Too Late For Regret, Mr. Morrison

The heavy oak door of the Morrison estate felt like it weighed a ton. Carmen Blair pushed it open, her shoulders burning from the eighteen-hour shift at the charity hospital. She still smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. Her scrubs were wrinkled, her feet aching in her cheap sneakers. All she wanted was a hot shower and to crawl into the bed that her husband rarely shared with her anymore.

She dropped her keys on the foyer table. The house was too quiet. The staff was usually buzzing around at this hour.

She climbed the grand staircase, her hand trailing up the cold mahogany banister. She walked down the long hallway toward the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar.

A smell hit her before she even pushed the door open. Copper. Raw, metallic, and thick. Mixed with the heavy, cloying scent of Seraphina's signature perfume-Frédéric Malle's Portrait of a Lady.

Carmen's hand froze on the door handle. Her brain instantly shifted from exhausted wife to clinical observer. She pushed the door open.

The white Persian rug was ruined. A dark, sticky pool of red spread across the expensive fibers. Seraphina Astor-Vance lay sprawled on the floor, her white silk slip dress hiked up, stained crimson from the waist down. A silver fruit knife glinted in her right hand, the blade smeared with blood.

Carmen's eyes dropped to the wound. Her pulse steadied. The blood was too bright. The cut on Seraphina's forearm was superficial-barely a scratch, angled upward, typical of self-infliction. The blood pooling under her skirt was too voluminous for the tiny arm wound.

Seraphina's eyes snapped open. The calculated malice in them was fleeting, quickly replaced by a trembling, terrified performance.

"Carmen..." Seraphina's voice shook, a perfect tremor of fear and accusation. "Why... why would you do this?"

Carmen didn't answer. Her feet moved forward on their own. Surgeon mode. She needed to check the actual depth of the abdominal wound, if there even was one. She had to stop the bleeding.

She took one step onto the rug.

"Don't come near me!" Seraphina shrieked, scrambling backward, the knife raised defensively. "You already killed my baby! Are you going to kill me too to shut me up?"

Carmen stopped. The words registered, but the logic refused to form. "What are you talking about? I just walked in."

Heavy, rapid footsteps thundered up the stairs. The door slammed against the wall.

Kian Morrison stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his dark hair disheveled. His gray eyes swept the room. They skipped right past Carmen and locked onto the bleeding woman on the floor.

"Kian!" Seraphina sobbed, reaching out her bloody hand toward him. With her other hand, she slid a crumpled piece of paper across the floor. "Our baby... it's gone... she pushed me..."

Kian's face drained of color, then flooded with a dark, violent red. He strode past Carmen without a glance.

Carmen grabbed his arm as he moved by. Her fingers dug into the expensive wool of his suit jacket. "Kian, wait. Look at her arm. That blood isn't hers. I was at the hospital. I just got home."

Kian stopped. He looked down at her hand on his sleeve, then slowly raised his eyes to hers. There was no confusion in his gaze. No question. Just pure, freezing contempt.

"Shut up, you vicious bitch." His voice was low, dead calm, and cut deeper than the knife on the floor.

He shook off her hand and knelt down, pulling Seraphina into his arms. "It's okay. I'm here. I've got you."

Carmen stood frozen. Three years of marriage. Three years of silence, cold shoulders, and empty beds. And he didn't even ask. He didn't even blink.

"Kian, look at the ultrasound," Carmen said, her voice harder now. She pointed at the paper on the floor. "It's dated last week. She wasn't even showing. That blood is fake. It's a setup."

Kian lifted his head. The rage in his eyes was terrifying. He stood up, holding Seraphina against his chest.

"Get out of my way." He stepped toward the door.

Carmen moved to block the doorway. She had to make him see. "You are not taking her out of here without calling an ambulance. That is a crime scene, and she is lying."

Kian's patience snapped. "I said, move!"

He didn't shove her, not directly. Instead, he took a large, aggressive step forward, his shoulder clipping hers hard as he stormed past. It wasn't a direct assault, but it was just as dismissive and twice as contemptuous.

Carmen's exhaustion, her weakened state from the long shift, betrayed her. She couldn't catch her balance. The unexpected impact sent her stumbling sideways. Her feet tangled in the ruined rug. She fell backward, the momentum throwing her weight against the sharp, carved corner of the Italian marble fireplace.

A sickening crack echoed in the room.

Pain exploded through her skull. White-hot, blinding. Her vision went black for a second, then filled with flashing spots. Warm liquid, thick and sticky, gushed down the side of her face, dripping onto her collarbone.

She lay on the floor, gasping, trying to force air back into her lungs. The room spun sickeningly.

Through the haze of pain, she saw Kian. He had paused for a fraction of a second when he heard the impact, his back stiffening, but he hadn't turned around. He just adjusted his grip on Seraphina and walked out the door.

"Call the house doctor!" Kian's voice echoed down the hallway, frantic and urgent. "Now! Hurry!"

That urgency. That panic. He had never once used that tone for her.

Carmen turned her head slightly. The blood from her head wound mingled with the fake stage blood on the rug. It was the same color. But hers was real.

Footsteps shuffled at the door. The housekeeper and two maids stood there, staring down at her. Their eyes were wide, but not with pity. It was disgust. It was fear. They looked at her like she was a rabid animal.

None of them moved to help her. None of them offered a towel or a phone.

Carmen pressed her hand against the wound on her head. The blood pulsed against her palm, hot and sticky. The physical pain was agonizing. But the cold, hollow space expanding in her chest hurt worse.

She stared at the ceiling. The ornate plaster medallion looked like a cage.

She was done.