Too Late For Your Grand Remorse

For nearly a decade, I was the perfect wife to Grant Sloan, sacrificing my own dreams to support his meteoric rise. But when I saw a photo of him at a company gala with his young intern, Kylee, his hand on her back and a smile I hadn't seen in years, I knew my marriage was over.

My world shattered further when my younger sister, Aubrie, was assaulted by her boss. I begged Grant, a top lawyer, to help her. He coldly refused, claiming his caseload was full, only to later stand in court as the defense attorney for my sister's attacker-who turned out to be Kylee's brother.

The betrayal was absolute. Fueled by Kylee's vicious online campaign, Aubrie was driven to suicide, jumping from the courthouse roof as Grant and I watched. The final, sickening blow came when Kylee desecrated Aubrie's grave, grinding her ashes into the dirt over a plot she wanted for her dead puppy.

Grant, finally seeing Kylee's monstrous nature, brutally punished her and her brother. He came back to me, broken and begging for forgiveness, even staging a grand public proposal.

He thought his remorse could erase the blood on his hands and the ashes on the ground.

I looked at the man who had destroyed my life and offered him a single word.

"No."

Chapter 1

Corinne POV

My stomach churned, a cold dread washing over me as I scrolled through the endless stream of photos. Grant wasn' t just absent from my side at the highly anticipated company gala, the one we' d talked about for weeks. He was there. With her. Kylee. His young, adoring intern.

My breath hitched. The image was plastered across the firm' s social media, a candid shot of Grant' s hand resting lightly on Kylee' s lower back, his head tilted towards her, a smile I hadn' t seen in years gracing his lips. Her eyes, wide and innocent, gazed up at him. She looked like she belonged there. Right by his side.

He had told me he had a last-minute emergency, a critical client meeting that couldn' t be rescheduled. He had kissed my forehead, a hurried, distracted gesture, and then he was gone. I had believed him. Foolishly.

The bile rose in my throat. I stumbled to the bathroom, the elegant gown I had chosen for the night feeling like a shroud. I gripped the cold porcelain, emptying my stomach until there was nothing left but dry heaves and burning regret.

For nearly a decade, I had been Mrs. Grant Sloan. His wife. His partner. His anchor. I had sacrificed my own ambitions, my own dreams, to support his meteoric rise. I had been the silent strength behind the charismatic corporate lawyer, the woman who managed his home, his social calendar, his every need. But in that moment, seeing that photo, I knew I was just a ghost in his life. A convenience.

The decision didn't come suddenly. It was a slow, agonizing bleed, each drop of betrayal a confirmation. This picture was just the final, gaping wound. I lay on the cold bathroom floor, the expensive silk of my dress bunched around me, and I stared at the ceiling. The ceiling of the luxurious home I had helped him build. The home that now felt like a gilded cage.

When the sun finally crept through the window, painting the room in pale gold, my mind was clear. The pain was still there, a dull ache in my chest, but beneath it, something new had solidified. A resolve hard as steel.

I got up, showered, and dressed in simple clothes. My hands didn't shake as I retrieved the legal documents I had secretly prepared months ago. Divorce papers. Signed by me, dated, ready.

Grant walked in later that evening, his briefcase clutched in one hand, his tie already loosened. He looked tired, but also... happy. Satisfied. The kind of satisfaction I used to bring him. Now, I knew, it came from elsewhere.

"Corinne? What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with the patronizing concern he reserved for when I looked 'fragile'.

I didn't answer. I simply walked to the coffee table and placed the stack of papers in front of him. The sound was soft, but in the quiet room, it was deafening.

He glanced down, his eyes scanning the bold letters: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE. A humorless chuckle escaped his lips.

"What is this, Corinne? Some kind of joke?" he scoffed, dropping his briefcase with a thud.

"No, Grant," I said, my voice steady, surprising even myself. "It's not a joke."

He picked up the papers, flipping through them quickly. His brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes, quickly replaced by dismissive amusement.

"Is this about the gala?" he asked, his tone mocking. "You're divorcing me because I took Kylee to a company event? Really, Corinne? That's what you're reduced to?"

I didn't correct him. Let him think it was something so trivial. It suited his narrative. It meant he didn't have to face the years of slow, painful neglect.

He tossed the papers back onto the table. "Fine," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "If you want out, Corinne, be my guest. But don't come crying back when you realize what you've given up." His eyes narrowed. "You're too dependent on me. You always have been. You won't last a month on your own."

"I won't regret it," I said, meeting his gaze directly. My voice was calm, firm.

His smirk faltered slightly. He picked up a pen from the table. "You've got real nerve, bringing these to me already filled out. Trying to trap me?" He signed his name with a flourish, his gaze unwavering from mine. "There. You happy now? Go on, Corinne. Go find your freedom. Just don't say I didn't warn you when you come crawling back."

Just as I was about to retort, my phone, lying face down on the table, buzzed violently. Grant's phone. He picked it up, his expression instantly softening. "Kylee? What's wrong, sweetheart?"

Corinne POV

Grant' s voice, usually sharp and commanding, was now a soft murmur of concern, a stark contrast to the dismissive tone he' d used with me seconds before. He held the phone to his ear, his gaze fixed on some distant point, already miles away from our crumbling living room.

"Oh, honey, don' t cry," he crooned into the receiver, his thumb unconsciously rubbing the edge of the phone. "It' s okay. Just tell me what happened. Slow down."

From the muffled sounds, I could tell Kylee was in distress, her words tumbling out in a rush of feigned helplessness. It was a performance I' d witnessed firsthand, though never directed at me. She was a master at turning minor inconveniences into catastrophic emergencies, all to secure Grant' s undivided attention. Now, hearing it, it was sickening.

"A flat tire? In this weather?" Grant exclaimed, his concern escalating. "And the mechanic is being rude? Unbelievable. Don' t worry, I' m on my way. Don' t move an inch, I' ll be there in twenty minutes." He disconnected the call, already reaching for his car keys.

My mind reeled. A flat tire. That was the 'urgent matter' that superseded our decade-long marriage, the one he had just casually signed away. I remembered last winter when my car broke down on a deserted highway, miles from anywhere. I' d called him for hours, finally reaching him only for him to tell me he was in a crucial meeting and would send someone. Someone. Not him.

I watched him now, gathering his things, his movements swift and purposeful. He was a man on a mission, a knight rushing to his damsel' s aid. It was a role he never played for me. Never.

A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. All those years I' d spent trying to be the perfect wife, the supportive partner, the one who never caused trouble. All those years I' d rationalized his distance, his coldness, telling myself it was just how he was, an unavoidable byproduct of his ambitious nature. But he wasn' t cold. Not with her. He was tender, attentive, protective. My heart felt like a shriveled prune, squeezed dry of all its hope.

He paused by the door, glancing at me. "I' ll be back later," he said, his voice flat, already detached. "Don' t wait up."

I didn't reply. I just stood there, a silent sentinel in the ruins of my life. He left, the front door closing with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot.

I looked around our opulent living room, at the custom-made furniture, the expensive art, the life we had built. It all felt hollow, empty. It was time to clear it out. Not just physically, but emotionally.

I started with my closet. Dresses, shoes, bags – many of them gifts from Grant. Each item held a memory, a moment where I had hoped, where I had believed. I pulled them out, one by one, and tossed them into a large donation bin. The expensive diamond necklace he' d given me for our fifth anniversary, the one I cherished? Into the bin it went. I wanted nothing that carried his touch, his false affection.

Then I moved to my jewelry box, finding the intricate watch I' d bought him for his thirtieth birthday, engraved with our initials. I picked it up, my fingers tracing the cold metal. He rarely wore it. He preferred the flashier, newer models Kylee had probably picked out for him. I threw it in the bin too. Let someone else have it. Let them know what it felt like to have their heart in their hands.

Just as I was about to move to the bookshelf, the front door opened again. My breath caught. Had he forgotten something?

No. It was Grant, holding open the door for Kylee. And in her arms, a tiny fluffy white puppy, its tail wagging furiously. Kylee giggled, nuzzling its head.

"Oh, Grant, thank you, he' s perfect!" she cooed, her voice sickly sweet.

My blood ran cold. My mind flashed back to the tiny stray kitten I' d once found, bringing it home with hopes of giving it a loving home. Grant had been furious. He' d declared he hated animals, that they were messy, demanding, and a nuisance. He' d made me give it away. Now, here he was, beaming at a puppy, his arm protectively around Kylee.

"He' s a good boy, isn' t he?" Grant said, his eyes on Kylee and the puppy, a warmth radiating from him I hadn' t felt in years. "Kylee said she always wanted a puppy, so I thought, why not?"

He walked past me, as if I were part of the furniture, and headed to the kitchen. Kylee followed, still doting on the dog.

"Corinne, is dinner ready?" Grant called from the kitchen, his voice laced with casual expectation. "I' m starving."

My hands clenched. Dinner. Of course. For almost a decade, dinner had always been ready. Because I made it. Because I was his wife. His personal chef.

"No, Grant," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Dinner isn' t ready. And it won' t be."

He emerged from the kitchen, a frown on his face. Kylee, still clutching the puppy, peered around his shoulder, her eyes wide with feigned shock.

"What do you mean it won' t be?" he demanded, his voice hardening. "Are you throwing some kind of tantrum?"

"Grant, darling, maybe Corinne is just tired," Kylee interjected, her voice soft, placating. She sidled up to him, placing a hand on his arm. "It' s been a long day for everyone. Why don' t I just order some takeout for us?"

Grant' s frown eased, his gaze softening as he looked at Kylee. "You' re right, sweetheart. Always so thoughtful." He turned back to me, his eyes cold again. "You see, Corinne? There are other ways to be useful."

Kylee then stepped forward, her innocent eyes fixed on me. "Corinne, I really am so sorry about... everything," she began, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "I never meant for any of this to happen. I truly hope you and Grant can... reconcile. You' ve been together for so long." She sniffled delicately, wiping a non-existent tear.

My patience snapped. "Don' t you dare, Kylee," I hissed, my voice low but lethal. "Don' t you dare stand there and pretend to be the innocent bystander. You knew exactly what you were doing. The long-drawn-out calls, the 'accidental' brushes, the way you looked at him across the room, the way you manipulated every situation to get his attention. It was calculated. Every single move."

Kylee' s eyes widened further, and then, as if on cue, a tear traced a path down her cheek. She let out a small, choked sob. "How can you say such things? I just... I admire Grant so much."

Before I could say another word, Grant pulled her into his arms, his back to me, shielding her. "Corinne! That' s enough! Have you no shame? She' s a young woman, you' re just jealous and spiteful." His voice was laced with disgust. He cradled Kylee' s head, stroking her hair. "It' s okay, sweetheart. She' s just lashing out because she can' t handle the truth."

I watched them, the familiar scene playing out for the last time. My husband, protecting his young intern, while I, his wife of nearly a decade, stood discarded, accused, and utterly invisible. I felt a profound weariness settle into my bones, a fatigue that went beyond physical exhaustion. I was tired of the fights. Tired of the heartache. Tired of him.

Later that evening, after they had gone to bed, I made a silent vow. I would never be this person again. I packed a small bag, leaving everything else behind. I drove to a clinic I'd researched discreetly. The procedure was swift, irreversible. I had given up so much for him, even the choice to be a mother, because he once said he wasn't ready to divide his attention. Now, with him so clearly divided, I knew I had to reclaim that part of myself. I ensured there would be no going back. Not for me. Not for us.

Corinne POV

The sterile smell of the hospital clinging to my clothes, I stepped out of the procedure room, a dull ache throbbing in my lower abdomen. The decision had been mine, made with cold, clear resolve, a final severance from a future Grant had already erased. My phone buzzed in my hand, pulling me from my daze. It was my mother.

"Corinne, it' s Aubrie," her voice was strained, thick with tears. "Something terrible has happened."

My heart seized. Aubrie, my little sister, my bright, vulnerable Aubrie, who was just starting her career, full of dreams. Grant had always dismissed her, seeing her as another one of my responsibilities, a drain on my time. If I ever needed to help her, he' d subtly, or not so subtly, remind me of my own obligations to our life, his career. Now, with him out of the picture, the guilt of leaving her behind gnawed at me.

Before I could even process my mother' s words, a sharp, familiar ringtone pierced the air. Grant' s mother. My ex-mother-in-law. Even in my current state, I braced myself.

"Corinne, what is this nonsense I' m hearing?" Her voice, sharp and accusatory, cut through the phone. "Divorce? Are you out of your mind? Grant is a successful man, a catch! And you just throw it all away?"

"Mother Sloan, I think that' s between Grant and me," I said, my voice flat.

"Between you? No, dear, it' s about the family name, the legacy! You need to go back to him, apologize, make things right. A woman' s place is by her husband' s side, supporting him. What do you think you' ll do without him? You' re nothing without Grant." Her words were a familiar, insidious drip of poison. "And don' t think I don' t know about that little intern. Kylee is a sweet girl, very ambitious, fits in perfectly with Grant' s image. She understands his world. Much better than you ever did, honestly. She' s a smart girl, always so keen to learn from Grant."

My blood ran cold. She knew. She had known all along about Kylee, and she approved. It wasn' t just Grant' s betrayal, it was his entire family' s complicity. They saw Kylee as an upgrade, a shinier accessory for their golden boy.

"Perhaps you should worry about your son' s image, then," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Because right now, it' s not looking so good." And with that, I hung up. The line went dead, symbolizing the final severing of ties.

I called my mother back, my hands shaking. "Mom, what happened with Aubrie?"

Her voice was choked with sobs. "She... she was assaulted, Corinne. By her boss. Keven Bauer. He' s a monster. He used his position... took advantage of her..."

My vision blurred. Aubrie. My sweet, innocent sister. This couldn' t be happening. "Mom, where is she? I' m coming."

I found Aubrie curled up in a ball on her bed, her eyes red and swollen, her body trembling. My heart broke into a million pieces. She was so small, so fragile.

"Corinne," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don' t know what to do. He said... he said he' d ruin me if I told anyone. He' s so powerful."

"We' ll fight him, Aubrie," I said, stroking her hair. "We' ll get justice. Grant... Grant will know what to do. He' s the best lawyer."

Aubrie looked up at me, a flicker of hope, but then it dimmed. "But... he' s busy, isn' t he? With his important cases. And now with... Kylee..."

"No," I insisted, pushing down my own bitterness. "He won' t turn his back on family. I' ll go to him. I' ll make him help."

The next morning, armed with a glimmer of hope for Aubrie, I drove to Grant' s law firm. The imposing glass tower gleamed in the morning sun, a monument to ambition and power. Inside, the lobby buzzed with a controlled chaos of assistants, clients, and junior lawyers.

I knew Grant' s rules. No unscheduled visits. No personal interruptions during business hours. But this wasn' t personal. This was life or death for my sister.

I approached the reception, stating my name. The receptionist, a new face who didn' t recognize me, told me Mr. Sloan was in a meeting and had a packed schedule. I explained the urgency, that it was a family matter. She finally agreed to relay a message. I took a seat in the plush waiting area, surrounded by nervous-looking clients.

An hour passed. Then another. I watched the clock, my anxiety growing with each tick. Aubrie was at home, alone, broken.

Suddenly, a familiar, saccharine voice cut through the professional din. "Morning, everyone! Is Mr. Sloan in yet?"

Kylee. She waltzed in, her designer bag slung over her shoulder, a dazzling smile on her face. She greeted Grant' s assistant like an old friend, a quick, intimate whisper passing between them. Then, without a glance at the waiting room full of clients, she walked straight to Grant' s office door, knocked once, and let herself in.

My blood ran cold. Just like that. No appointment, no waiting. Just a casual stroll into his private sanctum.

A few minutes later, Grant' s assistant emerged, looking apologetic. "Mr. Sloan has a... very urgent, unforeseen matter with a client. He' ll be tied up indefinitely. We recommend rescheduling." She avoided my gaze.

I felt a fresh wave of nausea. Unforeseen matter. Right.