My Ex-Husband’s Regret Means Nothing

Bourbon mixed with the blood on my palm. I let the shattered shards of crystal fall to the carpet, ignoring the sharp sting in my flesh.

My focus remained entirely on the tuxedo-clad fool holding my ex-wife.

I shoved past a cluster of hedge fund managers. The elite crowd parted instantly, recognizing the dangerous set of my jaw. I was Sterling Voss. I dictated global markets. I bought and sold companies before my morning coffee. I did not stand by while another man touched what belonged to me.

She had planned this. The thought crystallized in my mind, bringing a sudden wave of arrogant clarity. A year of hiding, a year of reinventing herself into this untouchable artist, all to make a spectacular entrance at my charity gala. She wanted my attention. She wanted to prove she was worthy of the Voss name.

I could play along. I would offer her a fraction of my resources, perhaps a gallery space in Tribeca, and she would fold. She would return to my side, grateful for the scrap of affection.

I stopped mere inches behind her.

"You made your point, Elowen," I stated, my voice carrying absolute authority. "Now tell this extra to get lost."

The handsome man raised an eyebrow, his arm remaining firmly around her waist. "Extra?"

"I don't speak to the help," I snapped, cutting my eyes back to Elowen. "You have my attention. Congratulations. The stunt worked. Now, let’s discuss terms."

She didn't flinch. She didn't eagerly turn to accept my praise.

Instead, Elowen shifted her weight and met my stare.

I braced myself for the tears, the desperate need for validation, or even a flash of heated anger. I found nothing. Her gaze resembled a frozen lake in the dead of winter. There was no nostalgia. No lingering hatred. Only a sprawling, empty unfamiliarity.

"Terms?" she asked, her tone entirely flat.

"For your return," I offered, lowering my voice to a commanding murmur. "I'll fund your next exhibit. I'll buy the entire collection tonight. You proved you aren't just a housewife anymore. I’m willing to bring you back to the penthouse."

I waited for her eyes to light up. I waited for her to step out of the other man's embrace and back into my shadow, exactly where she belonged.

Elowen offered a minuscule nod.

"Mr. Voss," she said.

The title hit me like a physical blow to the chest.

"What did you call me?" I demanded.

"Mr. Voss," she repeated, her voice perfectly polite and unbearably distant. "A pleasure to finally cross paths."

"We were married for three years!"

"I know of your firm by reputation only," she continued, completely ignoring my outburst. "And as I manage my own portfolio now, I have no need for your funding. Excuse me."

She didn't wait for a response. She simply stepped around me.

The black silk of her gown brushed against my trousers, a fleeting ghost of contact. I reached out to grab her wrist, to force her to stop and acknowledge the history between us.

My fingers grasped empty air.

She was already moving toward the center of the room, her hand extended toward an elderly man leaning on a silver-tipped cane.

"Arthur," Elowen called out, the winter in her voice instantly melting into a vibrant spring.

Arthur Pendelton. The most reclusive, ruthless art critic in Europe. A man who had publicly rejected my invitation to this very gala three times.

"El, my brilliant girl," Arthur beamed, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "I flew in from Paris just to see the woman who made the Louvre beg."

"You flatter me," she laughed. The sound was bright, musical, and entirely foreign to my ears. "I saved you a preview of the new canvas."

"I demand to buy it before the auction starts," Arthur insisted, tapping his cane on the floor. "And who is this dashing bodyguard of yours?"

"Leo," the handsome man introduced himself, shaking Arthur's hand. "I just make sure she remembers to eat while she paints."

"A vital job," Arthur chuckled. "She works like a demon."

I stood locked in place. My feet refused to move.

Elowen engaged in a rapid, sophisticated debate about neo-expressionism with the titan of the art world. She commanded the space, her hands moving gracefully as she spoke, her smile radiant and effortless.

She had completely forgotten I existed.

"Did you see that?" a voice whispered to my left.

I shifted my gaze sharply. Marcus and Richard stood by the champagne tower, watching the scene unfold.

"She didn't even blink at him," Richard muttered, adjusting his glasses. "Sterling Voss just got publicly dismissed."

"Brutal," Marcus agreed, taking a sip of his drink. "I've never seen anyone treat him like a peasant before."

The whispers spread like a wildfire through the ballroom.

"Is that his ex-wife?"

"She completely blanked him."

"Look at his face. He looks pathetic."

The probing, mocking eyes of Manhattan's elite pinned me to the floor. Rivals I had crushed in boardrooms were now hiding smirks behind their crystal glasses. Socialites who normally vied for my attention were pointing and whispering.

I was the invisible man.

A suffocating wave of frustration clawed at my throat. I had never tasted defeat. I had never been the one left behind. I bought companies to dismantle them. I broke people to rebuild them in my image.

Yet here I was, standing alone with bleeding fingers, entirely discarded by the woman I threw away.

I forced my legs to work. I marched toward the trio.

"Elowen," I interrupted, my voice louder this time, carrying a sharp edge of desperation.

Arthur stopped mid-sentence. He turned his head, inspecting me from head to toe with profound disdain.

"Is this man bothering you, El?" Arthur asked.

"Not at all, Arthur," Elowen replied. She didn't even turn her head to look at me. "He was just finding his way to the exit."

"Good," Arthur huffed. "I despise interruptions when I'm discussing real talent."

Leo stepped forward, placing his broad frame directly between Elowen and me. "You heard the lady. The exit is that way."

My fists clenched so hard my knuckles turned white. "Step aside."

"Or what?" Leo challenged, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "You'll buy my company? I don't own one. Go home, Voss."

A security guard hurried over, his radio buzzing with static. "Is there a problem here, Mr. Pendelton?"

"Just a lost guest," Arthur said dismissively.

The guard turned to me. "Sir, please step back."

Humiliation burned hot and fast through my veins. A security guard at my own charity gala was telling me to step back.

I looked past Leo's shoulder, desperate for Elowen to intervene, to stop this madness.

She was already walking away, her arm linked with Arthur's, guiding him toward the private viewing gallery. She never looked back.

I stood in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by a hundred people, and I had never felt so entirely isolated. My perfect, controlled world was shattering, and Elowen was holding the hammer.

My phone vibrated violently in my tuxedo pocket.

I pulled it out, my thumb smearing a drop of blood across the screen. It was an urgent text from my Chief Operating Officer.

*Turn on the news. Right now. Someone just launched a hostile takeover of our European division.*

I stared at the screen, the words blurring together.

A second message popped up, this one from an unknown number.

*I told you, Mr. Voss. I cut the dead weight. Checkmate.*