Too Late to Say Sorry novel Chapter 5

Work became my sanctuary, my escape, my obsession. I poured every ounce of my energy into my company, into proving to the world, and to myself, that I was more than just Mark Wilson's soon-to-be-ex-wife.

I barely slept, fueled by endless cups of coffee and the thrill of proving myself, of building something from the ground up, something that was mine, all mine.

I was making a name for myself in the cutthroat world of tech startups, earning the respect of my peers, and most importantly, proving to myself that I could do it, that I didn't need Mark, that I never had.

But my body, pushed to its limits, eventually rebelled.

One morning, I woke up on the floor of my office, a searing pain ripping through my stomach. I tried to get up, to call for help, but the room started to spin, and then everything went black.

I woke up in a hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic assaulting my nostrils, an IV drip in my arm. The doctor, a kind-faced woman with tired eyes, explained that I had a bleeding ulcer, brought on by stress and exhaustion.

"One more day," she'd said, her voice firm but gentle, "and we might have been having a very different conversation about surgery."

Surgery. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

Was this what my life had become? A cautionary tale about ambition and the high cost of proving yourself to the world?

Mark wasn't there. Of course, he wasn't. He was too busy with his "business trip," living it up with Jessica while I lay in a hospital bed, my body paying the price for his betrayal.

It was Sarah, my colleague and newfound friend, who'd found me unconscious and called the ambulance. She'd even called my estranged mother, the one person I'd sworn I'd never speak to again, and convinced her to come to the hospital.

Mark finally called on the third day, his voice thick with what sounded like genuine concern. Or maybe it was just guilt. It was hard to tell with him anymore.

"Honey, I'm so sorry," he said, his voice contrite, almost convincing. "I just heard. Are you okay?"

"Where are you, Mark?" My voice was a weak croak, raw from the medication and the emotional turmoil that raged within me.

"I'm… I'm stuck at this conference," he stammered, his voice tight. I could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he scrambled for a believable excuse. "It's… important. But I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise."

He hung up before I could remind him that his promises were as worthless as the stock options he'd used to lure me away from my promising career all those years ago.

A few minutes later, a delivery arrived: a bouquet of cheap grocery store carnations, their sickly-sweet scent already wilting, and a styrofoam container of lukewarm porridge.

"That's for you, honey," the nurse chirped, her tone overly cheerful as she placed the sad offerings on my bedside table.

"Your husband sounds like a real keeper."

I almost laughed. Keeper? Mark was about as reliable as a house of cards in a hurricane.

He was a master of grand gestures and empty promises, a man who mistook charm for character and infatuation for love.

Later that afternoon, as I scrolled through Instagram, a fresh wave of nausea washed over me. Jessica had posted a picture of herself at some trendy new restaurant, a self-satisfied smirk on her face, a bowl of steaming lobster bisque in front of her.

The caption, dripping with smugness, made me want to hurl: "Mark knows how to take care of a girl. #BestBoyfriendEver"

He reached for me, his hand outstretched, a look of panic flitting across his face as he finally realized the depth of my anger, the extent of his betrayal.

I shrugged off his touch.

"Don't," I said, my voice cold, hard. "Don't touch me. Don't talk to me. Don't even look at me."

He froze, his hand hovering in midair, his face a mask of confusion and hurt.

"Amelia," he stammered, his voice pleading, "I… I'm sorry. I didn't… I didn't mean…"

"Didn't mean what, Mark?" I cut him off, my voice sharp as broken glass. "Didn't mean to fall in love with her? Didn't mean to humiliate me? Didn't mean to make me feel like I was nothing, like I was invisible?"

"No," he whispered, his face crumpling, the carefully constructed mask of arrogance finally cracking to reveal the fear beneath. "That's not… that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean, Mark? What were you thinking?" My voice was quiet now, devoid of anger, just a weary acceptance of the truth that had been staring me in the face for far too long.

He opened his mouth to speak, to offer another one of his empty apologies, his meaningless promises. But I stopped him with a look.

"Just go, Mark," I said, my voice hollow, empty. "Just… go."

He stood there for a moment longer, his shoulders slumped, his eyes filled with a pain I no longer recognized, a pain I no longer felt. Then, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the silence, a stark reminder of the emptiness he'd left behind.