HIS FORSAKEN WIFE HIS GREATEST REGRET

He Never Loved Me.

Roberta's POV

Millie stepped out of Jace's car wearing white. Everything white — a dress that moved when she walked, expensive in a way that announced itself without trying to. Her hair is loose. Her face opened and pleased and entirely at home in a way she had never looked standing outside this house when I was in it.

The back door opened, and Nolan ran out.

He ran directly to Jace and grabbed his leg with both arms and Jace looked down at him and his whole face changed — softened, immediate, automatic — and he bent and scooped the boy up and kissed his cheek.

The ease of it.

The complete, unself-conscious ease of a man loving his child.

Ziva had waited at the top of those stairs for seven years for a version of that ease. For a fraction of it. For one moment, where he looked at her the way he was looking at Nolan right now — like she was simply, naturally, the best part of the day.

He never gave it to her.

Not once.

I felt the urge to walk up to them and spit in their faces and tell them how much I hate them and how much they would suffer for everything they had done.

But I pressed my hand flat against the window frame and breathed through my nose, and told myself: not yet. Not like this. This is not how it happens.

Jace opened the boot.

He set down heavy luggage from the boot. Multiple bags. Millie directed him with the relaxed authority of a woman organising her own home, pointing at things, making decisions about what went where. Jace shifted bags without complaint without the impatient energy he had brought to every domestic task in our marriage. He was happy to do it. Happy to do it for her.

He had never once carried a bag for me.

Millie looked up at the front of the house. Really looked at it — not the quick functional look of someone coming home, but the long assessing look of someone deciding what to do with a space that is now theirs to change.

"I can't wait to redo this whole house," she said, loud enough to carry. "I always thought her choices were so — I don't know. Reaching. Like someone who wanted to look like she belonged. So tacky."

Jace laughed.

"This house is yours now," he said. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her in. "All of it. Do whatever you want. Get rid of whatever you want. She's gone."

She's gone.

He said it the way you say the old furniture has been cleared out. Neutral. Tidy. Problem resolved.

Our daughter was in a morgue drawer.

His wife of eight years was — as far as he knew — unconscious in a hospital bed, abandoned.

And he was standing in the driveway saying she's gone with his arm around the woman who had engineered all of it.

Millie reached up and kissed him.

Long. Unhurried. Her hand against his jaw.

I had spent eight years in a marriage where he kissed me the way you sign a document — necessary, functional, nothing behind it. This was something else. He kissed her back with his whole attention, one hand in her hair, completely present in a way he had never once been with me.

He had never loved me.

The words came out quiet. Steady.

"Enjoy it. Enjoy every single second of it. I'm going to give you time to get comfortable. I'm going to let you believe it's over. And then I'm going to take every single thing you think is yours."

I meant it. Every word.

I picked up my bag. The box of evidence inside felt heavy. But I wasn't done yet. Ziva's jacket still hung by the front door. I couldn't leave it. I couldn't let Millie throw it away like it was nothing.

I moved toward the bedroom door.

Then I heard them.

Laughter. Footsteps. Coming up the stairs.

They're coming up.

My heart stopped.

I looked around the room. Nowhere to hide. The closet was too small. The bathroom was not an option. The bed was too low.

Think. Think.

They were coming through the main stairs from the living room. The back stairs were at the end of the hallway, near the kitchen. I could hear Jace's voice getting closer. Millie's laugh.

I slipped out of the bedroom. Turned left. Toward the back stairs.

The hallway was long. My feet made no sound on the marble.

I heard the bedroom door open behind me. Jace's voice. "Finally. Just us. Our home."

Millie laughed. "The whole house to ourselves. No more rushing and hiding from stupid Roberta." They both laughed.

I kept walking. Fast. Not running. Running makes noise.

The back stairs also led to the kitchen. They were narrow. I took them.

At the bottom, the kitchen. Morning light through the windows. Ziva's drawings still on the refrigerator. Her jacket still on the hook.

I grabbed the jacket. Held it to my chest.

Then I heard footsteps. Coming down the main stairs. Millie's voice.

"I'm going to get us champagne. Something to celebrate."

She's coming to the kitchen. I can't let her see me. Not like this.

I couldn't go out the back stairs or the front door without passing her.

I looked around. There was the pantry. Small. Dark. Around the corner.

I slipped inside. Pulled the door almost closed. Left a crack.

Through the gap, I watched.

I’d barely tucked myself into the pantry, heart hammering, when I heard her footsteps behind me.

I watched through the narrow crack in the pantry door as she moved around my kitchen like she already owned it. Barefoot, glowing with confidence, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She opened the cabinet with casual familiarity and pulled out two champagne flutes—his and hers. The sight of her handling my things, pouring golden champagne with a satisfied little smile, made my stomach twist with disgust. This was my best friend. Now she was playing wife in my house. Pouring drinks for my husband. Wearing the life that was supposed to be mine.

She set the flutes on the counter and took a slow sip from hers, tilting her head back slightly. I stared at the curve of her neck, the smooth line of her back, the way she moved so comfortably like she owned this whole space.

Then I heard Jace’s footsteps coming down the stairs.

He walked in humming, relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen in years. The moment he saw Millie, his entire face lit up. He crossed the kitchen in a few strides and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her back against his chest.

Millie laughed softly. “You’re impatient, Jace."

He smirked. "You have no idea... I missed you so f*****g much,” he murmured against her hair. “Couldn’t wait another minute.”

Millie laughed, low and playful, and reached for the champagne. She handed him a flute, then took a slow sip from her own, eyes locked on his. "Jace, where should I put my clothes? I’m really about to throw all of Roberta’s ugly s**t away.”

“In the closet!” he said. He sipped his champagne and clinked the flute gently against hers. “Yeah, baby. Toss it all. This is your home now. She’s not coming back.”

She’s not coming back.

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. I pressed my fist hard against my mouth, biting down to stay silent.

I could see the back of Jace head, the broad line of his shoulders, those same hands that had once gripped me in anger. The hands that had never been gentle with our daughter, now wrapped around Millie's waist like she was the most precious being that ever walked the surface of the earth.

I could step out. Scream. Claw his eyes out.

But I stayed frozen, trapped, forced to watch my best friend lean back into my husband’s arms like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Millie turned in Jace’s arms, her gaze drifting lazily past his shoulder—straight toward the pantry door.

My blood turned to ice.

She was looking right at me now.

“I’m going to redecorate every single thing in this house,” she said, her voice laced with cruel satisfaction. She took a deliberate step closer, pointing directly at the pantry—at me—her manicured finger like a loaded gun. “Starting right here. This pantry. I want to clear out all her crap. Those hideous utensils, the old dishes… everything that pathetic woman ever touched.”

Each word landed like a blade twisting in my chest. My best friend was standing in my kitchen, wearing my life, speaking about me like I was already dead. The determination in her eyes was unmistakable. Cold. Excited. Possessive.

She took another step. Then another.

Only a few feet separated us now. I could see the faint flush on her cheeks from the champagne, the way her chest rose with anticipation. My hand tightened on the wooden shelf behind me until my knuckles screamed. My heart slammed against my ribs so violently I was sure they could hear it.

Please, God. Not like this. Not caught like a rat in my own pantry.

Millie’s fingers reached for the handle. The pantry door was inches away from swinging open.

I pressed myself harder against the back wall, breath locked in my throat, tears burning my eyes. One more second and everything would shatter—