Dear Ex Husband, I’M YOUR BIGGEST REGRET

Chapter 6: Everything Happened Too Fast

Natalia’s POV

The heavy oak door slammed shut with a loud bang that made the wall tremble.

Our large-framed wedding picture tilted, slid against the wallpaper, and crashed on the floor, the glass shattering into a hundred jagged pieces right at my feet.

With a violent movement, Christian threw the stack of photographs across the room. They scattered everywhere. Some landed on the plush carpet, others slid across the polished wood near the bed.

“Who the hell is Damian Vance?” Christian roared, his voice tearing at the room’s silence like broken glass.

I didn’t answer him immediately.

My legs shook, but I forced myself to move and walked past him to the small minibar in the corner. My hands were shaking so hard I could hear my fingernails clicking as I poured myself a glass of cold water.

"Are you ignoring me?" Christian stalked over, his heavy footsteps vibrating through the floorboards. "Answer me right now, Natalia!"

My calm behavior was driving him mad. I could see it in the tight lines around his mouth.

To him, my silence was proof. In his mind, everything finally made sense now. The divorce papers I gave him yesterday, my cold attitude this morning.

He clearly thought I was just a cheating woman who had been sleeping with a movie star behind his back, trying to escape the marriage with a fat settlement.

Christian snatched one of the photographs off the bed. He shoved it right in front of my face, his thumb digging into the glossy papers.

It was the picture from under the streetlamp, the one where Damian was pressing his lips against mine. “Explain to me, Natalia,” he said quietly, almost angrily. “Tell me how the hell this exists.”

I took a sip of water, staring at the photo. My heart gave a sickening lurch in my chest, and I felt a cold sweat break out at the nape of my neck.

My eyes scanned the curve of the girl’s jaw in the photo, the small dimple at the corner of her mouth, the exact shape of her nose.

It was me and undeniably my body. But I had never been there.

“I don’t know,” I whispered, my hand tightening around the glass. “I don’t know how this exists, Christian. I’ve never seen this place before.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Christian yelled, grabbing another handful of photos from the floor and slamming them onto the counter next to my glass.

“Look at them! Look at the clothes!

I stared at the photo as if it might somehow explain things to me.

In one picture, I was wearing a yellow sweater I bought three years ago, and in another, I had the short haircut I had in college. One picture was taken in a snowy park, another in a sunny beach.

The collection was terrifyingly perfect. For one horrible moment, I thought, What if all of this happened, and I just forgot about it? My mind was playing tricks on me, trying to convince me that I had gone crazy.

Christian saw the panic in my eyes, but he misread it completely. He thought I was caught in a trap.

“Did you marry me for the Blackthorne name?” Christian asked, his voice suddenly going very quiet. He was so close to me that I could feel the heat of his body blocking out the light from the window. “Did you and your little actor boyfriend set this all up to bleed my family dry?”

A strange sound escaped my mouth, and I burst out laughing. I set the glass down on the bar with a heavy thud.

“What exactly is funny here?" he growled, his eyes darkening.

"Because you're hilarious, Christian," I said, looking right into his angry eyes. "You spent the entire day yesterday telling me you never loved me. You told me I was nothing to you. You said our marriage was just a business deal. Now, suddenly, you’re standing here acting like a heartbroken husband asking if I betrayed your feelings?"

Christian stopped. The sharp line of my remark hit him right in his ego, shutting him up completely.

Then, his eyes narrowed differently.

He picked up the photo of the night market. His thumb moved across the edge of the frame.

Christian was a ruthless man, but he wasn't stupid. His sharp, calculating corporate brain was always looking for errors.

“These photos..." Christian muttered, his voice dropping into a strange tone. "They're too perfect."

His eyes were fixed on my wrist in the night market photo. I was wearing a small silver watch. But the timestamp on the bottom of the picture said 2024—a year before my father had bought me that specific watch for my birthday.

The seasons in the background didn't match the trees. The details were incredibly detailed, but if you looked with a microscope, the timestamps were impossible.

He was about to say something else when his anger flared up again, and he grabbed me by the throat, pushing me against the bar with his hand.

“Listen to me carefully, Natalia,” he whispered right against my ear, his skin hot. “I don’t care who the hell you slept with before today. But if even one of these pictures makes it to the evening news, if the Blackthorne name becomes a joke because of you... I will personally ruin your life and I will make sure your little boyfriend never sees the light of day again. Do you understand me?"

I met his furious gaze without flinching, despite the pain in my throat where he was gripping me.

“I didn't do it," I choked out.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The door pushed open.

“Christian? Oh my God, Christian, are you all right?”

Gemma ran into the room. Her pink dress was slightly wrinkled, and her eyes were red and watery. She looked completely frantic as she rushed toward Christian, totally ignoring me.

"Christian, I came as fast as I could," she sobbed, reaching out to touch his arm. Christian slowly let go of my throat, stepping back. "The reporters downstairs are saying such awful things... Christian, maybe... maybe Natalia has some secrets she didn't tell us. Maybe she was forced into something by that man..."

She kept talking, trying to make Christian think I was a liar.

I stood by the counter, watching her closely.

Then, it hit me.

Gemma was standing right next to the bed where three large photos were lying face up. She never once looked down at them or asked who sent them or what was inside the envelope.

A normal sister would be asking a hundred questions about the proof. But Gemma didn't need to ask. She already knew exactly what those photos looked like.

I filed that thought deep into my mind, a cold anger settling into my stomach.

The door banged open again.

Richard Blackthorne walked in. He didn't look at the scattered photos. He walked straight up to Christian, raised his hand, and delivered a brutal slap across his son's face.

Christian’s head snapped to the side.

"Have you lost your mind?" the old chairman breathed out. "You assaulted the country’s biggest celebrity in front of fifty news cameras! Do you have any idea what the internet looks like right now?"

Richard wasn't angry because I had supposedly cheated. He didn't care about our marriage vows. All he cared about was the company.

"The stock price dropped four percent in twenty minutes!" Richard shouted, pointing a thick finger at Christian’s chest. "The board members are calling an emergency meeting. You fix this, Christian. I don't care how you do it, but you get that actor to release a statement saying it was a misunderstanding, or you're out of the CEO chair."

The chairman then turned his dead eyes to me. "And you. Until we find out who sent these, you don't say a single word to the media or leave this hotel. Am I clear?"

At least someone wasn't judging me yet. But I knew he was just protecting his empire.

Richard turned around and stormed out of the room, his heavy shoes pounding down the hallway while Christian gave me one last, deadly look before turning on his heel and following his dad out to handle the PR disaster.

Gemma stood in the middle of the room. She looked at me, her fake tears completely gone and then she also turned and walked out after Christian.

The room went completely quiet

I picked up one of the photos—the one at the night market. I held it close to my eyes, studying the background.

Behind the fake version of me, there was a small café sign. The sign was written in a specific language, and the street numbers had a strange design.

"I’ve never even been to this country..." I whispered to the empty room.

The mystery was deep, but now I had a thread to pull. I wasn't losing my mind. The photos were fake, and every instinct was telling me Gemma was the one who made them.

I stood up, ready to walk out and look for more clues. Suddenly, a loud, panicked scream echoed from the hallway outside.

"Help! Someone call a doctor! She’s not breathing!"

My heart jumped. I rushed to the door and pulled it open.

A few doors down the hallway, Gemma was leaning heavily against a wooden dresser, her lips turning pale.

Christian ran toward her, his face full of panic.

"Gemma!

Before he could reach her, Gemma’s eyes rolled back into her head. Her fingers slid off the wood, and her body collapsed heavily onto the floor, completely unconscious.

Christian scooped her up in his arms, his face filled with worry as he shouted for his driver.

I followed them silently, my mind racing as we rushed down to the garage and drove straight to the hospital.

Forty minutes passed in the white waiting room. The smell of bleach and medicine made me feel sick. Christian paced the floor, but I understood why he was more restless than the patient’s sister.

Finally, the double doors pushed open.

A middle-aged doctor in green scrubs walked out, removing his wire-rimmed glasses.

Christian stepped forward so fast. "How is she? What happened to my swe— Gemma?”

The doctor sighed, looking at the chart in his hands. "Who is Miss Gemma Brown’s closest family member?"

I took a step forward, my voice tight. "I am. I’m her sister."

The doctor looked straight into my eyes. "I’m afraid her condition is extremely critical. Miss Brown’s remaining kidney is experiencing acute, total failure. Without an immediate emergency transplant... I’m afraid she will not survive the week."

My breath caught in my chest as a wave of cold, familiar terror washed over me.

I remembered everything. The hospital gowns, the sharp needles, the way my stepmother had forced me onto the operating table in my first life to save her precious daughter.

The doctor kept his eyes fixed on my pale face.

"Mrs. Blackthorne... according to her old medical records from her childhood surgeries, you are the only compatible donor we could find now in the country."