The CEO's Regret: Darling, Don’t Leave Me

Chapter 2: Faking smiles.

Clara

Ethan has always been very dedicated; he's a great man. He always is, for others…

When I look back at where Ethan was, I see him laughing. Really laughing. Not that measured smile he shows in public, but something more genuine. Vanessa is standing in front of him, talking animatedly.

I feel a tightness in my chest. I can't remember the last time I made him laugh like that.

I stand watching them for a few seconds longer than I should. There's a complicity in the way they look at each other. Familiarity. Something that isn't built in formal gatherings.

I decide to leave early.

I say goodbye to some acquaintances and leave the room without looking for Ethan. I don't want to face his surprise, or his polite indifference.

The night air hits my face as I step outside. I take a deep breath, trying to clear away the bitter feeling that lingers.

Back home, silence greets me as always. I take off my shoes, put my bag on the table, and pour myself a glass of water. The reflection in the glass shows me a tired image.

Not sad, just tired.

I sit on the sofa and close my eyes. The scenes from the event replay over and over. Ethan's laughter. Vanessa's hand. The way he never reached out to me.

There was no obvious betrayal. No inappropriate words.

And yet… it hurts.

Because love isn't always lost through infidelity. Sometimes it fades away in gestures that never come, in glances that avert, in laughter that no longer belongs to you.

When Ethan arrives, it's late. Much later than usual. I hear him come in, put down his keys, and walk around the house.

"Clara?" he calls.

It surprises me. He never looks for me.

"I'm here," I answer from the living room.

He appears in the doorway, loosening his tie.

"I didn't see you leave," he says. "I thought you'd stayed."

"I felt tired," I reply.

He nods, as if that explains everything.

"It was a good event," he adds. "The partners were satisfied."

"I'm glad."

He stands for a few seconds, as if he wants to say something else. He doesn't.

"I'm going to take a shower."

"Okay."

I watch him walk away down the hall, feeling that each step he takes pushes me a little further away.

That night, when he lies down next to me, something changes. It's not obvious. It's not drastic.

But I feel it. For the first time, I don't approach him expecting anything. I don't expect him to hug me. I don't expect him to look at me. I turn away and close my eyes.

And in that small, silent gesture, I begin to understand something that frightens me more than any betrayal: I'm starting to give up.

The exhaustion no longer goes away with sleep. I notice it when I wake up, when I open my eyes and the weight in my chest is still there, untouched, as if I'd never closed mine. Ethan is no longer in bed. His side is cold. I don't remember feeling him get up.

I lie there for a few minutes staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the house. The murmur of the coffee maker in the kitchen. Firm footsteps. His day begins as usual.

For me, it's just another attempt to numb myself.

I get up slowly and go to the bathroom. The mirror reflects an image that feels strange. Not because I've changed physically, but because there's something in my eyes that wasn't there before, a kind of distance, as if I'm no longer fully present.

I shower, get dressed, and go downstairs for breakfast.

Ethan is checking his phone, a cup of coffee in his hand. He doesn't even look up when I sit down across from him.

"Good morning," I say.

"Good morning," he replies automatically.

We eat in silence. The clinking of silverware against plates fills the space between us. I could talk, I could ask him about yesterday's meeting, about the London project, about Vanessa.

I don't… Because I'm tired of being the only one trying to bridge that invisible gap between us.

"I'll be late today," he says suddenly. "I have dinner with some business partners."

I nod.

"Okay."

He doesn't ask if I have plans. He never does.

When he leaves, I clear the table and stand there, unsure what to do with myself.

Before I organize and make sure everything at home is in order, I notice that as I pass by Ethan's office, his door is ajar. He doesn't usually leave it like this.

I don't go in out of curiosity. I go in because something inside me is already searching for answers, even though I'm afraid of finding them.

The desk is spotless. Documents are neatly arranged. The computer is off. On a chair, the jacket he wore to the gala. I pick it up impulsively, intending to hang it up.

That's when I see it. A faint stain on the collar of the shirt.

A crimson stain.

It's not big. It's not scandalous. It's so small that someone who wasn't looking for reasons to suffer could easily ignore it.

I can't.

My heart races. The fabric trembles between my fingers as I hold the stain up to the light. There's no doubt, I know that color. I saw it on Vanessa's lips.

My mind starts constructing scenarios without asking permission. An accidental brush. Unnecessary closeness. A laugh too close.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.

There's no proof, nothing concrete. Ethan isn't unfaithful. He never has been.

But that doesn't make it hurt any less.

I hang up my jacket and leave the office, feeling like something inside me has broken. Not suddenly. Not loudly.

With a slow, silent crack.

That night, Ethan arrives late. Much later than he said. I hear him come in, talk on the phone in a low voice, chuckle softly before hanging up.

"Are you still awake?" he asks when he enters the bedroom.

"Yes."

He comes closer, takes off his watch, puts his things on the dresser. I watch him closely. Every gesture. Every movement. I search for something that will confirm or deny my fears.

"Everything okay?" he says, noticing my gaze.

I hesitate.

I could ask him, I could show him his shirt. I could demand an explanation. But something inside me stops.

Because I don't want to be the woman who begs for love as if it were some unresolved issue.

"Yes," I reply. "Everything's fine."

He nods and lies down beside me. The mattress dips slightly under his weight. He's close, but feels miles away.

"It was a long dinner," he says. "A lot to discuss."

"I can imagine."

He falls silent. So do I.

I turn away, my back to him. My eyes fill with tears that I don't let fall. I don't want him to see me like this. I don't want him to ask me what's wrong, because I know he wouldn't know what to say.

What's wrong with me can't be explained briefly.

It's a sum of absences. Of unfulfilled gestures. Of words never spoken.

That night we didn't sleep together, even though we shared the bed. And as I listen to his calm breathing, an idea begins to take shape in my mind, clear and terrifying…

Maybe Ethan was never mine. Maybe I was just the wife who was there when he wasn't looking anywhere. And for the first time since I got married, I ask myself something that changes everything.

How much longer can I keep living like this without losing myself completely?

The exact moment when you stop asking questions to avoid suffering. It doesn't happen suddenly. There isn't a clear thought that says "enough." It's more like when the body stops reacting to constant pain, not because it's healing, but because it's protecting itself.

That's what happened to me that week.

I stopped wondering if Ethan would be home early, I stopped waiting for messages he never sent. I stopped imagining excuses for his absences.

And in that self-imposed silence, I began to see with a clarity that used to frighten me.

The Blackwood Enterprises annual gala was just a few days away. It was the most important event of the year, the one that solidified alliances, sealed deals, and generated headlines. It had always been our event, at least on the surface. I took care of every detail: invitations, protocol, aesthetics, and personal accompaniment.

Ethan trusted me with that.

He trusted me to handle what he didn't have time to look at.

That morning, while reviewing the final guest list, I noticed Vanessa Reed's name highlighted on the screen. External partner. Guest of honor. Head table.

It shouldn't matter to me, I told myself. But it did.

Not out of overwhelming jealousy, not out of anger… but out of exhaustion. Because her presence always came with something more: a different energy in Ethan, an attention I could never elicit.

"Is everything ready for the gala?" Ethan asked that night, taking off his jacket.

"Almost," I replied. "We just need to confirm a few last-minute details."

"Good. I trust you."

Just that one stock phrase he used for everything.

I nodded, and for the first time, I didn't feel proud of that confidence. I felt it was an elegant way of delegating what he didn't want to carry.

"Vanessa will be there," he added, as casually as mentioning the weather.

"I know."

He looked at me, perhaps waiting for something more. A reaction. A question. A comment.

I gave him nothing. And something in his expression seemed to disconcert him, though he said nothing.

The following days were a succession of small scenes that, seen together, formed a picture too clear to continue ignoring.

Ethan answering calls late at night, leaving the room so as not to disturb me.

Ethan smiling as he read messages he never shared.

Ethan arriving home with that carefree energy he didn't have when he was with me.

There was no guilt in his gestures. No nervousness. That was what hurt the most.

Because he wasn't taking care of me. Not because he wanted to hurt me, but because he never thought he would.

One afternoon, I went to the company to personally review some details of the event. I walked through the hallways I knew so well, greeting employees who smiled at me familiarly. I had always been respected there. Not just for being the CEO's wife, but because I worked, because I was productive, because I was present.

As I turned a corner, I heard laughter.

Ethan's, Vanessa's. They didn't see me right away. They were standing, too close for it to be strictly necessary. She was saying something animatedly, touching his arm as she spoke. He was leaning forward to hear her better.

It wasn't an compromising scene.

It was something worse.

It was natural.

When they saw me, Vanessa was the first to react.

"Clara!" she exclaimed, with that perfect smile she always wore. "We were just talking about the gala."

"It seems so," I replied calmly.

Ethan approached.

"Everything alright?"

"Yes. I just came to check a few details."

Vanessa observed me attentively, as if evaluating something. There was no open hostility in her gaze. Nor innocence… There was interest.

"Ethan always speaks wonders of your organization," she said. "Without you, these events wouldn't be the same."

She said it looking at him, not at me.

Ethan nodded.

"She's very good at what she does."

Very good… Not important. Not indispensable. Not his wife.

I smiled out of pure habit.

I said goodbye shortly after, with impeccable politeness that tasted bitter. As I left the building, I felt a lump in my throat that I didn't want to swallow.

It wasn't anger, it was disappointment.

Because I understood something with unsettling clarity: Ethan wasn't doing anything wrong by his own standards. He wasn't crossing any obvious lines. He wasn't lying. He wasn't cheating.

He simply… wasn't choosing me.