Too Late For Regret, Mr. Spencer

The morning sun streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, but Lydia hadn't slept. Her eyes were bloodshot. The space beside her in the king-sized bed was cold and perfectly smooth. Blake hadn't come home.

She walked barefoot to the bathroom and stared at the woman in the mirror. The face was pale, the eyes empty. A stranger.

She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face, again and again, trying to wake herself from the nightmare.

Back in the bedroom, she pulled open the bottom drawer of her nightstand and took out a private cell phone, one she had never used in the Spencer house.

She swiped it open. There was only one contact: "David Chen, Esq." David was her former classmate from Columbia Law School, who had spent the last decade building one of Manhattan's most formidable high-net-worth matrimonial law firms.

Her finger hovered over the call button. Five years of memories flooded her mind—the sweet and the bitter, a tangled mess that made her hesitate.

Suddenly, she heard Leo's laughter from downstairs, followed by a woman's gentle voice. "Leo, baby, slow down."

It was Danica's voice. She had spent the night.

That was the final straw. The last thread of hope snapped.

Lydia took a deep breath. Her eyes, once filled with doubt, were now perfectly clear and firm. She pressed the call button.

The phone connected. David's professional, calm voice came through. "Lydia? I've been waiting for this call."

"David," she said, her own voice as steady as she could make it. "I'm ready. Draft the papers. I don't want anything. Just my freedom."

After hanging up, a wave of exhaustion washed over her, but it was followed by a feeling of profound relief.

She walked to the far end of her walk-in closet, to a locked cabinet. She entered a complex code, and the door swung open.

Inside, there were no jewels or designer bags. Only a few old hard drives, a thick stack of annotated manuscripts, and a golden Sundance Film Festival trophy.

She picked up the trophy, her fingers tracing the name engraved on its base: "Lark."

That was her name. The name of the talented young director and screenwriter who had been taking Hollywood by storm before she became Mrs. Spencer.

She had sealed "Lark" away for five years for the sake of her marriage, almost believing that part of her was dead.

She opened a dusty laptop and connected a hard drive. Unfinished scripts and story outlines filled the screen. She opened a browser and logged into a social media account she hadn't touched in five years. The username: Lark. The follower count was still a staggering three million.

A flood of unread messages poured in, all asking the same questions: Where did Lark go? When is she coming back?

Lydia looked at the messages, and for the first time in years, a light sparked in her dry eyes.

She closed the laptop. The name "Lark" was a seed, replanted in her heart. She wasn't ready to act on it yet, but the decision was made.

With this new resolve, she began to methodically apply her makeup.

She chose a bold, red lipstick. The woman in the mirror had sharp, determined eyes. The persona of Lydia Haley, Mrs. Spencer, was fading. Lark was returning.

She changed into a sleek, black power suit and walked downstairs.

In the living room, Danica was wearing one of Blake's white shirts, affectionately feeding Leo breakfast. Eleanor watched from the side, a satisfied smile on her face. A picture-perfect family portrait.

Their smiles froze when they saw Lydia.

Lydia ignored them, walking straight to the front door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Eleanor called out. "You're scheduled to meet with the charity foundation board with me today."

Lydia paused at the door, without turning back.

"I quit," she said, her voice cool and even.

In their stunned silence, she pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the bright sunlight. Behind her was hell. Ahead was an unknown, but hopeful, future.