The Wife He Regrets Losing

Emma's POV "Emma! Emma!" The scream ripped through the house before the sun had fully risen. I jolted awake in the guest room, my heart racing, disoriented for a moment before everything came crashing back. "Emma! Get down here!" Mrs Christine screamed. I swallowed and pushed the covers off. I hadn't really slept anyway. Their laughter had echoed down the hallway half the night. I slipped on my slippers and walked downstairs. Mrs Christine was already standing in the kitchen, fully dressed, arms crossed like a commander inspecting a soldier. "Finally," she said sharply. "Cassy and Daniel drank too much last night. They need hangover soup." I blinked at her. "The maid can make it." Her eyes narrowed. "No. You will make it and you will take it to them yourself." There was something intentional in her tone. Something cruel. I nodded slowly. "Alright." I moved around the kitchen mechanically, boiling water, chopping vegetables, stirring spices into the broth. The smell rose warm and comforting, but inside me there was nothing but emptiness. My husband was upstairs. In my bed, with another woman. When the soup was ready, Christine placed the tray in my hands. "Take it up. And knock climbed the stairs slowly. Each step felt heavier than the last. I paused in front of the master bedroom door. My bedroom. I knocked once. No answer. I pushed the door open slightly. They were in bed. Cuddled beneath the sheets. Cassy's head rested on Daniel's chest, her fingers lazily tracing patterns against his skin. He kissed her forehead. My fingers tightened around the tray. Cassy looked at me first. "Oh," she said softly, adjusting the sheet but not moving away from him. "Thank you." Daniel didn't even look embarrassed. "Just leave it there." Just leave it there. I walked in, placed the tray on the bedside table, and turned to leave. I didn't cry, I didn't speak. I refused to give them that satisfaction. An hour later, the house grew quiet. I went back to the guest room and pulled out a box I hadn't opened in years. My sketchbooks. My designs. My dreams. My fingers trembled as I flipped through pages filled with bold concepts and confident strokes. Corporate collections. Evening gowns. Structured power suits. I stopped at one labeled: Queen Elizabeth Collection. That was my breakthrough concept in school, modern royalty in fabric form. Strong shoulders. Clean lines. Authority stitched into every seam. My lecturers had called me brilliant. My whole world had once felt brilliant. I didn't even notice when they left the house. I only noticed when there was a knock. It was the maid. "Madam, I'm stepping out to get something from the market." "Okay," I said absently. She left. I went back to my designs. Then...... "EMMA!" Christine's scream tore through the house again. I rushed downstairs. She stood near the door, irritated. "Go to the car trunk and bring the shopping bags. They're for Cassy. Take them to their room." I hesitated. "The maid just left. She can bring them when she comes back." Christine stepped closer. "Are you refusing me?" "I just think..." The slap came before I could finish, my head snapped to the side. The sting burned instantly across my cheek. "You will do as you're told in this house," she said coldly. I didn't cry, I walked outside. The shopping bags were heavy. Expensive boutiques' logos stared back at me. Dresses. Shoes. Accessories, all for Cassy. As I lifted the bags, I heard laughter behind me. Cassy walked past slowly, sunglasses perched on her head though we were indoors. She paused beside me, smirked. A slow, knowing smirk. "I hope you're careful with the red dress," she said sweetly. "It's delicate." The way she looked at me said everything. I belong here and you don't. I carried the bags upstairs. Into my former bedroom. She was already unpacking when I entered. Daniel stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist as she admired herself in the mirror. I placed the bags down quietly. No one thanked me, no one acknowledged me. I left before they could dismiss me again. Back in the guest room, I closed the door softly. I walked to the mirror. A red mark was forming across my cheek. I stared at my reflection. Who was this woman? When had I become someone who stood silently while her life was taken from her piece by piece? My eyes drifted to the bed, to my sketchbook. Slowly, I walked over and picked up a pencil. My hand trembled at first. Then it steadied. I began to draw sharp lines. Bold cuts. Downstairs, laughter echoed again, but this time, I didn't flinch. If they thought they had broken me but they were wrong. They had awakened something. My phone buzzed suddenly on the bed. Unknown number. My heart skipped. I hesitated... then answered. "Hello?" A male voice spoke calmly. The man on the phone cleared his throat gently. "Miss Carter? Are you there?" I swallowed. "Yes... I'm here." "We were impressed by your portfolio. The structure, the detailing, it was ahead of its time. We would love to discuss a position with you." For a second, my fingers tightened around the phone. A life I had buried was suddenly breathing again. "I... I'm sorry," I said quietly. "There must be a mistake. I stopped working a long time ago. I'm a full-time housewife now." There was a brief silence on the other end. "That's unfortunate," he replied politely. "Your talent shouldn't be wasted." The word wasted echoed long after the call ended. I lowered the phone slowly and stared at my sketches. My once-brilliant lines now looked like relics of a girl who believed in herself. My phone buzzed again, It was Susan. I hesitated before answering. "Emma!" she said immediately. "What is wrong with you?" My heart skipped. "What do you mean?" "I just got off the phone with a recruiter. They said you rejected the offer. Emma, what are you doing?" I closed my eyes. "Susan, please. Stop sending my resume everywhere. I told you I'm not interested." "Not interested?" she repeated, shocked. "This is a major fashion house! They don't call people twice!" "I don't want it," I said firmly. "I want to focus on my marriage. I want to be there for my husband." There was a long pause. "Emma," Susan said softly now, "the same husband who moved another woman into your bedroom?" My throat tightened. "It's complicated." "No," she said sharply. "It's not complicated. You're sacrificing your life for a man who keeps choosing someone else." "That's not true," I whispered, though my voice lacked conviction. "Isn't it? Has he defended you once? Has he stood up for you? Has he looked at you the way he looks at her?" Each question felt like a stone dropping into my chest. "You don't understand," I said weakly. "He wasn't always like this." "Then what happened, Emma?" Susan pressed. "When did you become the one begging for space in your own life?" I had no answer. Because somewhere deep down... I didn't know. "Listen to me," Susan continued, gentler now. "A man who loves you does not make you compete. He does not erase you. He does not let his mother slap you." Tears burned behind my eyes. "I just need time," I said. "For what?" she asked quietly. "For him to choose you?" Silence filled the line. "I have to go," I whispered. "Emma" I hung up. The room felt heavy. I walked to the window and looked outside. The sky was clear. Peaceful. Mocking me. Downstairs, I heard Daniel laugh again. That laugh. It used to be mine. I pressed my hand against my chest, trying to steady the ache. Was there still a chance? Was this just a phase? A misunderstanding? A mistake he would eventually regret? Maybe if I tried harder, or I was more patient. Maybe if I stopped fighting, or I became softer again. Maybe if I reminded him of who we used to be. Maybe I was the only one still holding on. I sat back on the bed, staring at my wedding ring. It still felt heavy. But suddenly, I wasn't sure if it symbolized love... Or chains. And as their laughter echoed through the house once more, one question refused to leave my mind: Was I fighting for my marriage... Or was I the only one still in it?