Too Late For His Empty Regret

My husband Ethan was my childhood hero, the perfect man who promised me forever. After our son was born, he seemed like the perfect father, too.

Then an anonymous message popped up on my phone: Ethan Blake is cheating. I have proof.

But the man I found wasn't just a cheater. He was a monster who mocked my postpartum body with his mistress.

"All that trauma from childbirth... It's too much," he'd said, disgusted.

He publicly humiliated me, caused an accident that left me crippled, and then bankrupted my family's company, putting my father in the ICU.

This was the same man who once broke his own hand to protect me, the boy who swore he'd love me forever.

How could he become this cruel stranger who looked at me with nothing but disgust?

As he left me broken and blamed me for everything, the love I had for him finally died.

I picked up my phone and called a number I hadn't dialed in years.

"Jackson," I said, my voice cold as ice. "It's Audrey. I need your help. Remember your offer?"

Chapter 1

Audrey POV:

The phone buzzed on the silk pillow beside me. It was an anonymous Instagram message. Ethan Blake is cheating. I have proof. My breath seized in my throat. I couldn't breathe, not with that sentence staring back at me.

Ethan was in the kitchen, humming softly as he wiped down the marble countertops. The scent of coffee and his familiar cologne drifted into the bedroom. He looked so perfect, so domestic. He always made sure to clean up after his morning gym session.

He walked in, a gentle smile on his face, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in his hand. "Morning, my love," he said, his voice a warm caress. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on my forehead. "Sleep well?"

I nodded, my mind screaming. This was Ethan. My Ethan. The man who had carved a space in my heart since we were kids. He couldn't be cheating. It wasn't possible. The thought was a cruel joke.

I remembered the day he told me he loved me for the first time. We were ten, playing in his family' s sprawling Hamptons estate, and he'd sworn he' d marry me, his eyes full of earnest promise.

When we were teenagers, he punched a senior who' d tried to corner me after a school dance, breaking his own hand just to keep me safe. He didn' t care about the pain. He only cared that I was crying. He looked at me, his eyes bruised, but still managed a crooked smile.

Our engagement party, under a canopy of twinkling lights in Central Park, felt like a dream. He' d spun me around, his laughter echoing, telling everyone within earshot that I was the only woman he would ever love.

He was the one who always brought me soup when I was sick, the one who remembered my favorite flowers, the one who held my hand through every fear and every triumph. He was there when I graduated, when I started my first job, when we bought our first home. He was the only constant in my life.

He was the man who chose my maternity clothes with such care, who stayed up nights reading baby books, who squeezed my hand through every contraction, his face a mask of worry and adoration. He was the perfect husband, the perfect father.

No. This was a mistake. A cruel, sick joke. Someone was trying to mess with us.

The phone buzzed again. My stomach dropped. Check his gym bag. You' ll find proof.

My heart hammered against my ribs. A cold dread slithered through me. I stared at the message, a tremor running through my hands. No. I wouldn't. I couldn't.

But my feet were already moving. I walked to the walk-in closet, my movements stiff, robot-like. His gym bag lay on the floor, forgotten after his morning workout. My fingers fumbled with the zipper. I pulled it open.

And there they were. Tucked beneath a sweaty t-shirt. Two used condoms. My vision blurred. The world spun. The scent of Ethan' s cologne, once comforting, now turned sickening. It was a smell of betrayal.

I stumbled back, my knees giving out. I collapsed onto the plush carpet, the anonymous messages flashing in my mind. The truth hit me like a physical blow. He did it. He cheated.

My fingers, still shaking, tapped on the Instagram profile. It was private. I clicked "Follow." A second later, the request was accepted. Another message popped up. Go to The Velvet Whisper tonight. 9 PM. He' s there with her. It was an address, an exclusive speakeasy downtown.

I felt a desperate, primal need to see it, to confirm this nightmare. I needed to see for myself.

The speakeasy was dimly lit, a haze of expensive perfume and hushed conversations. I found a secluded corner, my heart pounding, my eyes scanning the room. Then I saw him. Ethan. He was laughing, his head thrown back, with a woman I recognized. Kendall Johnston, his ambitious junior analyst.

My blood ran cold as I watched them. Her hand rested on his arm, her eyes shining with an intimacy that made my stomach churn. I watched them, my breath catching in my throat, as he leaned in, his lips finding hers. A slow, passionate kiss. A kiss that stole my breath and shattered my world.

It was her. Kendall. The woman who always sent me polite, friendly messages about Ethan's "long hours" at the office. The woman who had complimented my postpartum glow just weeks ago. The deception was a bitter taste in my mouth.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent. I pressed my hand against my mouth, trying to stifle the sobs that threatened to escape. I couldn't make a sound. I couldn't let him know I was here.

They pulled apart, grinning. His friends at the table cheered, clinking glasses. Ethan raised his hand, silencing them. He leaned closer to Kendall, his voice dropping, but I could still hear it. Every word was a hammer blow to my chest.

"She' s just… not the same, you know?" he chuckled, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. "Postpartum body. All that trauma from childbirth. It's too much." He shuddered dramatically, pulling Kendall closer. "You're so understanding, Kendall. No kids. Ever. That's what I need."

He kissed her again, a possessive, hungry kiss. My body felt like it was dissolving. The man I loved, the man who promised me forever, was disgusted by me. By my body, by the miracle we created. By our child.

I stumbled out of the speakeasy, the world spinning around me. I didn't know how I got home. I just found myself kneeling by my son' s crib, his tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep.

My son. The child Ethan had claimed to adore. The child he had planned for, had dreamt of. He had called him his greatest blessing. It was all a lie. All of it. He was a liar. He had been lying to me for months. Maybe years.

My son stirred, his small hand reaching out. He wrapped his fingers around my thumb, his grip surprisingly strong. A jolt went through me. My son. My beautiful son. He was all I had left. Looking at him, a fierce resolve hardened inside me.

I pulled out my phone. I typed in Kendall' s number. My fingers hovered over the send button. No. Not yet. I had to be smart. I had to be strong.

I looked at my son again, his innocent face illuminated by the soft glow of the nightlight. My love for Ethan had died tonight, choked by his cruelty and betrayal. But a new emotion was taking root. A cold, hard determination.

I pressed 'Delete' on Kendall's contact. Then, I wrote a message to the anonymous Instagram account: I need your help.