Redesigning His Regret After She Left

During the few days my husband Blake was away on a business trip, I went to the hospital for a checkup and discovered that I was pregnant.

I never thought I would have a child of my own, because my health had never been good. But now, a miracle had happened.

However, when I set up a candlelit dinner in high spirits, eager to tell Blake the news, I discovered his betrayal. In the late hours of the night, while I was waiting for him to come home, he was with another woman.

By the time he finally returned, a divorce agreement was placed in my hands. "Sign it."

I didn't tell him I was pregnant. I pieced together my shattered heart and made up my mind to leave him. I would hide this child. It would be my secret alone.

But then he regretted it. He fell to his knees and begged me not to go.

I looked at that man, once so arrogant. Now, the tables turned.

***

Celina Ferrell's fingers traced the outline of the tiny, pulsing blot on the sonogram picture.

"Congratulations, Celina," the doctor said, her voice a soft, reassuring presence. "Everything looks perfect. Just remember to rest and keep your nutrition up."

Celina nodded, a smile spreading across her face so wide it made her cheeks ache. She could feel her own heart, a frantic, joyful beat against her ribs. She had undergone examinations before and had been told that her body was not prone to conception. This child had not come easily. The gift she had been waiting for, for three years.

"Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so much."

Stepping out of the clinic, the bright afternoon sun felt like a spotlight just for her. She instinctively laid a hand over her flat stomach, a silent promise to the new life within. She knew she had to be careful, because this might be her only chance in life to become a mother.

A plan bloomed in her mind, perfect and shimmering. She would give her husband Blake Ingram the surprise of his life.

She conjured his face in her mind, the face of one of Wall Street's most decisive and powerful men, always marked by composure and restraint. She allowed herself to dream that he could shed his armor, if only for a moment, and offer her that rare, tender smile, welcoming the child they were soon to welcome. She craved that moment.

The black town car was waiting at the curb. Gus White, their driver for years, held the door open for her.

"Home, Gus," she said, her voice softer than she intended. "And please, drive smoothly."

Back at their Park Avenue penthouse, the scent of fresh lemons filled the air. Maria Kowalski, their housekeeper, had already prepared a glass of her favorite sparkling water with lemon.

"Ma'am, Mr. Ingram's flight is scheduled to arrive at JFK at seven this evening," Maria informed her.

Celina glanced at the clock on the wall. Four o'clock. Plenty of time.

"Thank you, Maria."

She decided to cook herself. It was one of their few rituals, a way to bring a sense of normalcy and warmth into a life often dictated by schedules and board meetings.

In the kitchen, she moved with a familiar grace, the simple act of chopping vegetables grounding her. A smile played on her lips, a secret joy that made the cavernous apartment feel bright and full.

As evening fell, the dining table was set. Two tapered candles stood sentinel, the scent of roasted chicken and rosemary filling the air. She'd even opened a bottle of Blake's favorite Cabernet, though she herself would only be enjoying the aroma tonight.

Seven-thirty came and went. Blake wasn't home.

Flights get delayed, she told herself. It happens all the time.

At eight, the silence began to press in on her. She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over his name before finally pressing call.

The phone connected on the second ring. But the voice that answered was not Blake's deep baritone.

It was a woman's voice. Soft, a little sleepy.

"Hello? Blake is taking a shower. Is there anything you'd like me to pass on to him?"

Who was that? Why did she have Blake's phone?

The air in Celina's lungs turned to ice. The voice sounded somewhat familiar, but she couldn't remember who it was. Her heart felt like it had been seized by a cold, tight fist. She couldn't breathe.

She ended the call without a word. The phone slipped from her numb fingers, landing with a muffled thud on the thick Persian rug.

Blake. The stranger. The shower. The questions echoed in the sudden, deafening silence of her mind.

Minutes passed. She forced herself to move, to pick up the phone. Her fingers trembled as she dialed again.

This time, it rang for a long, agonizing time before Blake answered. It was his voice.

"What is it?" he asked, a sharp edge of impatience in his tone.

Celina's throat was tight. She fought to keep her voice steady. "Are you... home yet? I called your phone..."

"Just landed. Traffic from the airport is a nightmare," he said. His voice sounded distant, and the background was completely silent. Too silent for a car stuck in New York traffic.

Her heart sank. He was lying. She could hear the dismissal in his voice, the lie hanging in the air between them.

"Oh," was all she could manage. She longed to ask about that woman, but the words refused to come. She dared not venture near the truth she suspected lurking beneath.

"I'm tired, Celina. I'll see you at home."

He hung up before she could reply.

She stood there, clutching the cold phone, her eyes fixed on the perfectly prepared meal. She gagged at the smell, covering her mouth with her hand. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows that danced like mocking ghosts. She had imagined telling him about the pregnancy at this table. Now she just felt like a fool.

Slowly, she walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. She looked out at the bright lights of the city, and the thought that Blake could be somewhere out there made her stomach turn again. She was caught between the physical toll of pregnancy and the pain of his possible betrayal.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her hand. A text from Blake. Short. Unsettling.

"We need to talk."