Too Late For Regret, My Love

I took another deep breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. It had been a long day, and now this. I quickly pulled on a fresh blouse and slacks, splashing cold water on my face. The image of Glenda's smirk, the way her eyes had lingered, burned in my mind. It was a subtle invasion, but potent. I told myself it was just a new staff member learning the ropes, albeit a forward one. I told myself I was overreacting. But the feeling of unease persisted, a cold knot in my stomach.

When I finally entered the dining room, the scene before me felt alien. Brett was already seated at the head of the long oak table, his leg propped up on a cushion. Glenda sat directly opposite him, at the foot of the table, engaged in a low, intimate conversation. Her plate, piled high with food, was already half-empty. My usual place, to Brett's right, was empty. No plate, no cutlery. Nothing.

My entire body stiffened. Maria would have never sat with us, let alone started eating before I arrived. And she certainly would have set my place.

"Alex, honey, finally!" Brett chirped, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. "Glenda made mushroom risotto, your favorite! And a beautiful salad."

My eyes scanned the elegant table, then fixed on Glenda. "Glenda," I said, my voice calm, almost dangerously so. "Is there a reason my place hasn't been set?"

Glenda looked up, a fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes, usually so composed, held a flicker of surprise. "Oh, I apologize, Ms. Hardy. I assumed you would sit anywhere. Mr. Parker said it was fine for me to join him, since he's injured."

"Fine for you to join him, yes," I clarified, my gaze unwavering. "But not to start eating before the family has gathered. And certainly not at the main table." I gestured vaguely to the small, discreet breakfast nook off the kitchen, where Maria would eat her meals. "Our arrangement, as with Maria, is for household staff to dine separately once their duties are complete."

Brett cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Alex, honey, Glenda's been so kind, helping me with everything. I told her she could eat with me, just for company. You know, my leg and everything."

"Company during your meal is one thing," I said, my eyes still on Glenda, who had now put down her fork, her face a mask of slight indignation. "But professional boundaries are another. Maria understood that. Dinner is a family affair. As is setting the table for everyone."

Glenda's chin lifted. "I understand, Ms. Hardy. I was just following Mr. Parker's instructions."

"And I'm giving you mine now," I countered, my voice firm. "Please, move to the breakfast nook. And next time, ensure all places are set before the meal begins."

Brett's face clouded. "Alex, come on. It's just dinner. No need for such a fuss."

I didn't break eye contact with Glenda. "I'm not making a fuss, Brett. I'm stating a household rule."

Glenda, her lips pressed into a thin line, slowly pushed her chair back. The scrape of wood on tile echoed in the suddenly silent room. She picked up her plate. "Very well, Ms. Hardy. I apologize for the inconvenience." Her voice was laced with a barely concealed resentment.

"Wait a minute, Glenda," I said, stopping her. A new thought had just dawned on me, a cold wave washing over the previous anger. "Brett mentioned you made mushroom risotto. And salad."

"Yes," she replied, her back still to me, a hint of defiance in her posture.

"Did you remember my nut allergy?" I asked, my voice flat. It wasn't just an allergy; it was severe, life-threatening. Almonds, walnuts, pecans – a single trace could send me into anaphylactic shock. Maria knew. Everyone who cooked for me knew. It was meticulously documented, listed on a laminated card stuck to the fridge.

Glenda turned, her expression morphing from indignation to a careful frown. "Oh. Mr. Parker said you're a big fan of pine nuts in your risotto. And walnuts in the salad for texture."

My breath caught in my throat. Pine nuts. Walnuts. Both on my forbidden list. My stomach churned. "He said that?" I asked, turning to Brett, whose face had gone pale.

He stammered, "Well, I... I might have forgotten to mention the specific nuts, honey. I just said you loved nuts in general, the healthy kind, you know?" His eyes darted nervously between me and Glenda.

I walked to the table, my steps measured. The mushroom risotto, usually a comfort dish, now looked like a potential assassin. I saw the tiny, golden pine nuts sprinkled generously over the creamy rice. The salad, vibrant with greens, had crushed walnuts among the mixed leaves.

My hands trembled slightly as I reached for a serving spoon, scooped a small portion of the risotto onto a side plate, and walked to the kitchen bin. Without a word, I scraped it in. A soft clatter.

Brett gasped. "Alex! What are you doing?"

I turned back to them, my face devoid of emotion. "This is not fit for consumption." I walked back to the table, picked up the entire serving bowl of risotto, and calmly dumped its contents into the bin. Then the salad bowl. "None of it is safe. None of it is consumable."

The silence in the dining room was deafening. Brett stared at the empty bowls, his jaw slack. Glenda looked like a deer caught in headlights, her carefully constructed composure finally cracking. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide.

"Alex, that was uncalled for!" Brett finally managed, his voice tight with anger. "Glenda worked hard on that meal!"

I didn't answer. I just walked back to my empty place setting, pulled out the chair, and sat down. My appetite was gone, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

Brett slammed his fist on the table, wincing immediately from the pain in his cast. "What is wrong with you?" he demanded, his voice rising.

I met his gaze, my own eyes cold and unwavering. "What's wrong is that my fiancé, who claims to know me better than anyone, 'forgot' a life-threatening allergy. What's wrong is that your temporary caregiver, after being told my 'preferences,' managed to include two of my deadliest allergens. What's wrong is that I am sitting at my own dinner table, uninvited and unwanted, in my own home. That's what's wrong, Brett."

He recoiled as if struck. Glenda, meanwhile, had subtly slipped out of the room.

I pushed my chair back, the screeching sound tearing through the tense silence. "I've lost my appetite," I stated flatly. "And my patience."

I turned, walked out of the house, and got into my car. The engine roared to life, a comforting sound of escape. I drove to the small apartment I kept near the firm's main office – a practical investment, a quiet retreat for late nights. It was sparse, functional, a stark contrast to the grand home I' d just left. For the next few days, it was my sanctuary.

Brett's texts started almost immediately. A flurry of apologies, pleas, confusion.

Alex, what was that about?

Honey, please come home. I miss you.

It was a misunderstanding, I swear. Glenda feels terrible.

The house feels empty without you.

Normally, he would have shown up at my door, crutches or not. He would have charmed his way in, worn me down with his earnest apologies and puppy-dog eyes. But with his leg still broken, he was confined. All he could do was text.

I responded with curt, one-word answers, or nothing at all. My focus was on work. The Chicago project was still demanding, even from afar. The distance, the silence, it allowed me to think. To see the cracks that had been papered over.

Days turned into a week. Then, a longer message from Brett appeared on my screen. This one was different. It wasn' t just an apology. It was thoughtful, strategic.

Alex, I know I messed up. I truly did. I've told Glenda the rules, laid them out clearly. She understands. She won't eat at the table, she'll knock, and she has the allergy list memorized. I even bought new pots and pans, just to be safe. I miss our life. I know you're busy, but can we talk about our future? The wedding plans, the next phase of the firm? I've been looking at some new investment opportunities, things we can build together. I just need you here, by my side. We can talk tonight. Please.

He sent pictures of the new cookware, sparkling and unused. Pictures of our wedding brochures, open on the coffee table. Pictures of Apollo, curled up on our bed, looking forlorn.

His message felt genuine. Or at least, persuasive enough. The thought of our life, our shared ambitions, the empire we were building together… it pulled at something inside me. Maybe, just maybe, he understood. Maybe this was a blip, a warning shot. He needed me. And I, against my better judgment, still wanted to believe him.

I sent a single reply: I'll be home tonight.