Too Late For Regret, My Love

My fiancé Brett and I were building a design empire. When he broke his leg, he hired a temporary housekeeper, Glenda, while I was away on business. I thought she was there to help; I didn't realize she was there to replace me.

She systematically took over my home, turning Brett against me piece by piece. The final straw was finding my cat, Apollo, locked in a cage, bruised and starving.

When I confronted them, Brett defended her. He called me a monster and told me to get rid of my cat for the sake of the baby I was secretly carrying.

The shock of his betrayal was so profound that I miscarried that night.

He never knew. He just screamed that I was a cold, calculating bitch and that Glenda was a "good woman" who truly loved him.

So I left. I took my cat, liquidated my half of our company, and disappeared. Three years later, I walked into an industry gala and saw him across the room-a broken man. He looked at me with desperate regret, but I just smiled. My revenge wouldn't be loud; it would be my success.

Chapter 1

I knew the moment Glenda Woods stepped through our front door, she was trouble. What I didn't know then was that she wouldn't just break my heart; she' d dismantle my entire life, piece by agonizing piece. But back then, I was too busy building an empire to see the quiet, insidious rot beginning at home.

It all started with Brett' s leg. A basketball game, a clumsy fall, and suddenly, my fiancé and business partner, the charismatic 'face' of Parker-Hardy Designs, was confined to our meticulously designed home. Our live-in housekeeper, Maria, had been with us for years, practically family. But her sister's sudden illness in Mexico meant Maria had to leave immediately, without warning. It was a chaotic, unexpected exit.

Brett, ever the smooth talker, reassured me. "Don't worry, Alex. I' ve found someone. Maria's cousin, Glenda. She needs the work, and Maria vouched for her. Says she' s a gem."

I was already halfway out the door, my mind consumed by the skyscraper project in Chicago. A critical phase, long hours, no time for domestic drama. "Temporary, right?" I' d asked, my voice tight with a mix of concern for Brett and the usual stress of launching a new design.

"Of course, temporary," Brett had said, blowing me a kiss. "Just until I'm back on my feet."

Two weeks later, the Chicago launch was a resounding success. Exhausted but exhilarated, I booked the first flight home. My phone, usually a constant buzz of work emails, had been filled with Brett's messages. He raved about Glenda.

"She' s amazing, Alex! So attentive. The food she cooks is incredible. You won't believe how much better I feel."

My eyebrow had lifted. Better than Maria's cooking? Maria, who' d perfected his favorite dishes over years? Still, relief washed over me. At least he was being cared for. I pictured someone older, perhaps a bit frumpy, kind and efficient. A motherly type. Someone who would blend into the background, a temporary fixture until life returned to normal.

The moment my car pulled into the driveway, Apollo, my ginger tabby, was at the window, a furry sentinel. He blinked slowly at me, a silent welcome. I missed him fiercely. The house felt warm, a soft glow emanating from the living room. It smelled faintly of something savory simmering.

I pushed open the front door, my suitcases trundling behind me. My heels clicked on the polished hardwood floors. No one was in the living room, but I heard low voices from the kitchen. Brett' s distinctive laugh, a little too loud, then a softer, feminine giggle.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice echoing slightly in the quiet house.

A woman emerged from the kitchen. She wasn' t what I expected. Not old, not frumpy. She was in her late thirties, with dark, lustrous hair pulled back in a neat bun, soft features, and eyes that were a shade too knowing for someone meant to be temporary help. Her uniform, a simple apron over sensible clothes, somehow managed to highlight her figure rather than conceal it. She carried herself with a quiet confidence that bordered on composure.

"You must be Alexa," she said, her voice surprisingly calm, almost serene. No welcoming smile, no effusive greeting like Maria' s would have been. Just a cool assessment. She didn't offer to help with my bags.

"That's me," I said, a slight tremor of unease starting in my stomach. "And you're Glenda."

"Yes. Welcome home." She didn't sound particularly welcoming.

I offered a polite smile, pushing down the odd feeling. "Thank you. Listen, I brought you something." I reached into my carry-on and pulled out a small, elegantly wrapped box. It was a designer scarf I' d picked up in Chicago, something I often did for Maria or other staff as a small gesture of appreciation. My habit. My way of showing I valued them.

Glenda looked at the box, then back at me, her expression unreadable. "Oh, you shouldn't have."

"It's just a little something to say thank you for looking after Brett while I was away. I always bring back small gifts for anyone who helps out around the house." My words were meant to be gracious, but they felt stilted in the sudden, strange silence.

She shook her head, a soft, almost imperceptible movement. "No, thank you. I'm just doing my job."

I blinked. She was refusing it? Maria would have been thrilled, a flurry of thanks. "It's not payment, Glenda. It's a welcome home gift. A small token."

"I prefer not to accept gifts outside of my agreed-upon wages, Ms. Hardy. It complicates things." Her voice was soft, but there was an inflexible edge to it. A boundary, firmly drawn. But it felt less like professionalism and more like a rejection.

"What's all the fuss about out here?" Brett's voice boomed from the den. He hobbled out, leaning heavily on a crutch, his leg encased in a clumsy cast. His face lit up when he saw me. "Alex! You're back!"

I instinctively stepped forward, my hand reaching out to steady him, a lifetime of caring for him kicking in. But Glenda was faster. She moved with a quick, fluid motion, slipping under his arm before my hand even fully extended. She was supporting him, her body close to his. My hand dropped uselessly to my side.

Brett leaned into her, almost casually. "Glenda, my love, what's wrong?" He hadn't called her that before, had he? My mind must have misheard.

"Ms. Hardy was trying to give me a present," Glenda said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, as if I were a distant, bothersome echo. "I told her it wasn't necessary."

Brett frowned, then his face cleared. He looked at the scarf in my hand. "Oh, Alex, you always pick the best things! Glenda, darling, it's Alex. She's thoughtful. It's a good thing. Take it." He took the box from my numb fingers and pressed it into Glenda's hand.

Glenda's expression softened, a small, almost coy smile gracing her lips. "If you insist, Mr. Parker," she murmured, her eyes flicking to mine for a fraction of a second. A flicker of triumph. "Thank you both."

"Oh, it's just Glenda being humble," Brett said, patting her shoulder. "She's so dedicated. You know, she's an amazing cook too. You'll love her food. She made my famous mushroom risotto tonight! I told her all about your preferences, so don't worry."

My chest felt tight, a strange sensation of being both present and invisible. "Good," I managed, my voice a little hoarse. "I'm starving."

A moment later, as I was heading to my bedroom to freshen up, Glenda called out, "Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, Ms. Hardy."

I nodded, grateful for the heads-up. Maria always did that. It was a professional courtesy. I pushed my bedroom door open, not bothering to knock on my own door. I had a few minutes to myself before dinner. I just wanted to change into something comfortable and splash some water on my face.

The door creaked open, revealing my inner sanctuary. My private space. It was where I worked, where I relaxed. I was halfway through unbuttoning my shirt, my back to the door, when I heard a soft cough.

I froze. My heart jumped into my throat. I spun around, clutching my shirt to my chest.

Glenda stood in the doorway, her head cocked slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips. She wasn't knocking. She wasn't even waiting for a response. She was just... standing there.

"Oh," she said, her eyes sweeping over me, lingering for a moment too long. "I just came to tell you dinner is on the table."

My cheeks burned. No. This wasn't how this worked. Maria would never- "Glenda," I said, my voice dangerously low. "Don't you knock before entering someone's private room?"

Her eyes widened, feigning innocence. "Oh, does Mr. Parker knock? He just walks right in."

My breath hitched. Brett? Walking into my room without knocking? That hadn't happened in years, if ever. Our relationship was built on mutual respect, on boundaries.

"Get out," I said, my voice shaking. "Now. And knock next time."

Brett's head appeared behind Glenda, a confused frown on his face. "Alex? What' s wrong?"

"Nothing," I bit out, my eyes locked on Glenda's. "Just a misunderstanding about personal space."

Brett, bless his conflict-avoidant heart, seemed to pick up on the tension. "Glenda, why don't you go make sure dinner stays warm?" he suggested gently, a subtle push.

Glenda gave me one last, lingering look before turning. "Of course, Mr. Parker." She melted away, leaving me alone with the aftermath.

I slammed the door shut, leaning against it, my chest heaving. The air in my own bedroom felt tainted. I closed my eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. This wasn't a misunderstanding. This was a violation. And it was just the beginning.

I took another deep breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. It had been a long day, and now this. I quickly pulled on a fresh blouse and slacks, splashing cold water on my face. The image of Glenda's smirk, the way her eyes had lingered, burned in my mind. It was a subtle invasion, but potent. I told myself it was just a new staff member learning the ropes, albeit a forward one. I told myself I was overreacting. But the feeling of unease persisted, a cold knot in my stomach.

When I finally entered the dining room, the scene before me felt alien. Brett was already seated at the head of the long oak table, his leg propped up on a cushion. Glenda sat directly opposite him, at the foot of the table, engaged in a low, intimate conversation. Her plate, piled high with food, was already half-empty. My usual place, to Brett's right, was empty. No plate, no cutlery. Nothing.

My entire body stiffened. Maria would have never sat with us, let alone started eating before I arrived. And she certainly would have set my place.

"Alex, honey, finally!" Brett chirped, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. "Glenda made mushroom risotto, your favorite! And a beautiful salad."

My eyes scanned the elegant table, then fixed on Glenda. "Glenda," I said, my voice calm, almost dangerously so. "Is there a reason my place hasn't been set?"

Glenda looked up, a fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes, usually so composed, held a flicker of surprise. "Oh, I apologize, Ms. Hardy. I assumed you would sit anywhere. Mr. Parker said it was fine for me to join him, since he's injured."

"Fine for you to join him, yes," I clarified, my gaze unwavering. "But not to start eating before the family has gathered. And certainly not at the main table." I gestured vaguely to the small, discreet breakfast nook off the kitchen, where Maria would eat her meals. "Our arrangement, as with Maria, is for household staff to dine separately once their duties are complete."

Brett cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Alex, honey, Glenda's been so kind, helping me with everything. I told her she could eat with me, just for company. You know, my leg and everything."

"Company during your meal is one thing," I said, my eyes still on Glenda, who had now put down her fork, her face a mask of slight indignation. "But professional boundaries are another. Maria understood that. Dinner is a family affair. As is setting the table for everyone."

Glenda's chin lifted. "I understand, Ms. Hardy. I was just following Mr. Parker's instructions."

"And I'm giving you mine now," I countered, my voice firm. "Please, move to the breakfast nook. And next time, ensure all places are set before the meal begins."

Brett's face clouded. "Alex, come on. It's just dinner. No need for such a fuss."

I didn't break eye contact with Glenda. "I'm not making a fuss, Brett. I'm stating a household rule."

Glenda, her lips pressed into a thin line, slowly pushed her chair back. The scrape of wood on tile echoed in the suddenly silent room. She picked up her plate. "Very well, Ms. Hardy. I apologize for the inconvenience." Her voice was laced with a barely concealed resentment.

"Wait a minute, Glenda," I said, stopping her. A new thought had just dawned on me, a cold wave washing over the previous anger. "Brett mentioned you made mushroom risotto. And salad."

"Yes," she replied, her back still to me, a hint of defiance in her posture.

"Did you remember my nut allergy?" I asked, my voice flat. It wasn't just an allergy; it was severe, life-threatening. Almonds, walnuts, pecans – a single trace could send me into anaphylactic shock. Maria knew. Everyone who cooked for me knew. It was meticulously documented, listed on a laminated card stuck to the fridge.

Glenda turned, her expression morphing from indignation to a careful frown. "Oh. Mr. Parker said you're a big fan of pine nuts in your risotto. And walnuts in the salad for texture."

My breath caught in my throat. Pine nuts. Walnuts. Both on my forbidden list. My stomach churned. "He said that?" I asked, turning to Brett, whose face had gone pale.

He stammered, "Well, I... I might have forgotten to mention the specific nuts, honey. I just said you loved nuts in general, the healthy kind, you know?" His eyes darted nervously between me and Glenda.

I walked to the table, my steps measured. The mushroom risotto, usually a comfort dish, now looked like a potential assassin. I saw the tiny, golden pine nuts sprinkled generously over the creamy rice. The salad, vibrant with greens, had crushed walnuts among the mixed leaves.

My hands trembled slightly as I reached for a serving spoon, scooped a small portion of the risotto onto a side plate, and walked to the kitchen bin. Without a word, I scraped it in. A soft clatter.

Brett gasped. "Alex! What are you doing?"

I turned back to them, my face devoid of emotion. "This is not fit for consumption." I walked back to the table, picked up the entire serving bowl of risotto, and calmly dumped its contents into the bin. Then the salad bowl. "None of it is safe. None of it is consumable."

The silence in the dining room was deafening. Brett stared at the empty bowls, his jaw slack. Glenda looked like a deer caught in headlights, her carefully constructed composure finally cracking. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide.

"Alex, that was uncalled for!" Brett finally managed, his voice tight with anger. "Glenda worked hard on that meal!"

I didn't answer. I just walked back to my empty place setting, pulled out the chair, and sat down. My appetite was gone, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

Brett slammed his fist on the table, wincing immediately from the pain in his cast. "What is wrong with you?" he demanded, his voice rising.

I met his gaze, my own eyes cold and unwavering. "What's wrong is that my fiancé, who claims to know me better than anyone, 'forgot' a life-threatening allergy. What's wrong is that your temporary caregiver, after being told my 'preferences,' managed to include two of my deadliest allergens. What's wrong is that I am sitting at my own dinner table, uninvited and unwanted, in my own home. That's what's wrong, Brett."

He recoiled as if struck. Glenda, meanwhile, had subtly slipped out of the room.

I pushed my chair back, the screeching sound tearing through the tense silence. "I've lost my appetite," I stated flatly. "And my patience."

I turned, walked out of the house, and got into my car. The engine roared to life, a comforting sound of escape. I drove to the small apartment I kept near the firm's main office – a practical investment, a quiet retreat for late nights. It was sparse, functional, a stark contrast to the grand home I' d just left. For the next few days, it was my sanctuary.

Brett's texts started almost immediately. A flurry of apologies, pleas, confusion.

Alex, what was that about?

Honey, please come home. I miss you.

It was a misunderstanding, I swear. Glenda feels terrible.

The house feels empty without you.

Normally, he would have shown up at my door, crutches or not. He would have charmed his way in, worn me down with his earnest apologies and puppy-dog eyes. But with his leg still broken, he was confined. All he could do was text.

I responded with curt, one-word answers, or nothing at all. My focus was on work. The Chicago project was still demanding, even from afar. The distance, the silence, it allowed me to think. To see the cracks that had been papered over.

Days turned into a week. Then, a longer message from Brett appeared on my screen. This one was different. It wasn' t just an apology. It was thoughtful, strategic.

Alex, I know I messed up. I truly did. I've told Glenda the rules, laid them out clearly. She understands. She won't eat at the table, she'll knock, and she has the allergy list memorized. I even bought new pots and pans, just to be safe. I miss our life. I know you're busy, but can we talk about our future? The wedding plans, the next phase of the firm? I've been looking at some new investment opportunities, things we can build together. I just need you here, by my side. We can talk tonight. Please.

He sent pictures of the new cookware, sparkling and unused. Pictures of our wedding brochures, open on the coffee table. Pictures of Apollo, curled up on our bed, looking forlorn.

His message felt genuine. Or at least, persuasive enough. The thought of our life, our shared ambitions, the empire we were building together... it pulled at something inside me. Maybe, just maybe, he understood. Maybe this was a blip, a warning shot. He needed me. And I, against my better judgment, still wanted to believe him.

I sent a single reply: I'll be home tonight.

The evening air was cool and crisp as I drove back. My apartment felt small and empty without Apollo, and the silence had started to grate. I missed the familiar rhythm of home, even with the recent discord. As I pulled into the driveway, the soft glow from the living room windows beckoned, a silent promise of normalcy.

Stepping inside, the aroma of a delicate stew, free of any suspicious ingredients, filled the air. Glenda was on the back patio, watering the orchids Brett loved. She glanced up as I entered, her eyes meeting mine for a brief, almost imperceptible moment. No greeting, no smile. Just a cool, neutral acknowledgment. I offered none in return, heading straight for Brett's study.

He was sitting at his large mahogany desk, surrounded by architectural drafts and financial projections for our next major firm expansion. He looked up, his face breaking into a wide, hopeful smile the moment he saw me. "Alex! You came!" He pushed himself up, his crutches clattering slightly.

"Of course," I said, a faint smile touching my lips. "You said you wanted to talk about the future."

"And I do!" He motioned to the stacks of papers. "Come, look at these. New clients, new cities. We could be expanding into Europe, Alex. Imagine that. Parker-Hardy Designs, dominating the globe." He beamed, his enthusiasm infectious, pulling me back into our shared dream.

I sat beside him, flipping through the impressive proposals. As I read, a part of me softened. This was the Brett I fell in love with – the visionary, the dreamer. We were a formidable team.

"About Glenda," he began, his voice dropping, almost conspiratorial. "You know, she has a pretty tough backstory. Single mom, escaped a difficult situation." He looked at me with those earnest, vulnerable eyes that always disarmed me. "She's just a little rough around the edges, not used to... our kind of life."

My gaze sharpened. "Are you trying to make excuses for her, Brett?"

He immediately backtracked, his hand reaching for mine. "No, no, baby, absolutely not! I swear. I told her off. Seriously. She cried, Alex. Said she didn't mean to offend. I told her you're the boss, my partner, and my fiancée. She knows her place now. And I showed her the allergy list. I made her repeat it back to me. No nuts, ever. Promise." He squeezed my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles. "I promise, Alex. Everything will be different now."

His touch, his words, the genuine anxiety in his eyes chipped away at my resolve. He looked so vulnerable, so remorseful. He was trying. And I was pregnant. I needed stability. I needed him.

"Alright," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "Just... make sure it is."

A soft, polite knock sounded at the study door. "Dinner is served," Glenda's voice called out, perfectly modulated, perfectly respectful.

Brett winked at me. "See? Progress."

When we entered the dining room, the table was impeccably set. My plate was in its rightful place. Glenda stood by the kitchen entrance, not at the table, her hands clasped in front of her. She waited until Brett and I were seated before saying, "Tonight we have slow-cooked lamb stew with root vegetables, and a side of steamed green beans. No nuts whatsoever, Ms. Hardy. I double-checked everything." Her gaze was direct, almost challenging, but her tone was deferential.

I nodded, a silent acknowledgment. Brett smiled, pleased. "See, Alex? I told you."

The meal was quiet. Not entirely comfortable, a lingering tension in the air, but peaceful enough. Glenda served us, then retreated to the breakfast nook. I could hear the faint clink of her cutlery from there. It was progress, I supposed. A fragile truce.

After dinner, Brett settled in the living room to watch a documentary, his leg propped up. I decided to retreat to my study to catch up on a few more emails. The new proposals still sat on my desk, waiting for review. I felt a sense of calm returning, a quiet hope that things might actually be alright.

I flipped open my laptop, but the warmth of the house, the satisfying meal, and the lingering fatigue from Chicago began to weigh on me. My eyelids grew heavy. I leaned back in my ergonomic chair, closing my eyes, just for a moment.

A soft thud, a metallic clang, jolted me awake. It came from my bedside table. My eyes snapped open. I was definitely in my study, not my bedroom. The sound had been distinct, out of place. My heart hammered against my ribs.

I slowly sat up, my gaze fixed on the corner of the room where my personal documents, my laptop, and a stack of sensitive client blueprints lay. My breath caught.

A small figure, no more than waist-high, was crouched by my desk, his back to me. He was rummaging through my portfolio, his small hands rifling through the delicate, confidential blueprints. One of my expensive fountain pens lay on the floor, its cap off, a dark stain of ink spreading across a pristine design sketch.

"Hey!" I yelled, my voice sharp, adrenaline flooding my system. "What do you think you're doing?"

The child startled, dropping a sheaf of papers. He spun around, his face smudged with ink, a half-eaten cookie clutched in his hand. His eyes, wide and defiant, were Glenda's eyes.

He couldn't have been more than nine or ten. He wore a brightly colored T-shirt and shorts, completely out of place in my formal study.

"Who are you?" I demanded, pushing myself out of the chair, my voice rising in volume. "And what are you doing with my things?"

He didn't answer, just stared at me for a second, then stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth.

"Glenda! Brett!" I shouted, my voice raw with a mixture of disbelief and fury. This was too much. This was completely unacceptable.

The child, instead of being scared, dropped to the floor and began to wail, a theatrical, ear-splitting scream. He kicked his legs, pounding his fists on the carpet, throwing a full-blown tantrum.

I stared at him, aghast. I had dealt with difficult clients, demanding partners, but never a nine-year-old child throwing a fit in my private study, surrounded by my ruined work.

Just then, Glenda rushed in, her face a mask of concern. "Leo! What's wrong, baby?" She swept him into her arms, pressing his face to her chest, glaring at me over his head. Her eyes were hard, accusing. "What did you do to my son?"

My jaw dropped. "Your son?" I stammered, pointing a trembling finger at the ruined blueprints. "He was in my study! Touching my things! Look at this mess!"

Glenda hugged the crying child tighter. "He's just a boy, Ms. Hardy. He didn't mean any harm." She looked at me with a fierce, protective glare. "What are you shouting at him for?"

"Why is he here?!" I demanded, completely bypassing her question. "I was told no children! This is a professional environment, and a private home! Who gave you permission to bring your child here?"

She softened her voice, her eyes darting around the room, then back to me. "Mr. Parker said it was fine. My babysitter canceled, and I had nowhere else to take him. He just wanted to see his mommy."

"Brett!" I roared, my patience gone. I stormed out of the study, Glenda hovering defensively over her still-sobbing son. I found Brett engrossed in his documentary, headphones on, blissfully unaware of the chaos.

I ripped the headphones from his ears. "Brett Parker, what have you done?!"

He stared up at me, bewildered. "Alex? What the hell?"

"Get up!" I hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him. His crutches clattered as he struggled to keep up. "Get up and see what your 'generosity' has wrought!"

I dragged him, hobbling, back to my study. Glenda was still cradling Leo, who was now just whimpering, peering at us from behind his mother's arm, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Did you or did you not give Glenda permission to bring her child into our home?" I demanded, my voice shaking with barely suppressed rage.

Brett's face went from confusion to a sheepish defensiveness. "Well, yes, I did. She said she was in a bind, Alex. And he seemed like a sweet kid. I didn't think he'd be... that much trouble."

"Sweet kid?" I pushed him toward my desk, making him look down at the carnage.

My laptop screen was cracked, a spiderweb of broken pixels. Client blueprints, delicate and irreplaceable, were torn, smudged with ink and cookie crumbs, scribbled over with crayon. My expensive pens were scattered, some broken. My collection of rare, vintage stationery, ruined. My custom-made, hand-tooled leather portfolio, scored with deep scratches.

A faint, sweet, cloying smell hung in the air. I looked at my vanity table, its pristine surface now a chaotic mess. My favorite perfume, the one Brett gave me for our anniversary, lay shattered on the floor, its precious liquid soaking into the rug, mixing with spilled eyeshadow and foundation. Shards of glass glinted under the soft lamplight.

Brett stared, his face paling, the color draining from it. His eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. He looked from the shattered perfume to the ruined blueprints, then to Glenda, who was now staring at him with wide, innocent eyes, her son tucked behind her.

"What... what happened?" Brett whispered, his voice barely audible. He looked at me, a flicker of fear in his eyes.

I didn't answer. I just pointed at the devastation, then at Glenda and her son. "This," I said, my voice cold and hard, stripped of all emotion, "is your 'sweet kid.' And you, Brett, are going to explain exactly how you're going to fix this. Every single piece."