Too Late For Regret: My Billionaire Husband

When Cressie walked in, the Grand Dame, Beatrice Banks, was holding court in the solarium. She sat in a high-backed velvet chair, a cup of bone china tea balanced precariously in her hand. She looked like a hawk perched on a branch, waiting for a field mouse to make a mistake.

Cressie tried to walk past the doorway quietly, but her shoes squeaked on the parquet.

"You're late," Beatrice said without turning her head.

Cressie stopped. She took a breath, steeling herself. "The doctor kept me waiting."

Beatrice turned then. Her eyes scanned Cressie with the same clinical detachment Ellsworth had shown. "You look dreadful. Have you been eating that salty rubbish again? Your face is puffy."

Cressie didn't defend herself. It was preeclampsia, not salt, but Beatrice didn't believe in medical conditions that marred the aesthetic of the family.

Cressie walked into the room and placed the folded ultrasound report on the tea table. "It's a girl," she said softly.

Beatrice's hand froze halfway to her mouth. The tea in the cup rippled.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, a slow, terrifying smile spread across the old woman's face. She set the cup down with a clatter.

"A girl," Beatrice breathed. "Finally. The curse is broken. Three generations of boys, and finally a girl."

She stood up, ignoring Cressie entirely, and rang the bell for the butler. "Higgins! Get the decorator on the line. We need the nursery done in pink. Pale pink, not that garish bubblegum shade. And get the family lawyer. We need to update the trust."

Cressie stood there, invisible again. She was just the vessel. The packaging for the gift.

"I'm going to my room," Cressie said.

Beatrice waved a dismissive hand. "Go, go. Rest. We can't have you looking like a drowned rat for the christening photos."

Cressie climbed the stairs, her legs burning. She made it to her room-the guest room she had been subtly migrated to over the last month-and closed the door. She leaned her back against it and slid down until she hit the floor.

Her phone buzzed again. She thought it was her father, and a wave of exhaustion hit her. But when she looked at the screen, it was a California number.

She frowned and swiped accept. "Hello?"

"Cressie? Is that you?"

The voice was warm, energetic, and achingly familiar. It was a voice from a life she had buried.

"Professor Mayer?" she whispered.

"Evan. Please, I told you to call me Evan five years ago." There was a rustle of papers on the other end. "Look, I know this is out of the blue. I know you're... married now. But I'm looking at the candidate list for the doctoral program at Stanford, and frankly, it's depressing. None of them have your brain, Cressie. Your thesis on market volatility is still being cited."

Cressie closed her eyes. Tears leaked out, hot and fast. "Professor... that was a long time ago."

"It was three years ago. Your brain didn't atrophy just because you got a ring on your finger. I have a spot. A fully funded PhD spot. It's yours if you want it."

Cressie looked across the room. There was a mirror on the wardrobe door. She saw herself-the swollen face, the dull eyes. She didn't look like a scholar. She looked like a victim.

"I can't," she choked out. "I'm... I'm having a baby."

"So? Bring the baby. We have daycare. We have housing." Evan's voice dropped, becoming serious. "Cressie, are you happy?"

The question hung in the air.

Happy? She was drowning.

Downstairs, she heard the front door slam. Heavy footsteps echoed in the foyer. Ellsworth was home.

Panic spiked in her chest.

"I have to go," Cressie whispered.

"Think about it," Evan urged. "The offer stands until the semester starts."

"I... I accept." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "But I need time. I have... baggage to clear. And I will need resources. Independent resources."

"I can set you up as a consultant for my private research firm," Evan said immediately, matching her sudden shift in tone. "Legitimate income. Safe."

"Do it."

Cressie hung up and deleted the call log immediately. Her heart was racing, but for the first time in months, it wasn't from fear. It was from adrenaline.

The door handle turned.

Cressie scrambled to her feet, wiping her face.

Ellsworth pushed the door open. He didn't knock. He looked tired, his tie loosened, his jacket over his arm. He stopped when he saw her standing by the door.

"Grandmother is screaming about pink paint downstairs," he said, his voice devoid of enthusiasm. "Is it true?"

"Yes," Cressie said. "A girl."

Ellsworth stared at her. His gaze dropped to her stomach, then back to her face. There was a moment-a fleeting second-where he looked like he wanted to say something. To ask how she was.

But then he sniffed the air. He frowned.

"You smell like antiseptic," he said.

"I was at the doctor," Cressie reminded him. "Remember? The elevator?"

Ellsworth's jaw tightened. "Right. The cleaning lady incident." He walked past her to the closet, tossing his jacket on the bed. "Beatrice wants us at the Hamptons tonight for a dinner. Get changed. Wear something... that fits."

As he walked past her, the air shifted. The scent of him hit her.

It wasn't just his cologne. Underneath the sandalwood and musk, there was something floral. Sweet.

It wasn't Chanel No. 5.

Cressie froze. It wasn't Jolie. Or perhaps, it was a different scent Jolie wore for him.

She turned to look at him, her stomach churning. "Ellsworth?"

"What?" He was rummaging through his tie rack.

"Nothing."

She realized then that the rot in their marriage went deeper than a mistress. It was a lifestyle. He didn't just have a lover; he had a separate existence where she didn't exist.

Two hours later, she was sitting in the passenger seat of his Aston Martin. The leather was supple, the engine a low purr.

Cressie tried to stretch her legs. Her ankles were throbbing. She reached for the seat adjustment controls on the side.

The seat slid back. Way back.

It stopped at a setting that was tailored for someone with legs much longer than hers. Someone tall. Like Jolie.

Cressie stared at the dashboard. She pressed the button to move it forward.

"Stop fidgeting," Ellsworth snapped, his eyes on the road.

"The seat was moved," Cressie said quietly.

"The valets move it," he lied. He didn't even blink.

Cressie looked at the infotainment screen. The Bluetooth connection history was open.

Jolie's iPhone connected.

October 14, 11:42 PM.

Cressie felt cold. October 14th. The night he claimed he was in London for the merger talks. He hadn't been in London. He had been here, in this car, with her.

She looked out the window as the city lights blurred into streaks of red and gold. She placed a hand over her belly.

I accept, she thought, repeating Evan's offer in her mind like a mantra. I accept. I accept.

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