The General's Ex-Wife's Regret

Chapter 3

Sophia’s sleek black car glided to a stop before Grandsaint’s Hotel—a palace of glass and gold, the kind of place only tycoons, politicians, and ghosts of old money could casually step into.

Carl hesitated. His instincts itched at him. This wasn’t his kind of battlefield. But Sophia, naturally, had insisted this was where they would celebrate.

“Maybe you should head in first, Sophia,” Carl said, still seated, his tone calm but firm.

She frowned immediately. “Why? Aren’t we going in together?”

“You know why.” Carl’s eyes flicked toward her.

Carl never explained what his work was to her back then. She only knew that he was a man that had a lot of secrets.

She hated it, but she understood. His secrets made him utterly captivating, and she loved that.

“Fine,” she said, softening her voice. “I’ll go first. But don’t make me wait too long, okay?”

Carl gave a small nod. But before she opened the door, Sophia leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Carl froze, eyes narrowing at her in surprise.

“Why did you do that?”

“A little compensation for not walking beside me.” She winked, smiling with her red lips before stepping out gracefully.

Carl could only shake his head, lips twitching in a faint, reluctant smile. Sophia hadn’t changed at all.

When he was sure she had vanished into the glittering lobby, he finally stepped out.

The moment he entered, a luxurious wave swallowed him whole. A grand chandelier spilled light across polished marble, glittering like constellations trapped in crystal. The air carried the faint scent of roses and expensive cigars.

He walked the red-carpeted hall, measured, composed. But halfway across, he froze.

Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

James Garcia. Jasmine’s younger brother. And beside him was his mother-in-law. Ophelia Garcia.

Carl’s gut tightened, but it was too late. They had seen him.

“What the hell are you doing here, Carl Donovan?!” James’s voice cracked like a whip, dripping venom.

Ophelia grabbed his son’s arms to stop him. “Stop it, James.” She turned to Carl. “What are you doing here, Carl? I thought you were in prison?”

Carl forced a smile. “I was freed,” Carl said evenly. “For good behavior, Mother.”

Ophelia raised an eyebrow. But she remained smiling at him.

“Really? Then… have you talked with Jasmine already?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

Ophelia’s lips curled into a mocking half-smile. “Then how did the divorce proceedings go?”

Carl inclined his head. “I signed this morning. Even though divorce is between the two of us, don’t blame Jasmine—this isn’t her fault. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I’m the one who let her down.”

For a fleeting second, silence. Then Ophelia let out a cold, biting laugh.

“Blame her?” she sneered. “Carl, don’t make me laugh. You were never the one I wanted as my son-in-law because you’re not worthy of my daughter, got it? Honestly, even if you don’t sign, we’ve still got ways to kick you out!”

Carl narrowed his eyes, never expecting his mother-in-law to be such a hypocrite.

James smirked, scoffing loudly.

“Yeah! You think you can just show up here like nothing happened? If you know what's best for you, you'd better hand over the money!”

Carl’s brow furrowed, “What money?”

“Don’t lie!” James stepped forward aggressively, his voice rising. “You leeched off her for years. I know that she gave you money for signing the divorce agreement! Hand it over!”

Carl’s jaw tightened. His voice was low, unyielding.

“I never took a single penny from her. I don’t need it.”

Ophelia folded her arms, a sneer etched across her face.

“And I’m supposed to believe that? You lived off my daughter’s wealth for years. Check his pockets, James. Whatever he’s hiding belongs to us.”

James’s grin turned feral as he moved in.

Carl’s patience thinned. The moment James’s hand shot forward, Carl caught his wrist mid-air. His grip was iron, but not cruel—controlled, precise. With one twist, he shoved James back, away from him.

But James collapsed theatrically, using his body to block Carl’s way subtly.

“Ahhh! My arm! He attacked me! We can’t let him leave here!”

Ophelia immediately dropped beside him, clutching her son as though he were mortally wounded. Her voice rose, shrill and practiced.

“Help! This man is a criminal! He stole from my family, and now he dares to assault my son! Call security!”

The crowd reacted like vultures circling fresh prey. Whispers spread. Faces twisted with judgment.

Carl stood still, jaw clenched, his silence more powerful than denial.

Then his gaze froze.

Around Ophelia’s neck, dangling proudly, was a necklace. Not just any necklace. His necklace. The heirloom he had entrusted to Jasmine—the last piece of his family’s history.

His voice dropped into something cold and dangerous.

“Where did you get that necklace?”

Ophelia’s fingers instinctively brushed it, her eyes narrowing.

“Return it,” Carl said, voice low, a command.

Recognition flickered in her eyes. She had taken it from Jasmine’s jewelry box earlier, not knowing—or perhaps now realizing—how important it truly was. And seeing Carl’s reaction only confirmed its worth.

“Oh… so it is valuable, isn’t it?” she said with a cruel smirk. “Too bad. You gave it to my daughter, which means it belongs to us. And I’m not giving it back.”

Carl’s restraint snapped like brittle glass. His fury was palpable as he stepped forward. But the guards were quicker, forming a wall of bodies between him and Ophelia.

“Sir, please present your VIP credentials,” one guard said firmly. “If you cannot, we will consider this harassment and detain you.”

Carl’s fists clenched at his sides. He couldn’t afford a scene here—not when his mission demanded secrecy.

Behind the safety of the guards, Ophelia smirked, venom dripping from her words.

“What good is your strength now, Carl? Without power, without money, you’re nothing. Hand over what you owe, or I’ll personally make sure you rot back in prison where you belong.”

Carl remained silent. Silence, but with an edge that could cut steel.

Then, a voice sliced through the room, sharp as glass, cool as winter.

“Who said he owes you anything?”

Every head turned.

At the top of the marble staircase, draped in a fiery red gown that shimmered with every step, stood Sophia Carson. Her heels clicked like gunshots against the floor as she descended, eyes burning with disdain and authority.

And for the first time that evening, Ophelia Garcia’s confidence faltered.