His Regret Her Freedom

The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him, but the crack of thunder swallowed the sound. Dominic didn’t look back. He strode straight to the mahogany wet bar, pouring a heavy pour of amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler. The ice cube hit the glass with a sharp *clink*, the only sound cutting through the relentless drumming of rain against the floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows. Three years. Three years of freezing dinners, ghost-like silence, and the phantom weight of a marriage built on a foundation of glass. His phone buzzed against the marble counter. He fished it out, his thumb swiping to answer before the second ring could fade. "It's done," Dominic said, his voice flat, devoid of the triumph he expected to feel. "She signed." In his ear, Isabella’s breathy purr drifted through the speaker, sweet as poison. *“Oh, Dom. My deepest condolences on how things turned out, but honestly? It’s for the best. I’ll be there in an hour. Let me help you clear out every last trace of her.”* "An hour," Dominic muttered, hanging up without a goodbye. He tossed back the whiskey, letting the burn sear his throat. He turned, fully expecting the penthouse to feel lighter—to feel *free* now that the gold-digging parasite he had married was out of his life. Instead, his gaze locked onto the dining table. The candles had burned down to jagged stumps, drowning in pools of grey wax. The steak sat untouched, a dry, congealed ruin. And right beside the manila divorce folder lay the massive, flawless diamond ring Elara had worn for three years, glittering coldly in the low light. A strange, hollow tightening gripped his chest. Dominic frowned, jaw tightening as he stared at the spot where she had stood. There had been no tears. No trembling knees. No desperate, clawing begging like the tabloids always predicted. Just that quiet, terrifying snap of a pen. *You're committing an error,* she had whispered. Dominic shook his head sharply, banishing the phantom echo of her voice. He had the merger files. He had the IP address tracing the corporate leak straight to her old laptop. He had Isabella’s warning, whispering truths he had been too blind to see until now. He was free. So why did the empty penthouse feel so much like a tomb?