Too Late For Regret, My Love

The evening air was cool and crisp as I drove back. My apartment felt small and empty without Apollo, and the silence had started to grate. I missed the familiar rhythm of home, even with the recent discord. As I pulled into the driveway, the soft glow from the living room windows beckoned, a silent promise of normalcy.

Stepping inside, the aroma of a delicate stew, free of any suspicious ingredients, filled the air. Glenda was on the back patio, watering the orchids Brett loved. She glanced up as I entered, her eyes meeting mine for a brief, almost imperceptible moment. No greeting, no smile. Just a cool, neutral acknowledgment. I offered none in return, heading straight for Brett's study.

He was sitting at his large mahogany desk, surrounded by architectural drafts and financial projections for our next major firm expansion. He looked up, his face breaking into a wide, hopeful smile the moment he saw me. "Alex! You came!" He pushed himself up, his crutches clattering slightly.

"Of course," I said, a faint smile touching my lips. "You said you wanted to talk about the future."

"And I do!" He motioned to the stacks of papers. "Come, look at these. New clients, new cities. We could be expanding into Europe, Alex. Imagine that. Parker-Hardy Designs, dominating the globe." He beamed, his enthusiasm infectious, pulling me back into our shared dream.

I sat beside him, flipping through the impressive proposals. As I read, a part of me softened. This was the Brett I fell in love with – the visionary, the dreamer. We were a formidable team.

"About Glenda," he began, his voice dropping, almost conspiratorial. "You know, she has a pretty tough backstory. Single mom, escaped a difficult situation." He looked at me with those earnest, vulnerable eyes that always disarmed me. "She's just a little rough around the edges, not used to... our kind of life."

My gaze sharpened. "Are you trying to make excuses for her, Brett?"

He immediately backtracked, his hand reaching for mine. "No, no, baby, absolutely not! I swear. I told her off. Seriously. She cried, Alex. Said she didn't mean to offend. I told her you're the boss, my partner, and my fiancée. She knows her place now. And I showed her the allergy list. I made her repeat it back to me. No nuts, ever. Promise." He squeezed my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles. "I promise, Alex. Everything will be different now."

His touch, his words, the genuine anxiety in his eyes chipped away at my resolve. He looked so vulnerable, so remorseful. He was trying. And I was pregnant. I needed stability. I needed him.

"Alright," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "Just... make sure it is."

A soft, polite knock sounded at the study door. "Dinner is served," Glenda's voice called out, perfectly modulated, perfectly respectful.

Brett winked at me. "See? Progress."

When we entered the dining room, the table was impeccably set. My plate was in its rightful place. Glenda stood by the kitchen entrance, not at the table, her hands clasped in front of her. She waited until Brett and I were seated before saying, "Tonight we have slow-cooked lamb stew with root vegetables, and a side of steamed green beans. No nuts whatsoever, Ms. Hardy. I double-checked everything." Her gaze was direct, almost challenging, but her tone was deferential.

I nodded, a silent acknowledgment. Brett smiled, pleased. "See, Alex? I told you."

The meal was quiet. Not entirely comfortable, a lingering tension in the air, but peaceful enough. Glenda served us, then retreated to the breakfast nook. I could hear the faint clink of her cutlery from there. It was progress, I supposed. A fragile truce.

After dinner, Brett settled in the living room to watch a documentary, his leg propped up. I decided to retreat to my study to catch up on a few more emails. The new proposals still sat on my desk, waiting for review. I felt a sense of calm returning, a quiet hope that things might actually be alright.

I flipped open my laptop, but the warmth of the house, the satisfying meal, and the lingering fatigue from Chicago began to weigh on me. My eyelids grew heavy. I leaned back in my ergonomic chair, closing my eyes, just for a moment.

A soft thud, a metallic clang, jolted me awake. It came from my bedside table. My eyes snapped open. I was definitely in my study, not my bedroom. The sound had been distinct, out of place. My heart hammered against my ribs.

I slowly sat up, my gaze fixed on the corner of the room where my personal documents, my laptop, and a stack of sensitive client blueprints lay. My breath caught.

A small figure, no more than waist-high, was crouched by my desk, his back to me. He was rummaging through my portfolio, his small hands rifling through the delicate, confidential blueprints. One of my expensive fountain pens lay on the floor, its cap off, a dark stain of ink spreading across a pristine design sketch.

"Hey!" I yelled, my voice sharp, adrenaline flooding my system. "What do you think you're doing?"

The child startled, dropping a sheaf of papers. He spun around, his face smudged with ink, a half-eaten cookie clutched in his hand. His eyes, wide and defiant, were Glenda's eyes.

He couldn't have been more than nine or ten. He wore a brightly colored T-shirt and shorts, completely out of place in my formal study.

"Who are you?" I demanded, pushing myself out of the chair, my voice rising in volume. "And what are you doing with my things?"

He didn't answer, just stared at me for a second, then stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth.

"Glenda! Brett!" I shouted, my voice raw with a mixture of disbelief and fury. This was too much. This was completely unacceptable.

The child, instead of being scared, dropped to the floor and began to wail, a theatrical, ear-splitting scream. He kicked his legs, pounding his fists on the carpet, throwing a full-blown tantrum.

I stared at him, aghast. I had dealt with difficult clients, demanding partners, but never a nine-year-old child throwing a fit in my private study, surrounded by my ruined work.

Just then, Glenda rushed in, her face a mask of concern. "Leo! What's wrong, baby?" She swept him into her arms, pressing his face to her chest, glaring at me over his head. Her eyes were hard, accusing. "What did you do to my son?"

My jaw dropped. "Your son?" I stammered, pointing a trembling finger at the ruined blueprints. "He was in my study! Touching my things! Look at this mess!"

Glenda hugged the crying child tighter. "He's just a boy, Ms. Hardy. He didn't mean any harm." She looked at me with a fierce, protective glare. "What are you shouting at him for?"

"Why is he here?!" I demanded, completely bypassing her question. "I was told no children! This is a professional environment, and a private home! Who gave you permission to bring your child here?"

She softened her voice, her eyes darting around the room, then back to me. "Mr. Parker said it was fine. My babysitter canceled, and I had nowhere else to take him. He just wanted to see his mommy."

"Brett!" I roared, my patience gone. I stormed out of the study, Glenda hovering defensively over her still-sobbing son. I found Brett engrossed in his documentary, headphones on, blissfully unaware of the chaos.

I ripped the headphones from his ears. "Brett Parker, what have you done?!"

He stared up at me, bewildered. "Alex? What the hell?"

"Get up!" I hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him. His crutches clattered as he struggled to keep up. "Get up and see what your 'generosity' has wrought!"

I dragged him, hobbling, back to my study. Glenda was still cradling Leo, who was now just whimpering, peering at us from behind his mother's arm, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Did you or did you not give Glenda permission to bring her child into our home?" I demanded, my voice shaking with barely suppressed rage.

Brett's face went from confusion to a sheepish defensiveness. "Well, yes, I did. She said she was in a bind, Alex. And he seemed like a sweet kid. I didn't think he'd be... that much trouble."

"Sweet kid?" I pushed him toward my desk, making him look down at the carnage.

My laptop screen was cracked, a spiderweb of broken pixels. Client blueprints, delicate and irreplaceable, were torn, smudged with ink and cookie crumbs, scribbled over with crayon. My expensive pens were scattered, some broken. My collection of rare, vintage stationery, ruined. My custom-made, hand-tooled leather portfolio, scored with deep scratches.

A faint, sweet, cloying smell hung in the air. I looked at my vanity table, its pristine surface now a chaotic mess. My favorite perfume, the one Brett gave me for our anniversary, lay shattered on the floor, its precious liquid soaking into the rug, mixing with spilled eyeshadow and foundation. Shards of glass glinted under the soft lamplight.

Brett stared, his face paling, the color draining from it. His eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. He looked from the shattered perfume to the ruined blueprints, then to Glenda, who was now staring at him with wide, innocent eyes, her son tucked behind her.

"What... what happened?" Brett whispered, his voice barely audible. He looked at me, a flicker of fear in his eyes.

I didn't answer. I just pointed at the devastation, then at Glenda and her son. "This," I said, my voice cold and hard, stripped of all emotion, "is your 'sweet kid.' And you, Brett, are going to explain exactly how you're going to fix this. Every single piece."