When the Billionaire Regrets It, I’m Already Gone

Chapter 2 A Wife Without Meaning

I woke up with a tangled mind and a restless heart, Lucas’s words from last night still echoing in my ears.

“So it was that easy for him to let me go,” I murmured softly.

Three years in this marriage had taught me one thing: don’t wait. Don’t wait for a morning greeting, don’t wait for a message during the day, and don’t wait for the sound of footsteps at night. Because the more I waited, the greater the disappointment became.

That morning was no different from the hundreds before it. On the other side of this large, luxurious house, Lucas’s room sat at the end of the hallway, far from mine. Since the beginning of our marriage, we had slept in separate rooms. Strange, almost absurd for a married couple, but I had stopped questioning it long ago.

“Ma’am, breakfast is ready,” Maria, our house assistant, called from behind the door.

“Thank you. Has Mr. Lucas left?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“He left at seven, Ma’am.”

I nodded slowly. Seven in the morning, while I was still under the covers. Even his departure didn’t require a goodbye. I got out of bed, washed my face, then sat alone at the dining table as usual, eating while reading through documents I needed to finish that day, filling the silence with work so there was no space left to feel lonely.

Sophie called while I was organizing files at my desk. Her voice sounded anxious even before I had the chance to speak.

“Al, have you heard the news? Camille is back in town.” A brief pause. “Camille Rousseau. Lucas’s ex.”

I froze. The name felt like a small stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading in every direction. “I know who Camille is, Sophie.”

“I just wanted you to hear it from me first. They say she’s back for work. But…”

“What does that have to do with me?” I cut in quietly. “Lucas is married to me.”

I ended the call, though my heart was far from as calm as my voice. I didn’t know much about Camille, just her name and one fact: Lucas had loved her. Somehow, that fact always felt heavier than all the distance between my husband and me.

The day ended like any other. I had dinner alone, tidied up alone, then went to my room and read until my eyes grew heavy. At eleven, I turned off the lights, no longer expecting to hear the door open.

But that night, it did.

The sound of footsteps, heavy yet controlled, stopped at the threshold of my room. I opened my eyes in the dark, familiar enough with the pattern that I didn’t need to turn on the light.

“Lucas,” I called flatly. Not a question.

“You’re not asleep?” His voice was low.

“I was,” I said without moving. “But I woke up when I heard your steps.”

He stepped inside. The door closed softly behind him. In these three years of marriage, I had come to understand exactly what his late-night visits meant. Not for conversation, not to lie side by side. Lucas came to my room only when he wanted one thing.

What hurt wasn’t the reality itself. What hurt was that I always let him because somewhere deep inside, I still believed that maybe tonight would be different. Maybe this time, he would look at me afterward. Maybe this time, he would say my name.

The darkness of the room held everything left unsaid. Heated breaths, a silence filled only for a moment and me, searching for something beneath it all. A spark of something real, not just a need to be fulfilled. I closed my eyes, trying not to think too far ahead, trying to just exist in that moment.

And then, in that silence, something slipped from his lips.

One word. One name.

“Camille…”

I froze.

Maybe he didn’t realize. Maybe it was just a reflex, something escaping from the deepest place he couldn’t control. But the name lingered in the air of my room, clear, undeniable, impossible to take back.

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just lay there, my eyes suddenly burning, staring at the dark ceiling, counting my breaths so nothing would spill into something I refused to let out tonight.

Lucas realized his mistake a few seconds later. His body stiffened. The silence that followed was different from before the kind born from guilt.

“Alicia…”

“Don’t.” My voice came out calmer than I expected. “There’s no need.”

“I didn’t…”

“Lucas.” I cut him off gently but firmly. “You’re done, right? Please leave.”

He didn’t move right away. I could feel that he wanted to say something, a defense, an explanation, or maybe an apology that wouldn’t be enough for anything. But in the end, he stood up. His footsteps were heavy as he crossed the room, and the soft click of the closing door felt like the end of something far bigger than just tonight.

I waited until his steps faded down the hallway before finally letting my eyes fill with tears. No dramatic sobbing, just silent tears slipping down to my temples, soaking into the pillow without a sound.

Three years. For three years, I had tried to earn his love. Three years of learning to live on the edge of this marriage without falling into the abyss. But there was one small thing I had unknowingly held onto, a hope that when he came to me, at least in that moment, I would be the one in his mind and heart.

And tonight, even that small hope was shattered.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin, closed my eyes, and whispered softly into the darkness.

“Who am I to you, Lucas?”

There was no answer. Only the wind brushing against the window, and the silence that had long been the only thing faithfully staying by my side.

I lay facing the wall, clutching a pillow to my chest. That name still echoed, Camille. Like an old song that refused to fade, even after the music had ended.

Three years. For three years, I endured this marriage, learning not to expect too much, learning to fill my days on my own. But there was one thing I had never truly prepared for the reality that even in the most intimate moments, I was never truly there for him.

My phone lit up on the bedside table. One message came in.

I’m sorry, Alicia.

That was it. One message from Lucas, sent from a room no more than twenty steps away. I stared at the screen for a long time, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to reply.

In the end, I set the phone back down without answering.

Because an apology without change is just a word that has lost its meaning, and I was far too tired to pretend it was enough.