The Ex Wife He Died To Regret

1 In the fifth year of our marriage, Nathan emptied every savings account we owned, liquidated his portfolio, and paid seventy-two thousand dollars to schedule his assisted suicide at an end-of-life clinic outside Zurich. I stood in the entryway of our home, holding our two-year-old son, Toby, whose lips were already tinted blue from heart failure, and begged him. "Nathan, you can't be this selfish. He needs another surgery." He didn't even look at his son. He simply shoved me aside, his shoulder knocking hard against mine, and gave a low, venomous laugh. "Nora, when you hounded Tessa off that roof three years ago, why didn't you stop to ask how selfish you were?" I watched his black rental cab pull away down the rain-slicked driveway, and I laughed until tears choked my throat. Three years prior, Nathan had taken his junior associate, Tessa Whitlock, into his bed. In a blind, feral rage, I printed their bedroom photos—hundreds of high-resolution stills—and plastered them across the downtown business district and every social platform tied to our firm. Tessa couldn't endure the public exposure. That same night, she stepped off the terrace of her high-rise apartment. And from that night on, Nathan hated the very air I breathed. On the third anniversary of Tessa’s death, he abandoned our dying son and me, boarding a one-way flight to Switzerland to end his life. Toby didn't survive that autumn; his little heart gave out in a sterile pediatric ward while I listened to the flatline monitor alone. Two years later, consumed by grief and illness, I followed him into the dark. Then I opened my eyes. A sharp, biting pain flared across my left calf. I looked down. On the hardwood floor lay the shattered remains of the ceramic mug we’d bought together at a seaside market during our honeymoon. A jagged shard had sliced open my skin, and a thin ribbon of crimson was trickling down my ankle, pooling against the pale oak. Nathan stood three feet away from me, his jaw set, staring at me with the cold, hollow indifference of a stranger. "Nora, why do you constantly have to target Tessa?" he spat, adjusting his tie. "She’s my direct report. We have an executive relationship, nothing more. Can you stop this hysterical, paranoid routine for once in your life?" The stinging heat in my leg was terrifyingly real. The memory of my past life rushed back like a wall of freezing water, sharp and suffocating. In my previous life, on this exact afternoon, I had lost my mind to jealousy and wounded pride. I had picked up one of those ceramic shards, pressed the sharp edge against my own throat, and swore I’d bleed out on the floor if he didn't fire her that day. I forced his hand, and he fired her—or so I thought. In reality, he kept her on an off-the-books retainer, rented her an apartment across town, and visited her three nights a week. All of our downstream horrors had taken root in this single, frantic hour. I stared down at the blood dripping onto the floorboards. My chest felt numb and vast. Back then, I believed that if I could just banish Tessa Whitlock, I could protect our home. I thought marriage was a fortress you defended with your fingernails. But in the end, the fortress burned down anyway. My son died gasping for breath, and I died in an empty room, hollowed out by resentment. I wasn’t going down that road again. I bent down, pressed a wad of paper towels against the cut on my leg, and spoke without looking up. "You're right," I said quietly. "I was making something out of nothing." Nathan froze. The sharp comeback he had ready seemed to die on his tongue. He narrowed his eyes, suspicious of the sudden surrender. "What kind of game are you playing now, Nora?" I straightened up and looked at him. It was the face I had loved so desperately through our twenties, the face that had promised to build an empire for us, and now looking at it only produced a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. "No game, Nathan," I said, my voice entirely flat. "Go back to the office. I won’t bring up Tessa again." He furrowed his brow, clearly searching my eyes for a trap, a hidden tear, a tremor of fury. Finding none, he let out a short, dismissive breath, grabbed his car keys off the marble console, and slammed the heavy front door behind him. Silence settled over the living room. I stood there, looking around the open-concept penthouse. We had bought it together five years ago with our very first seed payout after bootstrapping the company. Every corner held an artifact of who we used to be—the mid-century credenza we spent two months saving for, the framed sketches of our five-year plan. I knew that soon, none of this would belong to me. In my last life, after Tessa jumped, Nathan had liquidated every asset, sold our real estate, and emptied our savings to pay for her extensive medical bills and intensive care before she passed. When she finally succumbed, he handed the remaining capital over to her parents as penance, leaving nothing for Toby’s experimental heart surgeries. I pressed my palm against my chest. A humorless smile touched my lips. God, how thoroughly he had loved her. The doorbell chimed. A courier handed me a small paper bag. I opened it to find sterile gauze, antiseptic wash, and butterfly bandages. In the app’s delivery notes, in Nathan's hurried typing, it read: For the leg. I stared at the box of gauze and let out a dry breath. Nathan had always operated this way. He would step out with another woman, indulge in the thrill of the illicit, and then toss me a breadcrumb of domestic consideration—a late-night delivery, a cup of tea, an offhand check-in—just enough to keep me second-guessing myself, just enough to make me think some piece of his conscience still belonged to our family. It was how he kept me hooked, forgiving him until I was utterly broken. Not this time. I cleaned and dressed the wound in the bathroom, changed into a simple knit sweater and jeans, grabbed my shoulder bag, and hailed an Uber to the medical center downtown. Today had been scheduled weeks ago for my first prenatal ultrasound. But I wasn't there for a sonogram. When I stepped off the elevator on the clinic’s fourth floor, I saw them immediately at the end of the frosted-glass corridor. Nathan was standing near the pharmacy counter, angling his body protectively as he draped his charcoal wool coat over Tessa’s shoulders. That coat was a custom piece I had spent three months saving for back when we were fresh out of college, working eighty-hour weeks. For years, he only wore it to annual shareholder meetings. Now, he was casually using it to keep his junior associate warm. Tessa leaned slightly into his side, looking pale and fragile. When their eyes caught mine, both of them locked up. Tessa instinctively took a half-step behind Nathan, her wide eyes flashing with rehearsed terror. In my past life, whenever I caught them in public, I would lose all composure, lunging forward, screaming, tearing at her clothes while security pulled us apart. Nathan stepped forward, putting his broad frame entirely between us. "Nora? What are you doing here?" I stopped a few feet away, watching them brace for impact. The sheer theatricality of it made me want to laugh. "Don't worry," I said, my tone indifferent. "I'm not here for you." I held up the hospital appointment sheet in my hand. "It’s my appointment day." Nathan’s face shifted, a flicker of guilt crossing his features. He remembered. Last night, over takeout, he had promised he would take the morning off to hold my hand during the scan. He cleared his throat, still keeping one arm angled behind him toward Tessa. "Tessa came down with a sudden fever at the office. I drove her over to urgent care to get a prescription called in. As soon as her meds are ready, I’ll come down the hall and join you." A year ago, I would have set the hospital corridor on fire. Now, I simply nodded. "Fine." Without lingering for another second, I turned around and walked into the women’s health suite. When I sat on the paper-lined examination table, the OB-GYN picked up the ultrasound wand and smiled. "Ready to see how our little peanut is doing?" "I don't want the ultrasound," I said evenly. "I’m here to schedule a termination." Dr. Warren paused, her hand hovering above the gel bottle. She looked up over her tortoiseshell glasses, caught off guard. "Mrs. Mercer? You were so excited during the initial bloodwork. Did something happen?" Excited? Yes. In my past life, I thought this pregnancy was the miracle that would save my marriage. I thought a child would pull Nathan back from the edge of the cliff. Instead, all I remembered was Toby curled up in a hospital crib three years later, sweat plastering his fine hair to his forehead, sobbing in pain: Mommy, it hurts, make it stop. And all I could do was hold his tiny, freezing hands while his father sat at a Zurich clinic preparing to die for another woman. A child didn't deserve a philandering father and a mother consumed by bitterness. If his only destiny was suffering and an early grave, the kindest thing I could do was ensure he never entered this world. My throat tightened, but my voice remained steady. "I'm not equipped to be the mother this child deserves. He shouldn't be born into this." Dr. Warren looked at me for a long, quiet moment, saw the finality in my posture, and set the wand down. She began filling out the surgical intake forms. Two hours later, as the nurse wheeled me toward the outpatient procedure room, my phone buzzed against my lap. A text from Nathan: Something urgent came up at the firm. I had to head out. I'll catch you at home tonight. I stared at the illuminated screen. In my previous life, I had believed him. But there had been no crisis at Mercer Enterprises that afternoon. It was the afternoon Tessa’s parents had arrived from out of state. By the time I took an Uber back to the condo, it was just past eight in the evening. In the underground parking garage, Nathan’s black Porsche Cayenne sat in its designated stall. I frowned slightly. In our past life, Nathan had spent this entire evening entertaining the Whitlocks at an upscale steakhouse downtown. I had tracked his credit card alerts, stormed into the private dining room, and accused Tessa of being a homewrecker in front of her mother and father. Her parents had been mortified, demanding she cut ties with Nathan immediately. Nathan had refused, coming home with bloodshot eyes and demanding a divorce for the very first time. And I had pulled an eight-inch chef's knife from the butcher block, threatening to end us both, forcing him to stay. I took a slow breath, keyed the lock, and pushed the front door open. The rich, savory aroma of slow-simmered beef stew drifted through the foyer. Nathan was wearing a linen apron, stepping out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon in hand. The warm amber recessed lights hit his face, making him look like the attentive partner he had been during our first year of marriage. He knelt down naturally, untying my sneakers and sliding my slippers over my feet. "You're back," he said, looking up with an easy smile. "I made that beef bourguignon with wild chanterelles you like. I tasted it; the reduction turned out great." I held back a dry chuckle. I am violently allergic to wild mushrooms. I break out in hives and my airway swells shut; he had known this since our sophomore year of college. The person who obsessed over wild chanterelles and posted seasonal mushroom harvests on her private social media was Tessa Whitlock. I curled my lips into a polite, distant smile. "Thanks. You didn't have to." We sat across from each other at the quartz island. He picked at his food, his focus entirely on the iPhone sitting beside his water glass. The screen lit up with a notification. He glanced down, his posture stiffening immediately. He parted his lips, clearly searching for an excuse, but when he saw the serene, unbothered expression on my face, the words died in his throat. I met his gaze over my water glass. "If you have somewhere you need to be, go ahead. I'm fine on my own." He blinked, clearly startled by my sudden grace. The unnerving calm I had displayed over the last forty-eight hours was beginning to rattle him, but the pull on his phone was stronger. After a brief hesitation, he nodded. "I... I just have a quick errand to run downtown. I won't be long." He packed the fresh stew into a stainless-steel thermos, grabbed his keys, and hurried out the door. The moment the deadbolt clicked shut, I pushed the bowl away, pulled out my phone, and texted my attorney: Is the marital separation agreement finalized? Email me the draft. Before Marcus could reply, the burner phone I kept in my tote bag vibrated. I picked it up. An Instagram notification popped up on the dummy account I used to keep tabs on his circles. Tessa had just posted a story. It was a close-up photo of the stainless-steel thermos resting on a granite countertop, accompanied by two vintage soup bowls. The caption read: Having you in my corner makes everything bearable. Looking at the photo, I remembered the woman I used to be. In my previous life, I was glued to that burner account twenty-four hours a day, spiraling over every cryptic quote and staged photo. I would throw crystal vases against the drywall, scream until my vocal cords bled, and dial her number over and over just to scream obscenities. I had turned myself into a pathetic, raving lunatic, bleeding out my dignity on an altar he didn't care about. Now, looking at the glowing screen, I felt nothing. Not rage, not pain. Just a mild, detached distaste. I tapped her profile, hit Block, and uninstalled the app entirely. My personal phone buzzed. Marcus’s email arrived with an attachment: Mrs. Mercer, the dissolution agreement is ready. Hard copies will be couriered to your residence at nine tomorrow morning. I stared at the confirmation, letting out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in my ribs for a decade. Perfect, I typed back. Once you truly stop giving a damn, sleep comes easily. When I woke up, sunlight was pouring across the hardwood. Nathan hadn't returned. I picked up my phone and sent him a brief text: Come home when you have a minute. We need to settle something. To file an uncontested divorce smoothly under our state’s statutes, I needed his signature on the asset division stipulations. An hour passed before his terse reply arrived: Busy with firm business. I'll swing by when I'm done. I looked at the text and shook my head. He was playing the devoted son-in-law to the Whitlocks, taking them out for brunch; of course he couldn't be bothered. I didn't press. Take your time. I brewed a pot of pour-over coffee, sat on the linen sofa, and reviewed the digital contracts on my iPad. I assumed he wouldn't show his face until late evening. But barely two hours later, the key turned violently in the lock. The door flew open, and Nathan marched in, his face dark with fury. Behind him stood Tessa, her mascara smudged and cheeks blotched with tears, flanked by an older couple—her parents—whose expressions were taut with outrage. "Nora," Tessa whimpered, clutching her mother’s cardigan. "Why did you send those horrible messages to my parents? What did I ever do to deserve this..." I arched a brow, genuinely perplexed. In my past life, I had sent anonymous smear texts to her parents from a burner number. But in this life, I hadn't touched a single keyboard to contact them. "What messages?" I asked, keeping my voice level. Nathan took two furious strides toward me, thrusting his phone inches from my nose. "Nora! You went silent for two days and I actually thought you'd grown up. I didn't think you could still be this vile!" I looked down. On the screen was a screenshot of an anonymous SMS: Your daughter is a home-wrecking parasite who sleeps with her married boss for promotions... Tessa sobbed softly from the entryway. "Mr. Mercer and I are strictly business associates... Why would you say that to my parents? My father has a heart condition..." I looked past the screen straight into Nathan’s eyes. "You honestly believe I sent this?" The moment the question left my lips, I realized how stupid it was. Of course he believed it. If he didn't, he wouldn't have brought the entire Whitlock family to my living room for an execution. Tessa’s parents stepped forward, the mother speaking in a trembling, wounded cadence. "Mrs. Mercer, is our Tessa really interfering in your marriage? If she is, we will pull her out of this city today..." Nathan's jaw tightened. Fearing the fallout and desperate to protect Tessa's reputation before her family, he turned to them with an earnest, deferential tone. "Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock, please. This is just Nora lashing out with a sick prank. Don't take it to heart. Tessa and I have maintained complete professional integrity." I stood by the kitchen island, watching him lie through his teeth with such smooth conviction that I nearly applauded. In our past life, they had shared hundreds of hotel nights; the explicit files I once held proved every graphic detail. Yet here he was, standing before her God-fearing parents, acting the part of the noble, protective employer. He knew damn well his behavior was dirty. He just couldn't stomach the light. In the next second, Nathan turned on me, his hand clamping down over my wrist like an iron band. "Nora, apologize to Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock. Right now." I pulled back, but his grip dug into my tendons, grinding bone against bone. Tessa reached out with a delicate hand, tugging at his sleeve. "Nathan, don't... Mrs. Mercer is just upset... she didn't mean it..." Nathan ignored her, his eyes blazing as he violently shoved my arm away. The momentum threw me off balance. I stumbled backward, the small of my back slamming hard against the sharp edge of the mahogany sideboard. A sickening, dull thud echoed in my spine, and the air was knocked clean out of my lungs. I doubled over, catching myself on the cabinet. "Stop being dramatic," he snapped, glaring down at me. "I know your tricks." I stayed silent. I didn't reach for an ice pack, and I didn't argue. In the face of deliberate blindness, words are just waste. Mrs. Whitlock let out a sharp sigh. "As long as the truth is clear, we don't need an apology from Mrs. Mercer. But I hope this slander stops. My daughter has a clean name." With that, she took Tessa’s arm, turning toward the elevator. Nathan called out hurriedly, "Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock, you aren't familiar with downtown, and hotels in this district can be noisy. Stay here tonight. We have plenty of room." Without waiting for my input, he walked straight down the hallway and pushed open the door to the spare bedroom—the room we had spent four months remodeling into a nursery. I watched him pick up the unopened wooden toy sets from the carpet and shove them under the platform bed. Then he began unbolting the solid wood crib we had assembled together, dragging it toward the utility closet. "Nathan," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "That room is for the baby." My hand instinctively hovered over my flat stomach. There was no baby anymore. He didn't even turn his head. "It's just for one night. We leave tomorrow morning anyway." I stood in the hall, watching his broad back heave as he shoved the crib into the darkness of the closet. In my past life, he had abandoned his critically ill son to fly to Switzerland for an assisted suicide clinic. Why on earth did I expect him to care about an empty nursery in this one? In Nathan's calculus, the Whitlocks' comfort would always outrank anything with my name attached to it. I turned, walked into the master bedroom, and locked the door behind me. Around two in the morning, muffled rustling drifted through the wall from the living room sofa, accompanied by hushed, intimate whispers and the low creak of cushions. A wave of bitter bile rose in my throat. I pressed both hands over my mouth, turned on my side, and buried my head beneath the down comforter. The sounds still found their way in. Vile. Thoroughly vile. I barely slept. Every creak of the floorboards startled me awake. I lay there in the dark until the first gray light of dawn bled through the blinds. At eight sharp, the front door closed. I stood by the bedroom window, peering through the slats down at the curb. The black Porsche was idling. Tessa sat in the passenger seat, her parents in the back, while Nathan walked around the hood, closing the doors with attentive care. From thirty stories up, they looked like the portrait of an idyllic American family. The moment the car cleared the corner, I walked out to the kitchen, laid the courier envelope containing the divorce petition on the quartz island, wheeled my carry-on bag through the threshold, and pulled the door shut behind me. When my Uber pulled up to the airport terminal, my phone buzzed incessantly. I had never left the firm’s internal Slack channel. The general discussion thread was flooding with photos from a beachfront resort in San Diego. Mr. Mercer really outdid himself this time, one junior analyst wrote. Throwing an entire impromptu company offsite just so Tessa and her folks could have an all-expenses-paid beach vacation. Pure goals. A string of laughing emojis followed. I looked at the photos of the palm trees and the sun-drenched Pacific coast. In our past life, I had begged Nathan for years to take me to San Diego. I had made detailed itineraries, booked and canceled reservations, only for him to say: Wait until this funding round closes. Wait until we stabilize the board. I had waited until the day I died, and I never saw that ocean. And here he was, standing openly on the sand beside Tessa Whitlock under the southern California sun. I navigated to the workspace settings, hit Leave Organization, and deleted the app from my phone. Then I set the divorce papers firmly out of my mind, checked my bag, and walked through the TSA line without looking back once. Goodbye, Nathan.