Too Late For Regret: My Ex-Husband's Downfall

The dam broke at Sloane's apartment. The adrenaline that had sustained Colette for two days vanished, and the full weight of the illness and the heartbreak crashed down on her. That night, a fever took hold. She was burning from the inside out, lost in a haze of pain and disjointed nightmares. Sloane found her at 2 a.m., drenched in sweat and muttering incoherently. "I'm taking you to the ER," Sloane said, her voice tight with panic. "No," Colette managed to gasp, grabbing her friend's arm. "No hospital... don't call him..." Sloane spent the rest of the night sponging her forehead with cool cloths, her face a mask of helpless worry. Meanwhile, Edwardo returned to the penthouse late, after ensuring Cleo was comfortable and sedated. He found the apartment empty. The key on the table. He wasn't worried. He was annoyed. He figured Colette had gone to a friend's house to be dramatic. He poured himself a whiskey, enjoying the silence. Let her have her little fit. She'd come back. They always did. The next day, Colette's fever raged. She was too weak to move, too weak to even think about going back to the penthouse for the medicine in the safe. At the hospital, Cleo's condition "worsened." She was weak, listless. Edwardo grew desperate. He remembered reading a paper about a new experimental drug, Asidancanmab, that showed incredible promise in treating symptoms like hers. He made calls, pulled strings, but the drug was impossible to get. It was locked down in a clinical trial. Then, a thought struck him. Colette. She was always reading medical journals, always interested in the latest research. Maybe she knew something. He went back to the penthouse, intending to look through her files. The apartment was still empty. He walked into the bedroom and saw the safe, the painting that usually covered it askew. He knew she kept her most important things in there. On a whim, he tried the combination. Their anniversary. Wrong. Her birthday. Wrong. He scoffed, a bitter smile on his lips. A memory surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome-the date of their first outing, a cheap street fair. The day he'd given her that stupid, handmade ring. He almost dismissed the thought, but with a surge of pure irritation at her sentimentality, he punched in the numbers, fully expecting them to fail. The lock clicked open. Inside, he saw the jewelry. The rings. And a small, white box containing a single vial of pale gold liquid. Asidancanmab. He stared at it, his mind racing. He recognized the compound name instantly. He'd seen preliminary data on the VX-7 project in a restricted journal. The molecular structure was revolutionary. It was a long shot, but based on what he knew, it was the perfect counter to Cleo's sudden, inexplicable symptoms. In an emergency, a calculated risk was necessary. He didn't wonder why she had it. He didn't question how she got it. His mind, in its profound arrogance, constructed its own narrative. She got it for Cleo. It made perfect sense to him. Colette was angry, yes, but deep down, she loved her sister. She was just too proud to admit it. This was her way of helping without losing face. She had hidden it, knowing he would eventually look here. It was a test. A game. He felt a surge of smug satisfaction. He understood her so well. He took the vial without a second thought. That evening, the fever finally broke. Colette, weak but lucid, knew she had to get the medicine. She took a cab back to the penthouse, her body trembling with effort. She opened the door and froze. Edwardo was sitting on the sofa, waiting for her. A terrible premonition seized her. She ignored him, rushing past into the bedroom. She fumbled with the safe's new combination, her fingers clumsy. It swung open. The box was gone. She spun around, her eyes wild. She stormed back into the living room. "Where is it?" she demanded, her voice a raw whisper. "The medicine. Where is it?" He stood up, a magnanimous, forgiving smile on his face. "Honey, thank you. I knew you had a good heart." He was radiating a smug, self-congratulatory warmth. "I confirmed it was the VX-7 compound and gave it to Cleo," he said, as if delivering wonderful news. "The effect was miraculous. You don't have to pretend to be angry anymore. I know it was a gift from you to her. I understand." Colette stared at him. The blood drained from her face. He hadn't just stolen from her. He had stolen her only chance at life and twisted it into a token for his mistress. He had erased her, her needs, her very existence, and replaced it with a narrative in which he was the hero. The betrayal was so monstrous, so complete, it transcended anger. It was a violation of her soul. All the pain, all the fear, all the rage of the past forty-eight hours coalesced into a single point of white-hot energy. Her hand moved before she even thought about it. She slapped him, hard, across the face. The sound cracked through the silent apartment like a gunshot. "You bastard," she choked out, the words drowned in a sudden, violent flood of tears. "You absolute bastard."