Too Late for Regret

Back in my room, I locked the door, and the world finally fell silent.

I opened my laptop. First, I logged into the corporate intranet and reread the NDA for the ‘Las Vegas Desert Wind Power Project Team.’ Then, I opened Zillow and searched for a one-bedroom apartment in Henderson.

I wasn’t planning on staying in corporate housing this time—I wanted a territory entirely my own.

After saving the documents, I picked up the red marker and crossed off another day on the calendar.

Fifteen days left.

The second hand on the clock seemed to be dragged down by the desert heat, moving slower than a jammed clip.

For the next few days, I switched myself to silent mode. Mom and Dad were totally swallowed up by planning Elena’s graduation and her massive gala, which meant they were far too distracted to even notice my little act of ‘rebellion.’

The gift was personally chosen by my mother—

A customized Rolls-Royce Dawn, the body painted Elena’s favorite ivory white, the family crest meticulously traced on the roof in real rose gold thread.

I was out for my morning run the day the car was delivered to the estate and ran straight into them.

My mother, linking arms with Elena and smiling like the Virgin Mary, instantly wiped the smile off her face when she saw me, adopting a cautious expression. “This is a graduation surprise for your sister. If you like it...”

I preemptively played the part of the dutiful daughter: “Don't worry about me. That old wrist injury means I can’t handle a wheel properly. It would just sit in the garage and collect dust.”

She visibly relaxed and added: “We’ll pick out something else for you next time.”

There won’t be a next time—I knew it, and they did too. But it was exactly what I wanted. I was done taking their money. Period.

I left the house at six every morning and stayed at the municipal library until closing.

Occasionally, passing the ‘Elio Logistics’ company near Chinatown, old employees would nod and whisper: “Signorina.”

The upward inflection of the ending note carried that unique Sicilian pity—

“See? That’s the poor thing who was mistakenly declared dead in the gang war and crawled back out of the gutter.”

In this circle, Elena was the rose consecrated with holy water; I was the dried-up desert thorn. My existence was merely a family concession to the outside world:

“Look, we didn’t neglect our own flesh and blood.”

How utterly ironic.

The departure day finally arrived.

I booked a red-eye flight, taking off at 01:15 AM. I told no one.

At eleven at night, I carried my 20-inch carry-on downstairs.

Blue light flickered in the living room; the three of them were huddled on the sofa watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians—Elena’s favorite channel. Their laughter was like champagne foam, ready to pop.

The slight click-clack of the wheels on the hardwood floor brought the laughter to an abrupt halt.

“Sister, are you…?” Elena clutched a blanket to her chest, her large eyes blinking innocently.

“I’m going to the airport. Early report for the project.”

“Now?” My mother jumped up, the remote control clattering onto the rug. “Let the driver take you—”

“Uber’s at the gate.” I raised a hand, dismissing the offer.

My father crushed his cigar into the ashtray. Sparks flew out, reflecting his barely contained temper: “Are you really going?”

My mother reached out, intending to straighten my collar.

I flinched away, just barely, and her fingertips snagged on empty space. Her hand froze mid-air, and for a split second, a look of genuine hurt crossed her face.

A fleeting ripple crossed my chest, instantly subsiding into still water—the touch I yearned for in the last life, I no longer needed in this one.

“I’ll handle my own rent and living expenses,” my voice was as calm as reading a quarterly report.

“I won’t be using the family accounts anymore.”

“You little bastard!” My father slammed his hand on the coffee table; the glass cups jumped half an inch. “Has the Elio family ever wronged you? Are you trying to be an ungrateful child?”

“Carlo!” My mother tugged at his sleeve.

Elena approached, eyes red, reaching for my hand: “Sister, apologize to Dad quickly! Don’t say things you don’t mean—”

I took a half-step back, avoiding her touch.

“It’s not an emotional outburst. It’s a notification.”

I pulled up the handle of my suitcase and turned toward the foyer.

“Rhea Elio!” My father roared. “If you step out that door today, don’t you dare use the Elio name again!”

I paused for a single second. I didn’t turn around.

“Fine.”

A soft word, yet it felt like loading a bullet into the chamber.

If I knew one thing for sure, it was this: my new life, the one without the Elio name attached, was finally beginning.