Regret? Never

A voice message popped up, spoken in clumsy Crestese.

"Henry loves me, not you. Hurry up and divorce him."

I immediately realized who this person was. There was no mistaking the voice.

Another message soon followed, ruder than the first.

"The one who is unloved is the third party. Leave already."

I stared at my phone, unimpressed. Is this all she got? Henry chose a woman like this?

I had no idea how she got my Instagram, but I was sure she was an idiot.

Still, I had no energy to dwell on trivial matters.

Ignoring her, I took a cab to the hospital. After getting my number, I quietly waited by the door.

For a brief moment, I hesitated, wondering if this child would blame me. But upon further thought, I realized she probably wouldn't.

Given her father's betrayal and scandalous life, the constant public shame, could she truly find happiness?

No. It would be better if she were never born.

Henry knew my character; I had zero tolerance for cheating.

When we first married, he made a grand declaration.

"Yelena, I will spend my life treating you well. I will never cheat. If I break this vow, I will lose everything and die a miserable death."

Back then, I believed him.

At first, he lived up to his words.

He knew I loved the pasta from the southern part of the city, so he took me there often. If I were too lazy to go, he'd brave the wind and snow just to bring it back.

When I was sick, he panicked more than I did, wishing he could take my pain instead.

During my worst menstrual cramps, he warmed my stomach with his hands, massaging it gently.

Little things like that made me trust him. But once he cheated, all of it—every tender moment, every sweet gesture—became meaningless. Even the love he once showed me now felt like a cruel joke.

"Yelena Stone, you chose the wrong person." I thought.

A voice then pulled me back from my thoughts. It was my turn.

The cold table pressed against my back as I closed my eyes, waiting for the procedure. Tears escaped, tracing paths into my unkempt hair.

When I woke up, I was already in a hospital bed.

"Drink this first. You've been weak these past two days, so take good care of yourself." Willow Ford, my friend, looked at me with concern.

I had called her before the procedure. After all, going through this alone was risky. If anything went wrong, someone had to be there.

Willow brought me my favorite chicken noodle soup. I ate in small bites, but the more I ate, the more tears fell.

Aware of what I'd gone through, Willow desperately wiped away my tears, but they wouldn't stop.

She stood, agitated, and paced, muttering curses. "That scumbag!" she spat out.

Then, taking a steadying breath, she asked, "Yelena, does Henry know?"

I shook my head. My face was still ashen from the procedure. "I was going to tell him last night, but…" I trailed off, recalling his lively conversation with that Rushnian woman on Instagram.

Willow sighed deeply. "So, what are you planning to do now?"

I thought for a moment and then replied, "Divorce, of course. Why keep a man like that around?"

The New Year was approaching, and I didn't want to carry that baggage into the new year.

Willow nodded. "I didn't expect Henry to hide it so well. I truly believed you'd found a loyal partner, but he proved me wrong."

I took a deep breath, attempting to settle the turmoil within me.

After a period of rest on the hospital bed, Willow escorted me home.

…

By noon, Henry still hadn't come home.

Normally, by this time, he would've made lunch and checked on me, doting on me like I was his entire world.

At the start of our marriage, I was the envy of my peers, who remarked on my perfect husband and the blessed life ahead of me.

Suddenly, my phone chimed with a notification from Instagram.

I opened the message and saw a photo from the Rushnian woman who'd added me that morning.

It showed Henry kneeling, applying ointment to her ankle, his face a mask of tender concern. Then came her message, saying, "Yelena, your husband is very good to me. He likes me a lot. I twisted my foot, and he came over immediately without even catching his breath."

The clumsy Crestese voice messages continued, and I, in annoyance, blocked her.

I began packing my things.

My belongings were few; I'd always lived minimally, accumulating only essential clothing and furniture in the past three years.

There were many potted plants and trinkets in the living room, all of which Henry had bought.

I packed a few clothes into my suitcase, placed my ID into my handbag, grabbed the suitcase, and left without looking back.

I then booked a flight to Ausnia, which was 36 hundred miles away from Crestia.