Too Late For Regret: My Lost Heir

The rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Manhattan penthouse did not sound like water. It sounded like gravel being thrown against the glass, hard and relentless. Seraphina sat on the velvet armchair that she had picked out three years ago, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. The fabric was cold under her fingertips.

She stared at the calendar notification on her phone screen. It was glowing in the dark room. October 14th. Three years.

The sound of the biometric lock engaging made a mechanical whir that cut through the sound of the storm. The heavy oak door pushed open. A gust of cold, damp air rushed into the living room, carrying the smell of ozone and exhaust.

Julian walked in.

He did not look at her. He stripped off his trench coat, the wet fabric heavy with rain. Water dripped from the hem onto the marble entryway, creating small, dark puddles that distorted the reflection of the overhead recessed lighting.

Seraphina stood up. Her legs felt stiff. She walked toward him, her hand reaching out instinctively to take the wet coat. It was a habit. A muscle memory built over a thousand days of being his wife.

Julian sidestepped her.

It was a small movement. A shift of his shoulder, a pivot of his heel. But in the quiet room, it felt like a slap. He walked past her outstretched hand as if she were a piece of furniture he needed to navigate around. He went straight to the liquor cabinet.

The crystal decanter clinked against the glass as he poured. The amber liquid swirled, rising to the rim. He did not add ice. He brought the glass to his lips and drank half of it in one swallow, his back turned to her. His shoulders were tense, the muscles visible even through his white dress shirt.

Seraphina watched him. She saw the tension in his neck. Then she saw it.

On the collar of his shirt, just above the starch line. A smudge of red.

It was not a bright, cherry red. It was a deep, dark crimson. It looked like a bruise against the pristine white fabric. Seraphina felt a phantom scent hit her-sandalwood and heavy, cloying roses. It wasn't a perfume she owned. It was the scent of a woman who wanted to be noticed, a scent that clung. She didn't need to know the brand to know what it meant.

Julian lowered the glass. He turned around slowly. His eyes were dark, rimmed with exhaustion, but there was a hardness in them that she had never seen directed at her. He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick document.

He threw it on the coffee table.

The sound was heavy. A dull thud that vibrated through the marble floor. The document slid across the smooth surface and came to a stop just inches from Seraphina's knees. The bold black letters on the cover were perfectly legible even in the dim light.

Divorce Settlement.

Seraphina felt a high-pitched ringing in her ears. It sounded like a tea kettle left on the boil for too long. She looked up from the paper to his face.

We need to talk, Julian said. His voice was rough, like he had been shouting or smoking.

Seraphina opened her mouth. She wanted to say that dinner was in the oven. She wanted to say that she had bought him the watch he wanted for their anniversary. But the words felt like dry stones in her throat.

Harper is dying, Julian said.

The ringing in Seraphina's ears stopped abruptly, replaced by a vacuum of silence.

She has six months, Julian continued. He did not blink. Maybe less. It is stage four. Her stomach.

Seraphina looked at the smudge of lipstick on his collar. It looked like a wound.

So you are divorcing me because she is sick, Seraphina said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Flat. Detached.

It is her last wish, Julian said. He took another sip of whiskey, draining the glass. She is scared, Sera. She has no one. She wants to be Mrs. Sterling before she dies. It is the only thing she has ever wanted.

The only thing she has ever wanted.

Seraphina thought about the last three years. She thought about the way she had learned to cook his favorite risotto. The way she had charmed his difficult board members. The way she had hidden her own music, her own name, her own fire, just to be the perfect, quiet wife he needed.

I will give you everything, Julian said, misinterpreting her silence. The penthouse in Tribeca. The summer house in the Hamptons. A monthly allowance that will let you live in luxury for the rest of your life. I am being generous.

He was buying her displacement. He was paying for his conscience.

Seraphina looked down at the papers. She did not open the folder. She did not read the terms. She did not care about the numbers.

She picked up the Montblanc pen that sat on the table. The metal was cool against her skin.

Julian frowned. His eyebrows pulled together. He had expected a fight. He had brought his lawyers' arguments, his justifications, his guilt wrapped in anger. He was not prepared for silence.

Seraphina uncapped the pen. She looked him in the eye.

If she were not sick, she asked softly. If she were healthy. Would you still be doing this?

Julian froze. His hand tightened around the empty glass. For five seconds, the only sound in the room was the rain hammering against the glass. He looked away, toward the window, toward the city lights that blurred in the storm.

There is no if, Julian said. She needs me.

It was not a no.

Seraphina felt something inside her chest snap. It was not a loud break. It was quiet, like a thread finally giving way under too much weight. The pain was so sharp it was almost blinding, but then, instantly, it was gone. Replaced by a cold, gray numbness.

She lowered the pen to the paper.

She did not read the non-disclosure agreement. She did not check the alimony clause. She simply wrote her name on the signature line. The ink flowed smoothly, dark and permanent.

Seraphina Vanderbilt Sterling.

She stared at the name for a second. It would be the last time she wrote it.

She capped the pen and pushed the document back across the table toward him.

I do not want your compensation, she said. I just want it to be over. Effective immediately.

Julian stared at the signature. He looked unsettled. He reached for the papers, his movements jerky.

My lawyers will contact you, he said. He sounded annoyed. As if her compliance was more irritating than her resistance would have been.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A specific ringtone. A soft, melodic chime.

Julian's face changed instantly. The hardness evaporated, replaced by a look of tender, desperate concern. He pulled the phone out and answered it before it could ring a second time.

I am coming, he said into the phone. His voice was a whisper she had not heard in years. Don't be afraid. I am on my way.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket. He grabbed his keys off the console table. He turned and walked back toward the door, grabbing his wet coat.

He did not look back. He did not say goodbye. He did not say sorry.

The heavy door clicked shut. The lock whirred again.

Seraphina stood alone in the center of the vast living room. The silence rushed back in, heavy and suffocating.

Then, her stomach turned.

It was a violent, sudden lurch. A wave of nausea that started in her gut and rose to her throat. She clamped her hand over her mouth and ran toward the guest bathroom.

She barely made it. She fell to her knees on the cold tile floor, clutching the porcelain rim of the toilet, and retched. Her body shook with the force of it.

She dry heaved until her throat burned and her eyes watered. When it finally stopped, she slumped back against the cabinet, gasping for air. She looked at her reflection in the mirror across the room. Her skin was the color of paper. Her eyes were hollow.

But under the sickness, under the heartbreak, something else was waking up. A cold, hard resolve.

The bathroom tiles were freezing against her knees. The cold seeped through the fabric of her dress, biting into her skin. Seraphina wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and took a shaky breath. The nausea had passed, leaving behind a hollow, trembling feeling in her core.

She reached out and opened the vanity cabinet under the sink. Her fingers brushed past the extra towels and the cleaning supplies until they found the small white box hidden in the back.

She had bought it a month ago. Just a suspicion. A hope.

She opened the box with shaking hands. The foil wrapper made a crinkling sound that seemed too loud in the quiet bathroom.

She followed the instructions. Then she set the plastic stick on the edge of the sink and pulled out her phone. She set the timer for three minutes.

She sat on the closed lid of the toilet and watched the seconds count down. 180. 179. 178.

Every second was a heartbeat.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. It wasn't the timer.

A text message notification slid down from the top of the screen. The name displayed was Harper West.

Seraphina's thumb hovered over the screen. She knew she shouldn't look. She knew it was poison. But she tapped it anyway.

It was a photo.

The image was high resolution. It showed a hospital bed, crisp white sheets. On top of the sheets, a man's hand was holding a woman's hand. The man wore a platinum watch. Julian's watch. The woman's wrist was thin, a hospital bracelet wrapped around it.

Below the photo, a caption: Thank you for giving him back to me.

Bile rose in Seraphina's throat again. It wasn't just the image. It was the timing. Julian had left her apartment ten minutes ago. He was already there. Or maybe the photo was old. It didn't matter. The intent was clear.

The timer on her phone went off. A cheerful, chiming alarm.

Seraphina stood up and looked at the sink.

Two pink lines. Bold. Unmistakable.

She was pregnant.

She stared at the test. A laugh bubbled up in her chest, but it sounded like a sob. It was the cruelest joke. On the night her husband ended their marriage for a dying woman, life had taken root inside her.

She touched her flat stomach. No if, he had said.

This child. This tiny cluster of cells. If she told him, what would happen? Would he stay out of duty? Would he resent the child for keeping him from his dying love? Or worse, would he take the child and raise it with Harper?

The thought made her blood run cold. She imagined Harper, with her Vintage Red lips, playing mother to Seraphina's child.

No.

Seraphina grabbed the test. She grabbed the box. She grabbed the ultrasound appointment slip she had tentatively booked for next week.

She looked at the plastic stick. She couldn't leave it in the trash can. The cleaning staff came tomorrow morning. If they found it, it could get back to Julian. He owned everything here.

She wrapped the test in layers of toilet paper until it was a thick, nondescript white bundle. Then she shoved it deep into her purse. She would dispose of it in a public trash can miles away from here. She picked up the cardboard box and the instruction leaflet.

She walked out to the terrace doors. The rain was still pounding against the glass. She slid the door open just a crack. The wind howled.

She tore the cardboard into tiny, confetti-sized pieces. She held her hand out into the storm and let the wind take them. The wet cardboard turned to mush instantly, scattering into the dark, wet night of the city below. Gone.

She closed the door and locked it. Her hands were shaking, but not from the cold.

She went to the sink and splashed freezing water on her face. She looked at herself in the mirror. The woman looking back was terrified, but her jaw was set.

She picked up her phone and dialed. It was 2:00 AM.

The phone rang four times.

Hello? A sleepy voice answered. Zoe.

Seraphina gripped the phone tight. Zoe, she said. Her voice was steady, stripped of all emotion. I need a favor.

Sera? Zoe sounded more awake now. What's wrong? Are you okay?

I am pregnant, Seraphina said.

There was a gasp on the other end. Oh my god. That's... wait, is it Julian's? Does he know?

He doesn't know, Seraphina said. And he never will. We signed the divorce papers tonight.

What? Zoe shouted. That bastard! He actually did it?

I need an appointment, Zoe. Tomorrow.

An appointment for what?

To terminate it, Seraphina said.

Silence stretched over the line. Heavy and thick.

Sera, Zoe whispered. Are you sure? You've always wanted...

I am sure, Seraphina cut her off. I cannot bring a child into this. Not now. Not with him.

Okay, Zoe said. Her voice switched to professional mode, though Seraphina could hear the tremor in it. I can get you in tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock. VIP channel. No records will be public. I'll do it myself.

Thank you, Seraphina said.

She hung up. She walked to the bedroom. She pulled a suitcase from the top shelf of the closet.

She did not pack the designer dresses Julian had bought her. She did not pack the jewelry. She packed jeans. T-shirts. The cashmere sweater her mother had knitted before she died. The old locket with the photo of the Vanderbilt estate.

She zipped the bag shut.

She walked to the bedside table. She took the set of keys to the penthouse-the heavy brass key, the magnetic fob-and placed them on the polished wood.

Her phone lit up again. An email from Julian's executive assistant. Subject: Supplemental Divorce Terms.

Seraphina didn't open it. She held down the power button on the side of her phone. She watched the screen go black.

She lay down on the bed in the guest room. She curled onto her side, her hands wrapping protectively around her stomach one last time. A single tear leaked from the corner of her eye and tracked into her hair.

Julian woke up with a crick in his neck. The hospital chair was designed for durability, not comfort. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee filled his nose.

He sat up and rubbed his face. The morning light was filtering through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the bed. Harper was still asleep. Her skin looked translucent, almost blue in the harsh light. She looked fragile. Like a porcelain doll that had been dropped and glued back together.

His phone vibrated against his thigh. He pulled it out.

Grandmother Sterling.

Julian flinched. He cleared his throat and slid his thumb across the screen to answer. He walked quickly out of the room into the hallway.

Grandmother, he said. Good morning.

You are late, the old woman's voice crackled over the line. Sharp. Imperious.

Late for what?

The update, she snapped. I received a report this morning, Julian. My sources tell me your wife was seen entering a clinic in Midtown at dawn. Is there something you aren't telling me? Is she finally doing her duty for the family line?

Julian felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He leaned against the hospital wall. Grandmother, she... she just has a stomach flu. It's nothing.

Don't lie to me, she interrupted. The board meeting is next month. If I don't see stability in your personal life, if I don't see a future for this family, I might just rethink my vote on the merger.

It was a threat. A direct one.

Tonight, she said. The family dinner. Bring Seraphina. I want to see her.

Julian closed his eyes. Grandmother, Seraphina is... busy.

I don't care if she is meeting the President. Bring her. Or don't bother coming yourself. And tell the board to find a new CEO.

The line went dead.

Julian stared at the phone. He cursed under his breath. He couldn't tell his grandmother about the divorce yet. Her heart condition was precarious. The shock could kill her. He needed time.

He dialed Seraphina's number.

The subscriber you are calling is powered off.

He groaned. He dialed the penthouse landline. No answer. He called the doorman.

Mrs. Sterling left early this morning, sir, the doorman said. With a suitcase.

Julian's chest tightened. A suitcase? Where would she go? She had nowhere. The Vanderbilt fortune was gone. Her family was gone.

He remembered the old Vanderbilt estate. The one the bank had repossessed, the one his company now held the deed to. It was a ruin, but it was the only place she had an emotional attachment to.

He drove there. It was empty.

He called his assistant to track her phone's last known location before it was turned off.

City Center Clinic.

Julian frowned. Why was she at a clinic?

He drove fast, weaving through the morning traffic. He pulled up to the clinic and saw her sitting in the waiting room through the glass facade. She was wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. She looked small.

He texted her. Pick up the phone. Grandmother wants to see you. One last act.

He saw her look at her phone. She didn't move.

He dialed again. This time, she answered.

Sterling, she said. Her voice was ice.

Don't call me that, he said. Where are you?

I am busy.

Grandmother called, Julian said. She demands to see you tonight at the estate. If you don't come, she threatens the CEO position.

That sounds like a you problem, Seraphina said.

Julian gripped the steering wheel. Sera, please. Just tonight. I need you to pretend. Just for a few hours.

My appearance fee is high, she said.

He was taken aback. Since when did she talk like this? I will double the alimony.

I don't want your money, she said. I have an important surgery... an appointment. I can't leave.

Surgery? What surgery? Plastic surgery? Julian snapped, frustration boiling over. You're leaving me and the first thing you do is get a nose job? Cancel it.

Seraphina was silent for a long moment.

If you don't come tonight, Julian said, lowering his voice, playing his ace. I will have my legal team enforce the strictest interpretation of the pre-nup. I will freeze every account you have access to. I will tie you up in litigation for so long you won't be able to buy a cup of coffee in this city without my permission.

He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. She had no money. He knew that. Without his support, she was destitute.

Fine, she said. Her voice trembled with suppressed rage. I will be there. But I have a condition.

Name it.

After tonight, you never threaten me again. With anything.

Agreed, Julian said.

See you at seven, she said, and hung up.

Inside the clinic, Seraphina lowered the phone. She looked at Zoe, who was standing in the doorway of the procedure room.

I have to go, Seraphina said.

Sera, no, Zoe said. You're already here. Let's just get it done.

He threatened to freeze everything, Seraphina said. I have nothing, Zoe. No cash. No cards. If he locks the accounts, I can't even pay for a cab to get away from him.

Zoe cursed.

I have to reschedule. Next week.

Zoe sighed. She grabbed a chart. Fine. But listen to me. Your blood work came back. Your progesterone is critically low. And with your stress levels... if you don't rest, you might miscarry before you even get back here.

Seraphina let out a bitter laugh. Maybe that would be easier.

Don't say that, Zoe said softly. Here. Take these.

She handed her a bottle of pills.

Julian sat in his car, staring at the clinic door. He watched Seraphina walk out, get into a taxi, and drive away.

His phone rang. It was the nurse from the hospital.

Mr. Sterling! Come quick! Miss West is awake and she's hyperventilating! She says she can't breathe!

Julian slammed the car into gear and sped away, the image of Seraphina in her hoodie fading from his rearview mirror.