Regret Comes Late

Alexa, my wife of six years, was affectionately nicknamed "Husband Worshiper" by her colleagues and students.

As a university professor, she was renowned not only for her academic prowess but also for her steadfast devotion to me. She never attended social gatherings, always preferring to spend her evenings with me. When male students dared to ask for her contact information, she would turn them down with a tone so cold it could frost over. "Sorry, I have a husband," she'd reply, as if that explained everything.

Her colleagues loved to tease her, saying she had set a new bar for modern love stories. Among her published academic works was a singular outlier—a book titled Confessions of Love. It wasn't meant for the academic world. It was meant for me. Our love story, lauded across Carbel University, was held up as a modern fairy tale.

But yesterday, I stumbled upon something that cracked the perfection of that story. I was tidying up the bookshelf in our study—a task Alexa usually insisted on doing herself—when I discovered it. Hidden between the pages of one of her older books was a photo.

The moment I saw it, my stomach churned. Alexa's shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing her delicate collarbones and a hint of bare skin beneath. Her hands were bound at the wrists with a black necktie. Standing behind her, holding her waist possessively, was a shirtless young man. His grin was cocky, arrogant and all too familiar.

I knew him. It was the same male student she had once coldly rebuffed when he asked for her social media.

——

The door creaked open. My heart pounded, but I forced myself to remain calm, sliding the photo back into the book and pretending to leaf through its pages. Alexa wrapped her arms around me from behind, her warm breath tickling my neck as she teased, her voice still husky with sleep, "Harry, why are you up so early? Come back to bed with me."

I tensed as her hands brushed my arm, but I kept my voice steady. "Just organizing a little," I replied, not turning around. My gaze was fixed on the shelf, yet I felt the slight shift in her demeanor—the way her muscles stiffened for a fraction of a second. Her eyes darted to the book in my hands and a flicker of alarm crossed her face before she replaced it with a forced smile.

"Why the sudden interest in these old books?" she asked, her tone overly casual.

I set the book down on the desk, leaning against it to block her path to the damning evidence. "No reason," I said. "I just thought we could use some decluttering."

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing against mine as she picked up the book. Her smile remained sweet, but her grip on it was firm—possessive, almost.

"Darling, you don't need to worry about this. I'll take care of it later." Her tone was breezy, but there was a hint of strain beneath the surface.

With deliberate carelessness, she tossed the book into a drawer, her movements practiced but slightly rushed. Her eyes flicked to me, searching. "You didn't see anything just now, did you?" she asked.

My pulse quickened, but I met her gaze with a bemused expression. "See what?"

She exhaled softly, almost inaudibly, as if relieved. "Nothing important. Just some things I haven't sorted through yet." She moved to the shelf, adjusting a few books that didn't need adjusting. Her hands were steady, but I noticed the way her fingers lingered on certain titles, as if confirming their secrets were still safe.

Moments later, she turned back to me, her eyes alight with a carefully crafted cheerfulness. "What do you feel like eating today? I'll cook for you."

Her voice, warm and inviting, was the same as always. But the image from the photo lingered in my mind, impossible to erase. That confident, shirtless grin. The way her wrists had been bound. The intimacy of it.

I swallowed hard, forcing a smile. "I'm not really hungry. I think I'll go back and sleep a bit more."

Before I could leave, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around my waist. She pressed herself against me, her cheek resting on my shoulder. "Then let me join you for a nap," she said softly.

When I woke up again, Alexa was in the kitchen. The faint aroma of garlic and soy sauce wafted upstairs, wrapping itself around me like a taunt. I walked to the landing, leaning against the railing as I watched her move.

She was by the stove, her fair, slender hands skillfully flipping the stirfry in a wok. The sunlight filtering through the window caught the faint sheen of sweat on her brow, illuminating the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail. She looked up and caught my gaze, her lips curving into a smile that could disarm armies.

"You little lazy cat, go wash your hands—it's time to eat," she said.

I stayed where I was, my arms crossed, studying her as if seeing her for the first time. For six years, Alexa had devoted herself to me—or so I'd thought. Every weekend, she would give our housekeeper a day off and personally cook for me, saying it was her way of showing love. Her care, her attentiveness, her unwavering loyalty—they were all a part of the Alexa I knew.

As I watched Alexa bustling around the kitchen, a twinge of guilt tugged at me. I leaned against the doorframe and said, "You don't have to work so hard, you know."

She glanced at me with a playful smile and tapped my nose with her flourdusted fingers. "Cooking for my darling? That's not work—it's love."

Her words, so effortlessly sweet, brought a lump to my throat. Alexa had built her world around me—or so it seemed. Every little thing she did was deliberate, thoughtful. Because I once mentioned liking braised prawns, she made it a ritual to wake up early every weekend and visit the market for the freshest catch. The aroma of her cooking would awaken me, a comforting embrace that signaled the start of a perfect day.

But now, those gestures felt... suffocating. How could someone so attentive, so devoted, betray me?

The dining table was laden with an impressive spread: braised prawns, steamed fish, sautéed vegetables and a bowl of soup that was still gently steaming. As I sat down, Alexa didn't wait for me to start. She expertly peeled a prawn with her delicate fingers, placing the tender morsel on my plate. Her eyes sparkled with pride as she looked at me.

"Harry," she began, her tone light but hopeful, "the publisher scheduled a book signing for Confessions of Love next week. Will you come with me?"

Confessions of Love—the book she'd poured her soul into, chronicling our tenyear journey together. It wasn't just a bestseller; it was a symbol of our love story, immortalized in ink. Alexa usually insisted I attend every signing event, but this time, the thought of smiling and pretending everything was perfect felt unbearable.

I forced myself to take a bite of the food, but it tasted like ash in my mouth. Without looking at her, I muttered, "I've been really tired lately. I think I'll skip it."

The silence that followed was heavy. Then, Alexa's voice broke through, as gentle as ever. "Alright. Then I won't go either. I'll stay home and rest with you."

That caught me off guard. I looked up at her and for a moment, her unwavering love and devotion felt real again. Over the years, Alexa had always been fiercely protective of our time together. She avoided going out alone and when she had to, she tried to bring me along. If I couldn't accompany her, she'd cancel whatever plans she could.

People often teased her about it. "He's just your husband—what's the big deal?" they'd say. Or, "Harry's nothing special. Why are you so obsessed?"

Her response was always the same: "Harry is my everything."

That memory made me hesitate. "Since you've already promised the publisher, it wouldn't look good to back out," I said, my voice softer now.

But Alexa reached across the table, taking my hand in hers. Her eyes shimmered with sincerity. "Harry, nothing is more important than you."

In the end, I reluctantly agreed to go.

After dinner, while Alexa was tidying up the dishes, I found my thoughts drifting back to the photo. An uneasy itch grew in the back of my mind. I slipped away to the study, quietly opening the drawer where Alexa had placed the book earlier. My hands trembled as I flipped through the pages.

The photo was gone.

Before I could process the implications, I heard a phone ringing downstairs. I crept to the landing, peering down as Alexa answered. Her voice was hushed, her tone sharp.

"I told you not to contact me on weekends. I'm spending time with my husband."

A moment later, her demeanor shifted. Her eyes darted to the stairs and after confirming I wasn't around, she quickly dried her hands, grabbed her coat and threw it over her shoulders.

"Harry," she called out, her voice brisk but warm, "something urgent came up at the university. I need to head back for a bit. Don't touch the dishes; I'll clean them when I get back."

She was already halfway out the door before I could respond.

Alexa rarely worked overtime. She was efficient and meticulous, managing her time so she almost never had to be called in on weekends. As her hurried footsteps disappeared, an unsettling weight pressed on my chest.

I grabbed my coat and followed. While Alexa headed for the garage, I hailed a cab and parked discreetly at the curb.

"Please follow that car," I instructed the driver, my voice low.

The driver gave me a knowing look and nodded. "Don't worry, mister. I won't lose it."

Alexa's car weaved through the city streets before turning into the familiar grounds of Carbel University. I watched from a distance as she parked and walked briskly toward the teaching building.

Her pace slowed as she reached a secluded area just outside the building. I squinted, trying to make out what she was doing.

Then, a figure emerged from the shadows. A man.

My breath caught as I watched him stride confidently toward her. He stopped just inches away, his grin sly. "Mrs. Colby," he said, his voice carrying an unmistakable intimacy. "Why are you so late? I've been dying to see you."

Alexa didn't pull away. She let him slide an arm around her waist, though her expression was cautious. Her eyes darted around, scanning the area for anyone who might be watching. When she seemed satisfied, they were alone, she reached for his hand and clasped it tightly.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner that it's your birthday today?" Alexa's voice carried a mix of exasperation and tenderness. Her fingers brushed over the man's hand, her gaze warm and affectionate.

The man chuckled, his lips curling into a selfassured smirk. He tilted his head to look down at her. "How could I? You only ever think about your husband. I wouldn't want to distract you."

The words stung like a whip, but I couldn't tear my eyes away.

He lifted his hand, cupping the back of Alexa's head and leaned in. His lips met hers, unhurried yet commanding. For a fleeting second, Alexa froze, her eyes widening in surprise. Then, slowly, her eyelids fluttered shut and she melted into the kiss. Her arms rose to loop around his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened with fervor.

I was paralyzed. My breath hitched and hot tears began streaming down my cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable.

The cab driver noticed, his glance in the rearview mirror filled with muted sympathy. He fumbled for a tissue, handing it back to me. "Don't take it to heart, mister. Women... well, they're all the same sometimes. If she's stepping out, maybe it's time you find someone, too."

His words barely registered. My world felt like it had shattered into a thousand pieces, each sharp fragment slicing into my chest. I stared numbly ahead at the figures before me.

Alexa, the woman I thought I knew better than anyone, was flush with desire. Her cheeks were tinged pink, her breaths quick and shallow. She clutched the man's collar, her trembling fingers fumbling to undo the buttons.

"Mrs. Colby," the man murmured, his voice low and intimate. His hand slipped beneath her blouse, tracing the curve of her back. "It's my birthday today. How about giving yourself to me as a gift?"

Alexa caught his wandering hand, her movements slow, deliberate. She chuckled softly, her tone indulgent. "Alright. But not here. Someone might see us."

Her words shattered what little hope I had left. She entwined her arms around his waist, her touch possessive, leading him toward the car. Their laughter echoed faintly in the stillness as they disappeared inside. Moments later, my car—our car—began to rock in a steady rhythm.

I couldn't watch anymore. Tears blurred my vision and my chest heaved with silent sobs. "Take me back," I choked out to the driver, my voice barely audible.

The driver hesitated, his concern evident. "You sure, mister? You look like you need some fresh air. Don't let it eat you up. No woman's worth ruining yourself over."

I said nothing, only slumping deeper into the seat.

By the time I stumbled back into the house, I felt like a hollow shell. My legs carried me to the study without conscious thought. The familiar room now felt foreign, its cozy ambiance mocking my pain.

I sank into the chair, my head in my hands. The image of the man's face burned in my mind. His name floated to the surface like an unwanted memory: Nathan.

Nathan wasn't a stranger to me. I had seen him before.

It was a stormy day, rain lashing against the windshield as I drove past Carbel University. A figure stumbled across the street, drenched and unsteady. I slowed, squinting through the downpour. It was a young man, his clothes plastered to his thin frame, his movements sluggish.

I couldn't just watch. I pulled over, lowering the window slightly. "Hey! Are you alright?"

He turned toward me, his face pale and holloweyed. Then, without warning, his legs buckled and he crumpled onto the pavement.

Panicked, I leaped out of the car and hoisted him up, guiding him into the passenger seat. He was shivering uncontrollably, his lips tinged blue.

Once home, I handed him a fresh set of clothes and a warm towel. "Nathan, right? I've heard about you—you're one of Alexa's students, aren't you?"

He nodded, his wide, doelike eyes darting nervously around the room. I remembered his name from Alexa's student roster. She had mentioned him once, noting his difficult upbringing. Orphaned at a young age, he had been raised by his grandparents and had worked tirelessly to excel in his studies despite the odds.

When Alexa walked into the living room, Nathan froze. His gaze dropped to the floor, his hands twisting anxiously in his lap.

"Mrs. Colby," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alexa barely spared him a glance. Her focus was on me, as it always was—or so I'd thought. She crossed the room and slipped her hand into mine.

"Darling," she said softly, her eyes filled with warmth, "you shouldn't go out in such weather. You'll catch a cold."

Nathan sat stiffly on the couch, his gaze flitting toward us. For a brief moment, his expression shifted—an almost imperceptible flicker of longing. But I dismissed it at the time, brushing it off as admiration for Alexa's kindness.

Now, those fleeting glances, the subtle tension in his posture, took on an entirely different meaning.

How blind I had been.

Sitting in the study, my chest felt unbearably tight, as though an invisible hand was gripping my heart and squeezing relentlessly. The room, once a haven filled with books and memories of quiet evenings spent together, now felt suffocating.

I yanked open the desk drawer, hoping to distract myself by revisiting Alexa's book, Confessions of Love. My fingers brushed past a stack of papers and my breath hitched when I noticed a different manuscript.

The title glared at me like an accusation: A Thousand and One Confessions. Beneath it was a name I had never seen her use before—Nate.

My hands trembled as I flipped through the pages. Each line I read sent a chill down my spine. These weren't academic musings or romantic anecdotes. They were raw, unfiltered declarations of passion. The words bled across the page, dripping with yearning and desire—desire for a young man's body, for his touch, for his essence.

Tears blurred my vision and one fell, smudging the ink on the manuscript. How could this have happened?

This was the same woman who had sworn eternal devotion to me, who had once promised, with tears in her eyes, to walk hand in hand with me through life and death. Yet, hidden in plain sight, she had poured her soul out to another man under the guise of a pseudonym.

A sickening realization took hold of me. Nathan.

Driven by a mix of desperation and anger, I opened my phone and searched for his social media profile. It was private—nothing but a single dash where his posts should have been.

But then another idea struck me.

I turned to Alexa's laptop, which she had carelessly left open on the study desk. The familiar wallpaper of a scenic mountain range mocked me as I navigated to her social media account. I searched for Nathan's profile through her friend list.

And there it was—a treasure trove of posts I wasn't meant to see.

Pinned at the top was a photo. Nathan grinned at the camera, holding up a book in his hand. The caption read: [Thank you to my girlfriend for handwriting a book for me. I'm the happiest man alive!]

My stomach twisted. The comments section below buzzed with life:

[Nice!]

[Your girlfriend is amazing! She's just like Mrs. Colby—so loyal and devoted!]

[Love this! Nathan, teach us how to find someone like her!]

And amidst the sea of replies, Nathan had smugly commented: [My girlfriend is even better than Mrs. Colby!]

But what caught my attention was a small heart icon beside one of the comments. Alexa's account had liked it.

My hands balled into fists, my nails digging into my palms until I felt the sting of broken skin. I laughed bitterly—uncontrollably. My voice echoed in the empty room, a sound filled with anguish and disbelief.

This was the same woman who had always refused to exchange contact details with other men, who had said, "Sorry, I have a husband," with such conviction that no one dared question her loyalty.

Now, I realized it was all a performance. Every act of devotion, every boundary she claimed to draw—it had been a carefully constructed facade designed for my eyes alone.

Two hours later, Alexa returned. The front door creaked open and I heard the faint click of her heels against the floorboards. She stepped into the room with a radiant smile, her arms laden with a chocolate cake and a beautifully wrapped gift box.

"Harry?" she called softly, her voice honeyed and warm.

She walked in, her appearance immaculate. Her blouse was perfectly buttoned, her hair tidy, her cheeks glowing faintly from the cold air outside. It was as if nothing had happened.

She held up the cake, her smile widening. "Look what I brought! Your favorite chocolate cake. And guess what else?"

Alexa set the cake down and approached me, her steps light and confident. She slipped her arms around me from behind, pressing her cheek to mine. Her scent, once comforting, now felt suffocating.

"Tada!" She held out a skyblue jewelry box, her eyes sparkling as she opened it to reveal an intricate watch. "Harry, do you remember this?"

I nodded faintly. How could I forget?

Three months ago, Alexa had designed this custom watch herself. She'd called it Starcatcher, a symbol of our "unique love." She had laughed as she described how it represented her devotion, saying she'd pluck stars from the heavens if that's what it took to make me happy.

Now, as I stared at the watch, all I could feel was a bitter sense of irony.

Alexa stepped closer, her delicate fingers brushing against my wrist. "Let me put it on you," she said softly, her voice full of tenderness.

I pulled my hand away, dodging her touch. "There's no rush. Since it's a birthday gift, let's save it for the day."

For a moment, her hand hung in the air, her expression faltering slightly before she quickly masked it with another smile. "Alright," she said cheerfully, as if my reaction hadn't bothered her at all.

But I noticed how her gaze lingered on me, searching for something beneath my calm facade.

She didn't find it.

The clatter of pots and pans echoed from the kitchen, mingling with the faint hum of a distant song Alexa often hummed while cooking. She moved with her usual efficiency, every motion precise, graceful. Yet, as I leaned against the doorway, observing her in silence, my eyes couldn't help but linger on the faint, scattered marks just below the collar of her neatly buttoned blouse.

Those marks weren't mine.

I turned on my heel, retreating down the hall. My chest felt heavy, as though an invisible weight pressed against my ribs. In the quiet sanctuary of our bedroom, I grabbed my phone and stared at the screen. The photo of us on the wallpaper—a candid moment from our honeymoon—felt like a cruel mockery now.

I scrolled through my contacts and selected Andrew's number. My brother's voice came through after a few rings, warm and familiar.

"Harry? It's been ages. What's up?"

"Andrew," I began, my voice strained but steady. "Is your research team still hiring?"

There was a pause, the faint crackle of the line betraying his surprise. "Finally decided to take the leap? What happened? Don't tell me you're actually leaving your precious wife."

I forced a faint smile, even though he couldn't see it. "She doesn't know. And she won't find out."

Andrew's tone shifted, more serious now. "Harry... are you okay?"

I hesitated, glancing toward the halfclosed bedroom door. The distant clinks and clangs of Alexa still echoed from the kitchen. "I just need a change of scenery," I said at last, evading the question. "Can you help me with the paperwork?"

"Of course," he said, though his tone was laced with concern. "I'll send over the details tonight."

"Thanks." I hung up before he could ask anything further.

I didn't confront Alexa about the manuscript. What was the point? Two days later, my suspicions were confirmed when I saw a social media post announcing the release of A Thousand and One Confessions. The book, penned under her pseudonym had made its debut.

Nathan, ever shameless, had posted a triumphant photo of himself holding the book, his caption dripping with pride: [My girlfriend wrote this amazing book just for me! I'm the luckiest guy ever!]

The comments were a mix of envy and ridicule:

[Wow, your girlfriend wrote a book? That's impressive!]

[Sure, but she's just some nobody. Don't compare her to Mrs. Colby—she's in a league of her own.]

[Your girlfriend probably pulled strings to get it published. Not that big of a deal.]

Nathan's smug reply only added fuel to the fire: [My girlfriend is even better than Mrs. Colby!]

I stared at the screen. My lips curled into a bitter smile as I noticed Alexa's account had liked his post.

The following day, the buzz spread like wildfire across Carbel University. In her post at the university's website, Alexa openly praised the new book: [This is a beautifully written work. I highly recommend you read it. It's a masterpiece.]

Her endorsement exploded across the campus network.

[Wow, Mrs. Colby is recommending a romance novel? This I gotta see!]

[Did you hear? She said it's a mustread!]

[I'm buying it today—even if I have to live on instant noodles for a week.]

Of course, there were skeptics:

[Doesn't the writing style feel familiar? Kind of like her Confessions of Love—but rated R?]

[She'd never write something like this. She loves her husband too much to pen anything this scandalous.]

[She refused to sell out for another bestseller before. Why would she start now?]

But those doubts were quickly drowned out by eager admirers. I closed my phone, shaking my head. In this world, impossible doesn't exist.

Three days before my departure, I booked my flight. As I finalized the payment, I felt the warmth of Alexa's arms encircle me from behind. Her lips brushed softly against the nape of my neck, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

"Darling," she murmured, "what are you looking at?"

I quickly locked the screen, sliding the phone into my pocket. "Nothing important," I said casually. "Just deciding where to book dinner for my birthday."

Her smile widened, radiant as ever. "Oh, sweetheart, whatever you pick will be perfect. I'm taking the whole day off to spoil you. You deserve the best birthday ever."

I forced a nod, my expression unreadable. She had no idea about the encounter I'd had the day before.

Nathan had shown up at home, a copy of A Thousand and One Confessions in hand. His grin smug and his posture lazy.

"Mr. Colby," he said, "do you know who wrote this book?"

I said nothing, watching him with a cold, steady gaze.

"It's your wife, Alexa," he continued, holding the book up like a trophy. "She acts so in love with you in public, but it's all a sham. You're just part of her image—her brand."

He leaned closer, his grin widening. "She told me she's tired of you. Thinks you're old and boring. You know what she really loves?" He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. "My young, strong body. If you don't believe it, let's see who she chooses tomorrow, you or me."

The morning of my birthday started with Alexa, with her usual charm, orchestrating a day of indulgence. She insisted on driving me around the city, taking me into boutique stores and piling up bags filled with neatly wrapped purchases. Her demeanor flawless, as though nothing could mar the surface of her perfect devotion.

But by midafternoon, hunger gnawed at me. "I think it's time for lunch," I said, glancing at her.

She beamed, leaning over to plant a soft kiss on my cheek. "Anything for my birthday boy. Let me take you somewhere special."

The restaurant was upscale and elegant, with soft lighting that glinted off crystal glasses and polished silverware. We took a table by the window, the city sprawling beneath us, bustling and alive. Alexa ordered with her usual flair, flipping through the menu with practiced ease, but just as the waiter left, her phone buzzed.

A slight frown crossed her face as she declined the call, only for it to ring again moments later. The sharp tone of the vibration cut through the hushed ambiance of the restaurant.

Her hand hovered over the phone hesitantly. "It might be urgent," she murmured, almost to herself.

The screen lit up and I caught the briefest glimpse of the message before she angled the device away. It was Nathan.

He sent a selfie of his chiseled abs with a message: [Mrs. Colby, I'm at the hotel. It's so hot here... I could use some help...]

Alexa's breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the phone as if it might betray her secrets aloud. She looked up at me, her expression quickly shifting into something apologetic, sincere.

"Harry..." she began, her voice soft, tinged with regret. "It's from the university. Something urgent has come up, so I need to leave. It won't take more than an hour and a half, I promise. I'll come right back and we'll continue celebrating your birthday."

Her eyes searched mine for understanding, a faint flicker of panic betraying her otherwise composed demeanor.

I held her gaze for a moment longer than she probably expected, before offering a faint smile. "It's fine. Go ahead."

Relief flooded her features. "You're the best," she said, leaning in to kiss me on the forehead. "Order whatever you like—I'll take care of everything when I get back."

Thirty minutes after she left, my phone vibrated. Nathan sent me a video and quickly I opened it.

The footage was shaky but clear enough. Alexa, breathless and hurried, undressing with fevered hands as Nathan stood waiting. She clung to him as though her very existence depended on it, her movements urgent, almost desperate. The sound of her murmured words—halflost between gasps—sent a chill through me.

Below the video, Nathan's message read: [Harry, take a good look. This is your refined wife. Always so calm and collected with you, isn't she? But with me? She's wild. She's mine.]

My lips pressed into a thin line. Anger didn't rise—not the blinding fury one might expect. Instead, there was only an eerie calm as I saved the video, tucking it away like evidence in a courtroom trial.

I stayed long enough to finish the meal we'd ordered. Alone in the sea of tables filled with laughing couples and clinking glasses, I didn't feel an ounce of bitterness. By the time I walked out, my decision was clear.

Once returning home, I packed efficiently, years of shared possessions ignored in favor of my essentials. The pile of luggage by the door felt like freedom incarnate. I then uploaded the damning evidence to Alexa's public social media account. No need for captions; the evidence spoke for itself.

Finally, I left the signed divorce papers on the coffee table, powered off my phone and snapped the SIM card in half. Without a glance backward, I hailed a cab and disappeared into the city lights.