His Regret: Silent Wife Rose To Revenge

Nyxa~ My phone rang just as I pressed the final sweep of powder along my jawline. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for half a second longer than necessary. Flawless. Composed. Untouchable. That was the image I sold to the world every single day. The phone kept ringing. I reached for it slowly, already knowing who it would be. Vaughn’s mother never called unless something had caught fire. Today was supposed to be our anniversary. Third year. Not that it mattered. I had learned very quickly that the easiest way to survive anniversaries was to schedule back-to-back meetings and pretend the date didn’t exist. It wasn’t as though my husband would remember it. Or care. The screen confirmed it. Mrs. Whitmore. Of course. I inhaled once, steady and slow, then swiped to answer and placed the phone against my ear. “Good morning, Mother.” There was no greeting from her side. No pleasantries. Just clipped efficiency. “Nyxa, Vaughn was seen at the Ashbourne Grand this morning.” Of course he was. I didn’t interrupt. “He wasn’t alone,” she continued. “The press is already sniffing around. It appears to be his former fiancée.” My grip on the phone tightened. “Handle it quietly,” she said. “Before this escalates. We cannot afford another spectacle. The board meeting is in two days.” Not you cannot afford it. We cannot afford it. Always ‘we’ when it came to disaster. Never ‘we’ when it came to loyalty. “I understand,” I replied evenly. There's a pause and then she concluded, “I trust you to clean this up as you always do.” Click! She didn’t wait for a response and the line went dead. For a moment, the silence in my dressing room felt suffocating. Then I laughed out. A soft, hollow sound that didn’t sound like it belonged to me. Always just like before. What exactly was I expecting from a contract marriage? A love confession? Flowers? A faithful husband? I set my phone down carefully on the vanity and stared at myself again. My expression hadn’t cracked for once, neither had I met my emotions leak through. Years of practice had made sure of that. I was Nyxa Vale Whitmore. Chief Public Relations Director of Whitmore Holdings. The woman who turned scandals into sympathy stories. The architect behind every redemption arc. The strategist who made bad men look good. Including my own husband. I picked up my phone again, my thumb already moving. The headlines were waiting for me. They always were. VAUGHN WHITMORE SPOTTED AT LUXURY HOTEL WITH FORMER FIANCÉE IS THE POWER COUPLE HEADING FOR DIVORCE? ANNIVERSARY DRAMA? INSIDERS CLAIM TROUBLE IN PARADISE “The comments were worse.” “She must have known what she married into.” “Another gold digger who can’t keep her billionaire husband “ “Poor Nyxa. Or maybe she deserves it.” I closed the browser. My chest felt tight, but I refused to let it show on my face. I had chosen this. Three years ago, I had signed the papers with a steady hand. Three years ago, I had agreed to become Mrs. Whitmore. Not for love. Not for prestige but for survival. My father had looked at me that night like I was a lottery ticket. “Do you understand what this means?” he had said, pacing our small living room like he had already spent the money. “Whitmore Holdings, Nyxa. This is generational wealth.” My sister had sat beside him, eyes glittering. “You’d be stupid to say no.” Only my mother had looked at me differently. She had been lying on the couch, pale and thin with oxygen tube resting beneath her nose. The hospital bills were stacked on the table like a silent threat. She had stage three renal failure. Dialysis twice a week. Medication that cost more than our house. Every month was a battle. Every month my father reminded me how expensive she was. “She needs treatment,” he would say, as if I didn’t know. “You’re the only one who can secure it.” He never called it marriage. He called it an opportunity. Vaughn’s proposal had been delivered through lawyers. Clean. Efficient. Emotionless. A strategic alliance. He needed a wife with a respectable public image. No scandals. No messy history. I needed money. A contract marriage for three years. No emotional obligations. No interference in personal lives. Appearances would be maintained. Divorce at the end of term, amicable and mutually beneficial. I had signed because my mother needed to live. Because my father had made it clear that if I didn’t, he would never forgive me for letting her die. Because my sister had accused, “This is your purpose anyway. You’ve always been the smart one.” Because somewhere deep down, I thought maybe I could handle it. I hadn’t factored in humiliation. Or the way it felt to watch your husband smile at another woman on the front page of every news site. I hadn’t factored in becoming the cleanup crew for a man who couldn’t keep his desires under control. Enough thinking Nyxa. I slipped into my tailored blazer, grabbed my structured leather bag, and walked out of the bedroom without looking back. The house was quiet. Vaughn hadn’t come home last night. It has become our anniversary tradition. I stepped outside, the morning air cool against my skin. The driver moved immediately, opening the door to the matte-black Maybach. “I’ll drive,” I said. He hesitated but handed over the keys as I immediately got in. The engine purred to life beneath me as I pulled out onto the road. Traffic parted easily; people always moved when they recognized the Whitmore plates. At a red light, I unlocked my phone again, opening twitter media this time. It was even worse. There were grainy photos of Vaughn entering the Ashbourne Grand. Another of him stepping out of a black SUV. And another one — blurry but unmistakable of a woman beside him. She has long hair. Familiar posture. Elena Ross. His ex-fiance. The woman he was supposed to marry before their engagement dissolved “due to incompatible visions.” Incompatible visions? What a joke. The captions on twitter were ruthless. “Rekindled romance?” “Is Nyxa Whitmore out of the picture?” My jaw tightened. They always waited for the wife to break first. They always expected tears. Public breakdown. Dramatic confrontation. But I was not built that way. I closed the apps and pressed harder on the accelerator. The Ashbourne Grand hotels rose ahead of me, its glass exterior reflecting the morning sun like it was innocent of what happened inside. I parked swiftly and stepped out. The lobby was rich with polished floors gleaming beneath crystal chandeliers. Soft piano music floated through the air, meant to soothe anyone that walks in. But it did nothing for me. Several heads turned as I entered. Of course they did. Recognition traveled fast as I approached the reception desk with measured steps. The young receptionist behind the counter looked up, a polite smile ready to receive me until she recognized me. Her smile faltered at once “Good morning,” I said smoothly. “G–good morning, ma’am.” “I believe my husband is staying here.” Her fingers froze over the keyboard. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m not sure I can—” “Vaughn Whitmore,” I clarified gently. “I won’t repeat myself.” A bead of sweat formed near her temple. “I understand privacy policies,” I added, voice calm. “But I also understand public relations crises. If this becomes louder than it needs to be, your hotel will be dragged into the headlines by noon.” Her eyes widened. “I’m not threatening you,” I continued, softer now. “I’m offering you a discretion.” She swallowed hard.“I—I’ll check.” Her fingers moved quickly this time. A few seconds later, she looked up again. “Suite 2708.” “Thank you.” She leaned closer. “There have already been photographers outside. Security is trying to handle it.” Of course they were. “They won’t get anything,” I said. Because I would make sure of it. I turned toward the elevators. Each step felt heavier than the last. The mirrored walls reflected my composed exterior back at me. Not a single crack. But inside, something was splintering inside me. ‘Why did it still hurt you Nyxa?’ ‘You knew what this was.’ ‘You signed the damn contract.’ ‘You agreed to the indifference.’ The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. The hallway on the twenty-seventh floor was quiet. Plush carpet muffled my footsteps as I walked toward the suite. I stopped in front of it. For a moment, I simply stared at the number. Three years. Three years of swallowing humiliation. Three years of cleaning headlines. Three years of pretending I didn’t care. My hand lifted slightly and I knock. No answer. I knocked again, sharper. There's a bit of shuffle from inside then the door is unlocked. It opened halfway. And there she was. Elena Ross. Wearing Vaughn’s shirt. Her hair slightly disheveled. Eyes widening when she saw me. “Oh,” she breathed. Behind her, I caught sight of the room. The bed sheets were tangled. Clothes scattered carelessly across the floor. Two champagne glasses on the table. And then Vaughn. Standing near the balcony doors. His shirt half-buttoned and expression unreadable. For a split second, the world went silent. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. He looked at me like I was in an unexpected meeting he’d forgotten to reschedule. “Nyxa,” he said calmly.”Thank God you're here, please get to work, the media is already buzzing crazy”