The 100-Point Plan For His Regret

Caroline POV: He took a long stride toward the hospital bed, his gaze locked onto the worn, black leather diary in my hands. His shoulders were squared, his jaw tight. It was the stance of a predator defending its territory. Blake’s need for absolute control extended to everything I touched, everything I breathed. My heart rate spiked, the monitor beside my bed beeping in a sudden, frantic rhythm. I gripped the edges of the book so hard my knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white. This diary was the only place I existed. It was the silent receiver of three years of a loveless marriage, the countdown to my escape. "What the hell is that?" Blake demanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl that rattled the plastic cups on my nightstand. "What are you hiding from me, Caroline?" Panic clawed at my throat, tasting like copper. I forced myself to swallow it down. I drew in a shallow breath, ignoring the sharp stab in my broken ribs, and lifted my chin to meet his furious stare. I let the warmth drain from my eyes. I pictured the freezing, empty rooms of my third foster home, the place where I learned to lock my soul away behind a blank face. I let my expression flatline into a pool of dead, stagnant water. I didn't pull the diary to my chest. That would show guilt. Instead, I moved my arm smoothly and laid the black book flat on top of the stark white hospital blanket. "It's just a sketchbook," I said, my voice completely devoid of inflection. "Preliminary drafts for the downtown Los Angeles historical building renovation." Blake’s thick eyebrows snapped together. He hated that tone. He hated when I sounded like a professional instead of his adoring, submissive wife. It made him deeply uncomfortable. He reached out with a long, tailored arm, his fingers extending to flip the cover open. I kept my hands resting casually near the edge of the book, but beneath the blanket, my fingernails dug so deeply into my palms that they nearly broke the skin. Just as his fingertips brushed the worn leather edge, I spoke again, my voice dropping ten degrees. "It contains unreleased commercial bidding concepts. I suggest you don't look at it, Blake. We wouldn't want a conflict of interest with your firm's upcoming projects." His hand jerked to a halt. His fingers hovered over the cover, stiff and rigid. The accusation hit exactly where I aimed it. I was treating him like a corporate spy. I was treating him like a thief. He let out a harsh, barking laugh and pulled his hand back, sliding it into the pocket of his bespoke trousers. "Conflict of interest?" he sneered, his upper lip curling. "Please. Your little sketches aren't worth the paper they're drawn on. Don't flatter yourself." I didn't blink. I kept my face perfectly still as I slid the diary out from under his shadow and pushed it beneath my pillow. The movement was fluid, casual. The immediate crisis was over, but the air pressure in the hospital room had dropped to freezing. The silence was thick and hostile. Blake yanked at his silk tie, loosening it with a sharp, aggressive tug. He opened his mouth, his eyes narrowing as he prepared to rip into me for my sudden, unnatural defiance. A bright, sugary pop song suddenly blasted through the sterile room. It was a custom ringtone. Ariana’s ringtone. She had set it on his phone herself, giggling while I sat in the same room pretending not to hear. The cheerful melody hit me like a physical backhand across the face, stinging the last shreds of my dignity. Blake’s entire demeanor shifted instantly. His hand shot to his jacket pocket with a frantic, desperate speed that he didn't even try to hide. I watched him fumble for the device, and a microscopic, self-deprecating smile touched the corner of my mouth. He pulled the phone out. His eyes darted to the screen, and the furious storm in his gaze melted into absolute, panicked softness. He completely forgot I was in the room. He forgot the argument. He forgot his injured wife. He turned his back to me and walked quickly toward the floor-to-ceiling window. I stared at his broad shoulders wrapped in expensive wool. It was the exact same back I had seen three days ago, right before the crystal chandelier shattered. The back that had turned away from me to shield someone else. Deep in the hollow cavern of my chest, I subtracted the final, fatal point from our marriage. The score was zero. "Ariana," Blake said into the phone, his voice dropping to a gentle, soothing murmur that he had never, not once, used on me. "Breathe. I'm right here. Tell me what's wrong." I closed my eyes. The sound of his tender voice made my stomach churn with bile. I turned my head slowly, facing the blank, white wall on the side of the bed where he wasn't standing. Suddenly, Blake spun around, his dress shoes squeaking sharply against the linoleum floor. His face was tight with anxiety as he looked at me. "She's having a panic attack. I have to go right now."