Too Late to Say Sorry novel Chapter 4

The next few weeks passed in a blur of meetings, proposals, and late-night strategy sessions fueled by coffee and sheer determination.

I was working out of a tiny, shared office space, crashing on a cot in the back room most nights, too exhausted to even think about finding a new apartment.

I was living on caffeine and adrenaline, driven by a single-minded focus to prove to Mark, to the world, and most importantly, to myself, that I was capable, that I was worthy, that I was enough.

One evening, I dragged myself home, my body aching, my mind racing.

As I stepped inside the house, I was greeted by an unexpected aroma: the warm, savory scent of dinner cooking. Mark's favorite: spaghetti and meatballs, just like his mother used to make.

"Hey, babe," Mark called from the kitchen, his voice uncharacteristically cheerful. "I made your favorite!"

For a moment, a sliver of hope pierced through the exhaustion and cynicism that had become my constant companions. Maybe he'd finally come around, maybe he'd finally realized what he was about to lose.

Then I saw her. Jessica. Emerging from the bathroom, wearing my bathrobe, her hair wrapped in my towel, a smug smile on her face.

"Oh, hi, Amelia! Didn't hear you come in." She sauntered over to the table, helping herself to a glass of wine. "Mark worked so hard on this dinner. He's amazing, isn't he?"

I stood there, taking in the scene – Jessica in my robe, Mark playing the doting boyfriend, the aroma of his betrayal heavy in the air – and my stomach churned.

"You two go ahead," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I'm not hungry." I turned to leave, wanting nothing more than to escape the suffocating atmosphere of their staged domesticity.

Jessica, never one to miss an opportunity for theatrics, instantly transformed into a damsel in distress. "Mark," she whined, her voice thick with manufactured concern, "does she hate me? Maybe I should leave…"

Mark spun around, his face contorted with a rage I'd only ever seen glimpses of before, usually directed at incompetent employees or malfunctioning printers.

Before I could process what was happening, a bowl came flying towards me, barely missing my head as it clattered against the wall, shards of ceramic raining down on the floor.

"That's it, Amelia! I've had enough!" he roared, his eyes blazing with a fury that chilled me to the bone.

"I slave all day to make you dinner," he continued, his voice thick with indignation, "and you walk in here with that sour look on your face? And for what? Because Jessica is here? She's a guest in our house, Amelia! Apologize to her, right now!"

Apologize? For what? For daring to interrupt their little fantasy? For having the audacity to exist in the same space as his precious Jessica?

"Apologize for what?" I countered, my voice shaking for the first time, the anger warring with the hurt that clawed at my chest. "For catching you two playing house?"

His face softened, the anger replaced by a look of weary frustration. "Don't be ridiculous, Amelia! I was just trying to be nice to her. For your sake! Can't you see that?"

His words, meant to placate, only fueled my rage.

For my sake? He thought he was doing this for me?

"Well, I hope you both choke on it," I spat, the words laced with a venom I didn't know I possessed.

I stormed off to the guest room, slamming the door behind me, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot. Their laughter followed me, taunting me, a cruel soundtrack to my pain.

As I locked the door, I could hear them downstairs, their voices a low murmur punctuated by Jessica's shrill laughter. It was like they were putting on a show, a grotesque parody of a loving couple, just for my benefit.

After showering, I examined the angry red welt on my back where the edge of the bowl had grazed me, a physical reminder of his anger, his indifference, his complete and utter lack of respect. The memory of their laughter made my blood run cold. It was like they were celebrating my misery, toasting to my downfall.

"This is your last chance, Amelia," he said, his voice low and threatening. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

I didn't need another warning. I needed a clean break, a chance to breathe, to heal, to rediscover who I was without him.

He finally left, slamming the door behind him, the sound echoing through the empty house like a final farewell.

That night, he went back to Jessica. Of course, he did.

I saw the Instagram post the next morning, a picture of their intertwined hands resting on a plush airline blanket, the caption a slap in the face: "Emergency business trip! Duty calls. Don't worry, babe, I'll bring you back a souvenir."

I didn't bother hiding my anger this time. I liked the post, a small act of defiance that I knew would infuriate them both.

A few minutes later, the notification popped up: Jessica had deleted the post.

He called me later that day, his voice thick with exhaustion and something else I couldn't quite place. "Look," he sighed, sounding more defeated than I'd ever heard him, "let's just forget this ever happened, okay? I was just… stressed. It won't happen again. I'm only gone for a week. When I get back, we'll… we'll talk. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

His words, meant to reassure, only solidified my resolve.

It was over. We both knew it.

He was right about one thing: when he got back, we'd talk. He just didn't realize that the terms of the conversation had irrevocably shifted. Because by the time he returned from his "business trip," I was gone, and so was his chance.

The signed divorce papers were waiting for him on the kitchen counter, a final parting gift from the woman he'd taken for granted.