million dollars. She was buying her own dignity back from her husband's mistress.

"This is getting tedious," a voice boomed.

It wasn't a bidder. It was Easton.

He moved before anyone could process it. He didn't surge onto the stage. He simply raised his phone to his ear, his eyes locked on Simone, his expression chillingly calm.

He spoke into the phone, his voice amplified by the auctioneer's still-live microphone. "Yates. Purchase a controlling interest in the Sinclair Gallery's parent company. The price is irrelevant. Once the transaction is complete, dissolve the gallery. Liquidate all assets. Send this piece," he gestured to the painting with a flick of his wrist, "to the incinerator."

Easton! Simone cried out, her facade cracking. "It is for charity! You cannot-"

Easton ignored her. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the stunned crowd before landing on Frederica. He didn't look at Simone. He walked straight to Frederica.

She stood frozen, her hand still raised with her paddle.

Easton didn't speak. He reached out and clamped his hand around her wrist. His grip was iron. It wasn't a hold; it was a shackle.

"Let go," Frederica hissed, trying to twist her arm away. "Everyone is watching."

"Let them watch," Easton muttered, his voice a low growl near her ear. "What did you think you were accomplishing with this public spectacle?"

He yanked her. She stumbled, forced to follow him or be dragged. He pulled her through the stunned crowd, moving like a battering ram toward the exit.

As they passed a pale, trembling Simone, Easton didn't even slow down.

"My legal team will be in touch regarding the dissolution," he threw the words over his shoulder like a grenade.

He pushed through the glass doors, dragging Frederica out into the cold night air. He shoved her toward the waiting black Maybach at the curb. The valet scrambled to open the door.

Easton practically threw her into the backseat. He climbed in after her.

"Lock the doors," he ordered the driver.

The locks engaged with a heavy, final thud. The tinted windows rolled up, sealing them in a soundproof box of leather and tension.