The Billionaire's Regret: My Tortured Ex-Wife

They dragged her through the outer office. The secretaries and assistants stopped typing. They watched her pass with eyes full of judgment. They knew the rumors. Everyone knew. Karen Nash, the quiet designer, the murderer. The rain in Manhattan didn't wash things clean. It just made the dirt slicker. Karen Nash sat in the leather chair that cost more than her brother's life was apparently worth. The air conditioning in the top-floor office of King Enterprises was set to a temperature that froze the sweat on her back. She stared at the mahogany desk. Specifically, at the document resting in the center. "Sign it," Isaiah King said. He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to her. His silhouette cut through the gray backdrop of the storm like a blade. He didn't need to turn around to exert pressure. His voice did that on its own. It was a low baritone that vibrated in Karen's chest, a sound she used to associate with safety, now weaponized. "Isaiah," Karen whispered. Her voice was thin, brittle. "Please. Just look at the evidence one more time. The toxicology report on the driver... the angle of the stairs..." "Sign it," he repeated. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. "Or the transfer to the dialysis center for Danny stops today. Right now." Karen's hand spasmed. She looked down at her fingers. They were pale, shaking against the dark wood of the desk. Danny. Her brother was the only family she had left. His kidneys were failing. The machine that cleaned his blood three times a week was the only thing keeping him on this side of the ground. Isaiah knew that. He knew exactly where to press to get the reaction he wanted. She reached for the fountain pen. It was heavy, cold metal. "I didn't push her," Karen said. She had to say it. Even if the words died in the empty air between them. "I didn't kill Clementine." Isaiah turned. The movement was sharp, violent in its precision. He walked toward the desk, placing his hands on the edge, leaning over her. He smelled of rain and expensive scotch and pure, unadulterated hatred. His eyes, usually a calm ocean blue, were rimmed with red. He hadn't slept. Grief did that to a man. Or maybe it was the rage. "You are a jealous, vindictive woman," Isaiah said, spitting the words like poison. "She was pregnant, Karen. You pushed a pregnant woman down a flight of stairs because you couldn't stand that I loved her and not you." Karen flinched. The accusation hit her like a physical blow. "I tried to catch her," she choked out, tears blurring her vision. "I reached out to grab her hand..." "I saw you," Isaiah cut her off. "I saw your hand extended. I saw her fall." He believed his eyes. He believed the narrative that made sense. The jealous wife. The hidden marriage. The tragic mistress. It was a perfect story, except for the fact that it was a lie. A lie made easier to believe by the months they had spent living apart, two strangers under one legal contract, a distance that had allowed him to be completely oblivious. "Danny," he said simply. The name hung in the air. The leverage. Karen closed her eyes. She could see Danny's face, pale and exhausted, hooked up to the tubes. If she fought this, if she dragged this divorce out, Danny would die. Isaiah King had the money and the power to bury them both in legal fees until Danny's body gave out. She opened her eyes. She uncapped the pen. The nib scratched against the paper. The sound was loud in the silent office. Karen Nash. She signed her name. With that signature, she wasn't just ending a marriage that no one knew existed; she was signing a confession. She was accepting the role of the villain. She put the pen down. Isaiah snatched the papers immediately. He didn't check the signature. He didn't look at her. He tossed the folder toward the lawyer who had been standing in the corner, blending into the shadows like a piece of furniture. "The police are downstairs," the lawyer said. His voice was devoid of inflection. "They have a warrant for your arrest regarding the death of Clementine Villarreal." Karen stood up so fast her chair screeched against the floor. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. "You said... you said if I signed..." "I said I wouldn't cut off Danny's funding," Isaiah said. He was adjusting his cufflinks, looking at a point above her head. "I didn't say I would protect you from the consequences of your actions." "Isaiah, please." "The divorce is just the administrative cleanup," he said. He finally looked at her. His gaze was dead. "You have a funeral to attend first." "What?" "You're going to her funeral," Isaiah said. "You're going to see what you did. You're going to watch them put her in the ground." The door opened. Two men in dark suits stepped in. They weren't police yet. They were King's private security. "Get her out of my sight," Isaiah said. One of the guards grabbed her arm. His grip was bruising. Karen stumbled, her heels catching on the plush carpet. She looked back at Isaiah, searching for a shred of the man who had once held her when she had nightmares. There was nothing. Just a wall of ice. The elevator ride down was a blur of motion sickness. Karen leaned against the metal wall, trying to breathe. Her chest felt constricted, like a giant hand was squeezing her lungs. When the doors opened to the lobby, the flashbulbs blinded her. It was a wall of light. Cameras clicked in a frenzy, sounding like a swarm of mechanical locusts. Reporters shouted questions that overlapped into a roar of noise. "Karen! Did you do it?" "How do you feel about the baby?" "Look this way, killer!" Isaiah stepped out of the private elevator a moment later. He put on sunglasses, shielding himself from the lights. The reporters quieted down instantly, parting like the Red Sea for him. He was the grieving father, the betrayed lover. He was the victim here. He didn't speak. He walked straight to the black Rolls Royce waiting at the curb. The guards shoved Karen into the sedan behind it. It was an unmarked car. The interior smelled of stale leather. The convoy moved. Karen stared out the window as the city blurred into streaks of gray rain. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. She kept replaying that moment on the stairs. Clementine's smile, the way she had leaned back, the sudden loss of friction on the floor. I tried to save her. But memory is a fragile thing. Under the weight of Isaiah's certainty, under the weight of the world's hatred, Karen felt her own reality fracturing. Had she pushed her? Had she, in some subconscious moment of jealousy, wanted Clementine gone? No. No. She pressed her palms against her temples. The car slowed. They were leaving the city, entering the winding roads of the private cemetery in Westchester. The trees were bare, skeletal fingers reaching up into the stormy sky. The car stopped. The door opened. The wind whipped rain into the backseat, soaking Karen's blouse in seconds. Isaiah was standing there. He held a large black umbrella, but he didn't offer her shelter. He looked like a reaper. "Get out," he ordered. Karen stepped out into the mud. Her heels sank immediately. The cold rain plastered her hair to her face. Isaiah pointed toward the gathering of people on the hill. "On your knees," he said. Karen looked at him, water dripping from her eyelashes. "Isaiah..." "Walk to her grave on your knees," he said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "Or Danny loses his machine tonight."