Too Late For Regret: My Billionaire Husband

The plastic chair in the waiting area of Mount Sinai had a crack running down the center of the seat. Cressie Winters knew this because she had been staring at the floor for forty-five minutes, and every time she shifted her weight, the plastic pinched the back of her thigh. She didn't move often. Moving required effort, and effort was something her body currently had in short supply. At twenty-five weeks pregnant, she felt less like a human woman and more like a water balloon that had been overfilled and left out in the sun. Her ankles, usually slender, were currently spilling over the edges of her loafers. She had tried to hide them by pulling down the hem of her coat, a wool trench she had bought three years ago when her father's credit cards still worked without a decline code. It was too tight across the shoulders now. Everything was too tight. Around her, the waiting room was a sea of couples. Husbands holding wives' hands. Partners rubbing lower backs. A man in a navy sweater was currently kneeling in front of a woman, tying her shoe because she couldn't reach it. Cressie looked away. The sight made bile rise in her throat, a sour reminder of the breakfast she hadn't been able to keep down. She clutched the crumpled appointment ticket in her hand until her knuckles turned white. She was Mrs. Ellsworth Banks on paper, but in this room, she was just the woman in the corner with the gray skin and the coat that didn't button. "Mrs. Banks?" The nurse's voice was flat, professional. Cressie pushed herself up. It took two tries. She had to use the armrests, her breath hitching as a sharp pain shot through her lower back. No one offered a hand. Why would they? She looked like she had walked in off the street to get out of the cold. The appointment was a blur of cold gel and colder words. Fetal weight is low. Blood pressure is high. Preeclampsia markers are visible. You need to reduce stress. The doctor didn't look her in the eye. He looked at her chart, then at her swollen hands, and wrote a prescription for vitamins she couldn't afford to buy at the pharmacy downstairs. When Cressie finally exited the clinic, the hallway was bustling. It was the VIP wing, the place where the air smelled like fresh lilies and money. She kept her head down, hugging her purse to her chest to cover the stain on her maternity top where she'd spilled water earlier. She just wanted to get to the elevator. She just wanted to disappear. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Cressie stopped. Her feet, heavy as lead, seemed to glue themselves to the polished tile. Inside the elevator stood a group of people who looked like they had been cut from the pages of a magazine and pasted into reality. In the center was Ellsworth. He was wearing a charcoal suit, bespoke, the fabric draping perfectly over his broad shoulders. He looked impeccable. He looked powerful. He looked like a stranger. His hand was resting protectively on the small of a woman's back. Jolie Maxwell. She was petite, delicate, wrapped in a white cashmere coat that probably cost more than Cressie's entire college tuition. Her hair was a glossy waterfall of dark waves, her face perfectly made up, her lips curved into a soft, helpless smile as she looked up at Ellsworth. Cressie's breath caught in her lungs. She instinctively took a step back, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Don't see me. Please, God, don't let them see me. But her coordination was off. Her heel caught on the wheel of a janitorial cart parked against the wall. Clang. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. A mop handle clattered to the floor. A bucket tipped, sloshing soapy water toward the elevator. Every head turned. Cressie froze. She felt the heat rush up her neck, burning her cheeks. She was bent slightly at the waist, one hand reaching out to steady the cart, looking for all the world like she belonged with the cleaning supplies. Jolie gasped, a theatrical little sound, and pressed herself closer to Ellsworth. Her eyes, wide and innocent, swept over Cressie. For a fraction of a second, the innocence slipped. A spark of recognition flashed in Jolie's dark eyes-sharp, calculating, and cruel. She knew exactly who Cressie was. She had studied her. Then, the mask slammed back into place. A smile. Not a warm one. A smile that looked like a razor blade wrapped in silk. Jolie wrinkled her nose, lifting a manicured hand to cover her mouth. "Oh, Ellsworth," she said, her voice carrying clearly across the distance. "Is the hospital cutting budget on uniforms? That poor cleaning lady looks like her clothes are bursting at the seams." The air left the hallway. Cressie felt her stomach drop. She straightened up, her hand instinctively going to her belly. She waited for Ellsworth to correct her. She waited for him to say, That's my wife. She waited for him to step forward, to look angry, to do something. Ellsworth's gaze shifted. His eyes, the color of frozen ocean water, landed on Cressie. He took in the messy bun with loose strands sticking to her forehead. He looked at the old coat. He looked at the swollen ankles. For a second, Cressie saw something in his eyes. Recognition. And then, a deliberate, crushing choice. The shutters came down. His expression went blank. Cold. Indifferent. "Just ignore it," Ellsworth said. His voice was low, smooth, and utterly devoid of emotion. He didn't look at Cressie. He looked at his assistant standing by the buttons. "Close the doors. We're running late for the gala." It. He had called her it. The assistant jabbed the button. The doors began to slide shut. "Wait!" Cressie's lips moved, but no sound came out. She watched as the gap narrowed. She saw Jolie lean in and whisper something in Ellsworth's ear, laughing softly. She saw Ellsworth adjust his cufflink, turning his back to the door before it even fully closed. And then they were gone. Cressie stood alone in the hallway, the smell of Chanel No. 5 lingering in the air like a toxic cloud. "Hey, watch it, lady!" A heavy-set woman in blue scrubs pushed past her to grab the mop. "You made a mess. Move." Cressie nodded mechanically. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry." She bent down to help pick up a fallen spray bottle. As she squatted, a sharp cramp seized her abdomen. She gasped, dropping the bottle, and clutched her stomach. The pain was blinding for a second, a physical manifestation of the humiliation that was eating her alive. She stumbled toward the exit, her vision blurring. Not with tears. She wouldn't cry. Crying was for people who had hope that someone would comfort them. Outside, the New York winter bit through her coat. She stood on the curb, shivering. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out with trembling fingers. From: Dad Subject: Urgent Cressie, the bank is calling the loan on the warehouse. I need you to talk to Ellsworth tonight. Please. We are desperate. Cressie stared at the screen. The letters swam before her eyes. She looked up just in time to see a sleek black Maybach pull out of the VIP driveway. It glided past her, the tinted windows reflecting her own pathetic image back at her-a gray, bloated ghost on the side of the road. The car didn't slow down. She put the phone away. She didn't reply. She couldn't tell her father that his savior, his son-in-law, had just looked at her and seen nothing but a stain on the scenery. She raised her hand for a taxi. A yellow cab slowed, the driver looking her up and down with skepticism before unlocking the door. Cressie climbed in, the vinyl seat cold against her legs. "Where to?" the driver asked, eyeing her in the rearview mirror. "The Banks Estate," she said. Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears. Hollow. "Upper East Side." The driver scoffed, likely thinking she was the help, but he hit the meter. Cressie leaned her head against the cold glass. She placed a hand on her stomach, feeling a faint flutter. "He didn't see us, baby," she whispered to the window. "He didn't see us at all." ---