The Billionaire’s Regrets, I Don't Care

The Fever

The call came at 2:00 a.m.

I was asleep on the couch in my office, a blanket from the lost-and-found draped over my shoulders, my laptop still warm against my hip. The ringtone cut through the dark like a scalpel—Mason's tone, the one I had never changed because some part of me, the stupid, traitorous part, still believed emergencies warranted old habits.

I answered.

"Wendy's in the hospital," Mason said. No greeting. No preamble. Just the facts, delivered in the clipped tone he used for quarterly earnings. "High fever. One-oh-three. She's asking for you."

The word hospital sent ice through my veins. I was already standing, already grabbing my keys, already calculating the fastest route to Greenwich General.

"Which floor?" I asked.

"Pediatrics. Fourth."

I hung up and ran.

The hospital smelled like every hospital in the world—antiseptic and fear, the scent of people waiting for bad news. I found the room by following the sound of Wendy's voice, small and petulant, carrying down the hall.

"I want Chloe Auntie," she was saying. "Not you. Chloe Auntie."

I stopped in the doorway.

Mason stood by the window, his suit jacket missing, his sleeves rolled up. He looked exhausted, the skin beneath his eyes bruised with fatigue. On the bed, Wendy was a small, furious bundle under a white blanket, her face flushed pink, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

"Mommy?" She saw me. Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you here?"

"Your father called," I said, stepping into the room. My voice sounded strange in the sterile space, too loud, too alive. "How are you feeling, baby?"

"Don't call me baby," Wendy snapped. "I'm not a baby. And I don't want you. I want Chloe Auntie. She reads me stories. She doesn't smell like medicine."

The words landed, but they didn't cut as deep as they would have a week ago. I walked to the bed and placed my hand on her forehead. She was burning up.

"She's delirious," Mason said from behind me. "The fever spiked an hour ago. The doctors say it's a viral infection, but they want to keep her overnight."

Wendy turned her face into the pillow. "Go away, Mommy. You make everything worse."

I pulled my hand back. It trembled slightly.

"She doesn't mean it," Mason said. But he didn't sound sure.

"Yes, she does," I said quietly. "And she's entitled to."

I sat in the chair by the bed. Wendy had fallen into a fitful sleep, her breathing shallow, her small hands clutching the blanket. I watched her chest rise and fall, counting the beats, memorizing the rhythm the way I had when she was a newborn and I was terrified of everything.

In her sleep, she murmured something. I leaned closer.

"Mommy," she whispered. "Don't go."

My heart cracked open. I reached out, brushed the damp hair from her forehead.

"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm right here."

But when she woke two hours later, the fever still raging, her eyes found mine and filled with tears.

"Where's Chloe Auntie?" she demanded. "I want Chloe Auntie!"

Mason stepped forward. "Wendy, your mother is here. Be polite."

"I don't want her!" Wendy thrashed, knocking over the water cup on the bedside table. It shattered on the tile, a sound like breaking glass. "I want Chloe! Chloe! Chloe!"

The nurse came in, her face professional but pitying. "Perhaps it would be better if..."

"If I left," I finished.

I stood up. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. I looked at Mason, at the exhaustion and something else in his eyes—something that looked almost like regret.

"Sign the papers, Mason," I said. "That's all I want from you."

His jaw tightened. "I told you. I'm not signing anything."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope I had left on his desk. The divorce agreement. He held it in front of me, his eyes locked on mine, and then he tore it in half. The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet room.

"You're my wife," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You don't get to leave. Not until I say so."

I looked at the torn paper in his hands. Then I looked at Wendy, who had quieted, watching us with wide, fever-bright eyes.

"You already tore it," I said. "Seven years ago. You just didn't bother to tell me."

I walked out of the room. Behind me, Wendy started to cry. But this time, I didn't turn back.