Too Late to Say You Love Me

In our eight years of marriage, Owen brought home ninety-nine mistresses, indulging in debauchery night after night.

Until the hundredth woman appeared—and for the first time, he broke tradition and took her to a banquet.

The young woman was a thrill-seeker. She dragged him to the pool for a secret rendezvous, tearing her lingerie in the process.

Owen’s gaze landed on me, cold as ice. “She’s just a naïve girl. Her undergarments tore just now—take yours off and let her borrow it for the night.”

“There’s a bathroom upstairs in the suite. Help her clean up properly. You know the scent I like. Do it the usual way.”

I stayed unusually calm and pulled out the divorce papers I’d prepared long ago.

The surrounding guests laughed mockingly.

“Again? How long do you plan on kneeling this time? Is five days enough?”

Owen casually pulled the woman into his arms and kissed her forehead, thinking this was just another empty threat—another one of my staged tantrums.

What he didn’t know was, I had already died.

The person standing in front of him now was nothing more than a walking corpse.

——

The laughter from the crowd stabbed through me like a knife.

Julia, with her wrinkled evening gown clinging to her body, she leaned coyly against Owen's chest.

“Who doesn’t know that every time Mrs. Carter talks about divorce, she ends up on her knees begging for forgiveness?”

“Didn’t she kneel for three days and nights last time? What’s it going to be now—five days?”

“If you can’t live without him, stop pretending. Playing hard to get only works if the man actually wants you.”

I looked up and met his frosty eyes.

“I’m not joking this time, Owen. I want a divorce—seriously.”

“The agreement is ready. I’ll only take what belongs to me. Not a cent more. All you have to do is sign.”

In eight years of our marriage, I’d brought up divorce at least a hundred times.

Not once did it move his heart. It was always me who caved in first—me, groveling for his forgiveness.

But this time, I meant it.

Owen frowned, clearly annoyed. “Fine. Go kneel at home for five days—then we’ll talk.”

“But before you go, take off your undergarments and give it to Julia. Wash her up from head to toe. This isn’t your first time—you know exactly what to do.”

I nodded without hesitation. Obedience had become my second nature over the past eight years.

The last time I refused to bathe one of his mistresses, he chained me up in the doghouse downstairs for a full day and night.

Feeling numb, I unfastened the clasp of my evening gown and slipped out of my bra.

Owen stubbed out his cigarette and grabbed my wrist, clearly irritated. “You’re really going to undress here, in front of everyone?”

“Sheryl, have I spoiled you too much?”

“So desperate to cut ties with me? Fine—go ahead. Let’s see how far you get walking out of this hotel!”

Turning my back to him, I ignored the cold wind slicing through me. I pulled the bra from beneath my dress and handed it to Julia.

“The size might not fit perfectly, but make do with it. Someone will bring you new clothes later. Wear them for him tonight.”

“The suite is on the twelfth floor, first room on the right. I’ll wait for you there.”

Then I turned to Owen. “Once I’ve washed her, I’ll leave. You promised to sign—don’t forget.”

Suppressing his fury, Owen let out a mocking laugh. “You really know how to act. Just don’t come crawling back later.”

“That pitiful routine of yours doesn’t work on me anymore.”

Just as he finished, Julia suddenly cried out in pain.

I turned around—blood was streaming down her back. She’d clearly been slashed by something sharp.

I had barely taken two steps when a hand clamped around the back of my neck and yanked me back.

“Sheryl. Apologize to her!”

The next second, a kick landed squarely on my knee.