My Ex-Husband's Regret: The Billionaire's Return

Anderson's body moved before his brain caught up. He launched himself off the concrete step, fingers finding Debra's shoulders. His grip tightened until she winced, until he felt the bone beneath the wool of her jacket. "Call her." The words tore out of his throat, ragged and wrong. "Call her right now. Tell her this isn't funny. Tell her-" "Anderson." Debra twisted, breaking his hold. She stumbled back, rubbing her shoulder. Her eyes were dry now, focused. "She's gone. I'm sorry. She's gone." He kicked the trash can. The metal cylinder tipped, spilling coffee cups and newspaper across the sidewalk. A woman walking her dog crossed to the other side of the street. Anderson didn't see her. He saw only Debra's face, steady and certain, refusing to give him the denial he needed. "How?" The question came out as a bark. "Car accident? Heart attack? What?" Debra looked down. Her gaze fixed on a point somewhere near his shoes. Her lips parted. Closed. Parted again. "Suicide." The word hit him like a closed fist to the back of the head. Anderson swayed. His palm found the brick wall beside the entrance, the rough surface the only thing keeping him upright. Suicide. His mind flashed to Elianna six months ago, the last time he'd seen her. She'd been at some gallery opening, surrounded by people in clothes that cost more than his rent. She'd looked at him across the room, raised her champagne glass in a mock toast, and turned away. She'd been wearing red. She'd looked alive. Fierce. "You're lying." The words felt hollow even as he spoke them. "Elianna wouldn't-she's not-she doesn't give up. Ever." Debra said nothing. She bent down, retrieving the envelope from where it had fallen. Dust smudged one corner. She held it out again, closer this time, pressing it against his chest. Anderson flinched like it burned. "She left instructions." Debra's voice had gone mechanical, reciting. "This is for you. Only you." His fingers closed around the paper without his permission. The weight of it felt wrong. Too heavy for a letter. Too light for what it contained. "What's inside?" "Her wishes." Debra's eyes flicked away. "And guardianship papers. For her son." Anderson's head snapped up. "What son?" The silence stretched. Debra's eyebrows drew together, confusion replacing her grief. "Elon. Her son. He's fifteen." Fifteen years. Anderson did the math. Fifteen years of silence, of occasional hostile encounters at family events he couldn't avoid. Fifteen years of Elianna cutting him out, building walls, constructing a life he wasn't allowed to see. She'd had a child. A child old enough to drive, to date, to hate his parents. Anderson had known nothing. "Why didn't anyone-" He stopped. The question was stupid, useless. He knew why. Because he'd walked away from that funeral fifteen years ago and never looked back. Because he'd told her he didn't need her, didn't want her, didn't care. Because she'd believed him. "She asked me to deliver this." Debra was already moving toward the street, toward a black sedan idling at the corner. "My obligation ends here. Mr. Hayes will contact you. He's the estate attorney." "Wait-" She didn't. Her heels struck the pavement in sharp, final beats. The car door opened before she reached it, a driver he couldn't see. She slid inside without looking back. The sedan pulled into traffic. Exhaust fumes washed over Anderson's pant leg. He stood alone on the sidewalk, envelope in hand, watching the taillights disappear. The morning cold finally registered, seeping through his thin coat. He shivered. The glass doors behind him reflected his own image. Pale, unshaven, clutching a brown paper envelope like a life preserver. He looked like a man who had already drowned. He swiped his key card. The lock clicked. He pushed through, into the lobby's artificial warmth, and made for the elevator. The car arrived empty. Anderson stepped inside and leaned against the mirrored wall. His reflection multiplied, infinite pale men in wrinkled coats, all holding the same envelope, all wearing the same expression of stunned disbelief. His legs gave out. He slid down the wall until he crouched on the floor, knees drawn to his chest. The envelope crinkled against his thigh. He pressed his face into his hands, and the sound that came out of him didn't sound human. It sounded like something breaking. The elevator chimed. Tenth floor. Anderson wiped his face with his palms, smearing oil and tears across his skin. He stood, straightened his coat, and walked out into the hallway like a man sleepwalking. His key missed the lock twice. On the third try, the metal slid home. He pushed into his apartment, kicked the door shut behind him, and collapsed onto the sofa. The envelope sat on his coffee table, accusing him. Anderson stared at it, breathing hard, waiting for his hands to stop shaking.