Classmate's Triumph and CEO's Regret

I stormed out of the office and headed to the parking lot to get Sophie home.

But the exit was jammed.

I peered out and saw a crowd clogging the road. I stepped out of the car for a closer look.

It was a gaggle of well-dressed parents fawning over a man in the center.

"Excuse me," I said, "could you clear the way?"

The group turned, their eyes scanning me with naked contempt. A beefy guy with a gold chain barked, "We're talking to Mr. Carey. Who are you to interrupt?"

Jack Carey glanced at me, then at my weathered sedan. A sneer crept onto his face. "Look at this nobody, acting like he owns the place."

The others piled on, their voices a chorus of snobbery.

"Know your lane, buddy."

"Mr. Carey is connected to the CEO of the Mills Group and is worth billions. Be silent in your junker."

"Wise up and beat it."

Ten years ago, I stepped out of the spotlight for Olivia and Sophie, pouring everything into their happiness.

Mills Group was just a small company I'd bought to cheer Olivia up during a rough patch. Now, it was their idol.

I glanced at Jack, then at the sleek Maserati behind him. It was the same one I'd gifted Olivia for her birthday last year.

Jack caught my gaze, mistaking it for envy. He patted the car door smugly. "Limited edition, one of a kind. You couldn't dream of affording this."

I kept my voice flat. "Impressive."

He grinned, his ego swelling. "No surprise there. This beauty is way out of your league."

"Impressive that you're driving my car," I replied, my voice calm but sharp.

The air went still.

Jack's smirk faltered. "What did you say?"

"That's my car," I said, pointing at the Maserati. "The plate ends with Olivia's birthday."

Jack froze, then burst into laughter. "You heard that? This clown says this is his car."

The crowd erupted in mockery.

"Is this guy unhinged?"

"Mr. Carey, don't bother with this delusional loser."

"Got some guts, claiming what's not his."

Jack burst his sides with laughter. "Buddy, you know how much this car costs? Three million dollars. Your junker is not worth thirty grand on a good day. Olivia's birthday? That's public info. Anyone can find the answers online. You think you're clever?"

He whipped out his phone, grinning. "Let's show this guy what a real power couple looks like."

He flashed a photo of himself and Olivia, arm in arm. She wore the custom gown I'd bought her, worth hundreds of thousands, her smile radiant as she leaned into him.

"This one is us in Paris, under the Eiffel Tower," he bragged.

My chest tightened, like someone had punched me in the gut. That week, Olivia had told me she was at a high-stakes business summit.

"And this," Jack continued, swiping to a video. "Our cozy weekend at home."

The screen showed Olivia chopping carrots in the kitchen, an apron tied around her waist. Jack slid behind her, wrapping his arms around her, and they giggled like newlyweds.

I was struck dumb.

Olivia never cooked. In ten years of marriage, she'd claimed the kitchen was foreign territory.

We lived on takeout or meals from our housekeeper. Once, when I was sick and craving soup, she'd told me to order delivery, too busy to bother.

Yet here she was, cooking for another man. Her face glowed with a tenderness I had never seen.

A sharp, bratty voice sliced through my shock. "Dad!"