Too Late to Say Sorry novel Chapter 3

"How long are you gonna keep this up, Amelia?" he finally asked, his voice weary, as if he was the one who'd been carrying the weight of our crumbling marriage.

"It's just a birthday present," he continued, his tone almost pleading. "Where did all this pettiness come from?"

Pettiness? I wanted to laugh. Was that what he called it? Five years of my life, of my love, reduced to "pettiness"?

"She works her butt off for me, you know," he went on, his voice rising in anger. "Jessica is loyal, dedicated… she understands what it means to be part of a team. You? You just sit at home all day, spending my money. What more do you want from me?!"

His words hit me like a slap.

What more did I want? Maybe a thank you for the years I'd spent building his empire alongside him, for sacrificing my own dreams so he could achieve his.

Maybe a sliver of the respect and appreciation he so freely showered on his assistant, the woman who now warmed our bed and wore my clothes.

But what was the point? We were getting a divorce anyway. The papers were signed, the ink dry. All that remained was for one of us to work up the courage to actually say the words out loud.

I didn't bother arguing. After a quick shower, I retreated to the guest room, the one that used to be my sanctuary, a place where I could escape the constant demands of being Mrs. Mark Wilson.

As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear him on the phone downstairs, his voice a low murmur.

"I'm on my way… Don't worry, money talks, right?"

The irony was sickening. I thought back to all the times I'd twisted myself into knots trying to please him, trying to be the perfect wife, the perfect business partner, the perfect… everything.

The time I'd flown across the country to close a deal for his company, only to have him greet me at the airport with a distracted pat on the head and a mumbled, "Good job, honey."

Or the time I'd spent all night negotiating with a difficult client, downing cheap whiskey to mask my disgust, only to come home to him passed out on the couch, an empty pizza box and a half-empty bottle of scotch his only companions.

But for Jessica? For Jessica, he was willing to move mountains.

He'd rearrange his schedule, cancel meetings, even miss his own mother's birthday party, all with a smile and a whispered, "Anything for you, babe."

Exhaustion finally claimed me, pulling me under into a restless sleep filled with fractured dreams and unanswered questions.

When I woke, the sun was streaming through the window, painting the unfamiliar room in a cold, unforgiving light.

That's when the clarity hit me. It was like waking up from a long, feverish dream. I deserved better.

I deserved a life filled with passion, with purpose, with someone who actually saw me, who valued me for more than just my ability to cook a decent lasagna and balance a checkbook.

It was time to reclaim my life.

I started that day.

I contacted a lawyer, a fierce, intelligent woman who specialized in "liberating women from bad relationships." Her words, not mine. I also started drafting plans for my own consultancy firm, channeling all my frustration, my anger, my untapped potential into something positive. It would be my revenge, my way of proving to Mark, and to myself, that I was capable of so much more than being Mrs. Mark Wilson.

A few weeks later, opportunity came knocking.

A friend of a friend put me in touch with a major player in the tech industry, a man everyone called Mr. Lewis. He was known for his sharp mind, his even sharper tongue, and his uncanny ability to spot potential where others saw only risk. He was hosting a party, a gathering of the city's movers and shakers, and it was the perfect opportunity to pitch my ideas.

Naturally, Mark and Jessica were there. I spotted them the moment I walked in, Jessica clinging to his arm like a prized possession, her laughter echoing a little too loudly in the crowded room.

The air crackled with tension as Mark's eyes met mine across the room, his face hardening into a mask of displeasure.

"Amelia? What are you doing here?" His voice dripped with disapproval, the same tone he used to use when I'd forgotten to buy his favorite brand of coffee or accidentally shrunk his lucky shirt in the wash.

"Where's that firecracker who helped you build your empire, Wilson?" he boomed, shaking my hand with a strength that belied his age. "The one who could charm the pants off a venture capitalist and still make it home in time to cook dinner? That woman… she disappeared on me, you did. Come on, let's talk."

I spent the rest of the evening engrossed in conversation with Mr. Lewis, barely noticing as Mark and Jessica glared at us from across the room, their faces a mixture of shock, anger, and something that looked suspiciously like… fear?

The next day, I received a call from Mr. Lewis's assistant. He loved my ideas, loved my passion, and most importantly, he believed in me. He was giving me the project.

My heart soared. It was a victory, not just for me, but for all the women who had ever been underestimated, overlooked, dismissed as "just a wife." This wasn't just a business deal; it was a chance to rewrite my story, to finally step into the spotlight and claim the recognition I deserved.

The victory was short-lived. Mark called as soon as I hung up, his voice tight with suppressed fury.

"What the hell did you do, Amelia?" He sounded like I'd stolen something from him, which, in a way, I supposed I had. I'd stolen his narrative, his control, his illusion of power.

"Amelia," he said, his voice softening, trying a different tactic, "why can't you just let me take care of you? You're thirty years old, don't you think it's time to give up on these pipe dreams? You're not going to achieve anything by yourself. Just come home, forget about all this nonsense. I'll take care of everything."

His words, meant to soothe and cajole, only fueled my anger. Take care of me? Was that what he called it?

"My career choices are none of your business, Mark," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. We'll talk about the divorce when you get back from your… trip."

"Trip?" He scoffed. "This isn't a trip, Amelia, this is business. And this… this little company of yours? It's a joke. A distraction. Close it down. I'm giving you two days, Amelia. Two days to come to your senses. If you don't, I promise you'll regret it."

He hung up before I could respond, his words echoing in the silence.

Regret?

He had no idea. He was playing a game he didn't even realize he'd already lost.