The Billionaire's Greatest Regret

EPISODE 7 — Humiliation

I slipped the pages back into the envelope after folding them carefully, then set it face-down on the nightstand.

For a long moment I stood at the window, gazing down at the immaculate gardens below. Everything out there was perfectly arranged, untouched by pain or regret.

I remained there until the light faded, letting the silence settle over me like a shroud.

Three days later, Margaret appeared at my breakfast table holding an embossed invitation card. Her expression was the one I had come to recognize—polite, professional, and laced with news I would not welcome.

"Mr. Winston would like you to accompany him this evening," she said.

I looked up from my tea. "Where?"

"The Grand Imperial Charity Banquet. The city’s most influential business leaders will be in attendance."

I picked up the card, scanned it briefly, and set it down again.

"And if I said no?"

Margaret’s face remained composed, but something flickered deep in her eyes before she suppressed it. "He did not present it as optional, Mrs. Winston."

I stared at the heavy cream cardstock for another moment. "What time?"

“7pm.”

……..

The Grand Imperial Hotel blazed with golden light, every window glowing like a scene from a lavish film.

Luxury cars queued three-deep at the entrance while photographers surged against the barriers, flashbulbs exploding in relentless bursts each time a new guest arrived.

The moment I stepped out of the car, the whispers began.

"That’s her."

"Ian Winston’s wife." Another said, chuckling.

"Wasn’t she the one who—"

"Sophie’s sister."

I kept my chin high, my face impassive, eyes fixed forward.

Three years of enduring these hushed speculations had taught me how to hear every cruel word while revealing nothing.

Ian emerged behind me, and the atmosphere shifted instantly.

Cameras swung toward him like iron filings to a magnet. The crowd’s energy surged, drawn to the man who commanded space without effort.

"Ian! Mr. Winston! Over here!"

He offered the photographers a small, practiced smile… polished, calibrated, charming without warmth—then straightened his jacket and strode toward the entrance without glancing back or even extending a hand. He simply walked away, leaving me standing alone on the red carpet in the dress I had chosen with care for an event I had only learned about that morning.

I waited exactly two seconds before following. Anything longer would have been captured, dissected, and fed to the gossip bloggers by morning.

Inside, the ballroom shimmered like another world of luxury. Crystal chandeliers dripped soft light over tables draped in pristine white linen, their extravagant centerpieces rivaling the cost of my first apartment.

Every guest wore wealth as naturally as skin; its absence seemed unimaginable here.

The instant Ian entered, the room moved toward him. It happened so fast I couldn't quite comprehend immediately.

Businessmen in tailored suits, elegant women dripping in jewels—they converged with effortless grace. Ian became someone else in their presence: relaxed, warm, attentive, leaning slightly forward as if every word spoken to him mattered.

I drifted toward the edge of the room and picked up a glass of water from a passing tray, found a position near one of the tables that didn't feel too obviously isolated, and watched Ian work the room from a distance.

Honestly, he was good at this, I had always known that though. The way he remembered names, the way he leaned slightly forward when someone spoke like what they were saying was the most important thing in the room.

"Well."

I turned my head to see who it was and three women had appeared beside me in designer dresses, perfect hair and smiles that had been practiced so long they looked almost real, of course I recognized the type immediately.

"Isabella Hart." The tallest one said my name like it was a punchline she had been waiting to deliver.

She had sharp cheekbones, diamonds at her ears, the particular confidence of someone who had never been told “no” by anyone who mattered.

"Good evening," I said.

"Still so polite." The woman smiled at her companions.

"I always admired that about her, even when everyone was talking about what she did to her own sister, she kept saying good evening like she was at a garden party."

The other two laughed, sound dripping with mockery

I kept my expression even. "I don't remember inviting your opinion."

The woman's smile sharpened. "And there it is, a little backbone." She tilted her head. "Becoming Mrs. Winston has done wonders for you."

"Or maybe," the second woman said, swirling her champagne, "she's just playing the part of supportive wife and loyal partner."

Her eyes moved across the room to where Ian stood laughing at something, completely at ease, completely unaware or uncaring.

"Although it's a little hard to play the supportive wife when your husband forgot you existed the moment he walked through the door." She scoffed.

I didn't look at Ian, well… actually I refused to look.

"Some marriages," I said, "aren't performed for an audience."

"Oh but darling." The tall woman stepped slightly closer. "You're at a charity banquet surrounded by three hundred people, everything here is performed for an audience."

She paused. "The question is why your husband isn't performing with you."

Nearby, a couple had stopped pretending to talk to each other, a man two tables over had angled himself toward them.

I felt it now, the slow, creeping expansion of the audience, the way attention gathered around a scene like this without anyone having to announce it.

I had been here before, in different rooms, the same dynamic with people who smelled the possibility of something humiliating and drifted toward it the way they drifted toward car accidents.

"How does it feel?" The tall woman's voice dropped slightly intimate, like she was asking something kind.

Her eyes were anything but kind. "Standing here alone while he… oh common, look at him." She gestured subtly across the room. "He hasn't looked at you once."

"That's not….."

"Not what?" The second woman cut in. "Not true?"

She laughed. "Sweetheart, every person in this room has noticed. You've been standing here by yourself for twenty minutes while your husband entertains half the city."

My grip tightened around my glass because they were right and because somewhere across the ballroom Ian Winston was laughing genuinely, easily, the way he never laughed inside Winston Mansion and the sound of it reached me even from here.

"Why did you marry him?" The tall woman folded her arms, her smile fading away "Really. Was it the money? The name? Or did you just…."

"I'd be careful," Isabella said quietly, "about finishing that sentence."

No one said anything for about 2 seconds long then the tall woman smiled wider. "Or what?"

Before I could answer, a fourth woman appeared at the edge of the group, she hadn't been there before, I hadn't seen her approach.

She had dark hair, red lipstick, a glass of red wine held loosely in one hand and an expression on her face like she had already decided how this was going to go.

"I've been listening from over there," she said pleasantly, looking at me with the smile of someone about to do something they would enjoy. "And I think…." She paused, tilted her head. "I think this dress would look so much better in red."

I saw the hand move so fast like lightening that I didn't even have time to step back.

The wine left the glass in a single motion, fast, deliberate, completely intentional and hit me full in the chest.

The room went silent.