Too Late, My Ex-Wife: Her Regret After Our Daughter's Death

Chapter 2: The Last Thread

Nathan's POV:

The room went quiet.

Something flickered behind Vivienne's eyes—a momentary shadow of shock—but before it could take root, Roman moved.

He took a half-step forward, his expression instantly melting into one of deep, sorrowful understanding.

He looked around the room at the watching investors, then back at me, his voice dropping into that smooth, low register used for comforting a erratic child.

"Nathan, please, let’s all take a breath," Roman said, gently raising his hands.

"You have to look at the bigger picture here," Roman continued, his tone laced with a heavy, patronizing sigh. "Vivienne has been working herself to the bone to secure Lily’s future. Tonight is the culmination of months of agonizing hard work. To bring a domestic misunderstanding here, to use a little girl’s seasonal flu as a dramatic stunt to drag her mother home..."

He shook his head, looking directly at Vivienne with an expression of tender pity.

"It’s just a pattern, isn't it? Every time Vivienne achieves a milestone, Lily suddenly falls ill. A child shouldn't be taught to weaponize her own health just to satisfy her father's deep-seated insecurity."

My breath hitched. The implication was a physical blow. He wasn't just calling me a liar; he was implying that I was manipulating my own dying daughter, coaching her to fake illnesses to sabotage my wife.

"Roman, shut up," I roared, my fists clenching so hard my knuckles turned white.

I crossed the distance between us before anyone could grasp what was happening. My fist caught Roman squarely across the jaw.

The impact sent a violent, shuddering jolt up my arm, but I welcomed the pain. It was nothing compared to the agony in my chest.

Roman crashed backward into the wall, his flawless elite composure instantly shattering as blood welled at the corner of his mouth.

"Nathan, stop!" Vivienne’s shriek pierced the chaos.

I didn't stop. I couldn't. I pinned him against the wood paneling, my fingers ripping into his tailored jacket, pulling my fist back to shatter that smug, lying smile once and for all.

But the second punch never landed.

SLAP!

A blinding, violent crack echoed through the ruined banquet hall.

My head was snapped violently to the side, the sheer force of the blow throwing me off balance. I stumbled backward into the shattered glass, my boots losing traction as I hit the floor hard. A sharp, searing heat exploded across my left cheek, followed by the immediate, metallic taste of blood inside my mouth.

I looked up, stunned, my vision swimming.

Vivienne was standing over me. Her hand was still raised, her chest heaving underneath her designer dress, her eyes blazing with an unyielding, murderous fury. Her knuckles were flushed red from the impact.

"Have you completely lost your mind?!" Vivienne hissed, her voice shaking with utter loathing. She didn't look down at my bleeding lip, nor did she care that I was kneeling in a bed of broken glass.

Her entire body moved like a shield, stepping over me to place herself protectively in front of Roman.

"Vivienne... please, it's alright," Roman’s voice rose from behind her, weak and trembling, yet perfectly timed. He was holding a hand to his bleeding jaw, leaning heavily into the wall.

On the outside, he looked like a victim of senseless brutality—breathless, pale, and deeply shaken. He reached out a trembling hand, gently grasping Vivienne’s wrist to pull her back, his voice dripping with saintly forbearance. "Don't be too impulsive, Vivienne. Please, don't hurt him on my account. He's... he's clearly not in his right mind tonight. Let’s just be considerate."

He looked down at me over her shoulder.

And there, hidden from Vivienne’s sight, the fragile victim disappeared. For a fraction of a second, Roman’s lips twitched into a tiny, cruel smirk. His eyes gleamed with a sickening, triumphant satisfaction.

"Look at him, Roman!" Vivienne snapped, turning her face to him, her tone instantly shifting from venomous rage to desperate, breathless concern. She touched his face, her fingers trembling as she wiped the blood from his lip. "He brutally assaulted you in front of my investors! And you're still defending him? You're still trying to protect him?!"

She turned back to me, the disgust in her eyes so dense it felt like a physical weight crushing my lungs.

"Look at the contrast between the two of you," she said, her voice dropping into a cold, lethal register of pure contempt. "Roman is bleeding because of your pathetic jealousy, and yet he is still thinking about your dignity. And you? You lie there, making up disgusting lies about our daughter dying just to ruin my career. You are a parasite, Nathan. An absolute, pathetic parasite."

I sat on the cold floor, the glass cutting into my palms, the left side of my face swelling rapidly from her palm. The physical pain was immense, but inside, something had gone entirely numb.

I looked at the blood on Roman’s face—a single, superficial scratch.

Then I looked at my own hands, torn and bleeding, and felt the warm trickle from my lip. I had spent six years protecting this woman, protecting our home, ensuring she never had to face a single hardship alone. And this was the return on investment. A public execution by her own hand.

A laugh tore out of my throat.

I pushed myself up from the floor.

"I am done," I said. My voice wasn't shaking anymore. It was dead.

I turned and walked toward the exit, my boots crunching against the remnants of her celebration. Behind me, I heard Roman let out a sharp, pained groan, followed instantly by Vivienne’s panicked gasp as she turned all her attention back to him.

I didn't look back.

~.~

I drove home without the radio. Mrs. Pena had left the kitchen light on. Lily's shoes were by the door, slightly crooked. I straightened them out of habit and sat in the dark and did not move for a long time.

I thought about the night I met Vivienne. Sitting on a kerb outside a bar, dress torn at the shoulder, phone dead, completely alone. I had been walking back from a late shift and something had been very wrong and I had stayed until it was less wrong. In the months after that we had built something that felt like it was going to last.

I spent six years trying to find that version of her again. Turned down the job. Emptied the savings. Kept telling myself love was not a feeling you waited for but a decision you made every morning regardless of what the night before had looked like.

Roman Shaw had been her first love. He had left and she had nearly fallen apart and I had been the one who was there. I told myself that meant something permanent.

But now I did not want the marriage any more. Yet Lily had one wish and it was so small it should have been effortless.

Just her mother be there for her birthday. That was the whole ask.

I was still sitting in the dark when the front door opened just before dawn. Vivienne came in tired, hair slightly undone. She saw me and stopped.

Then she set her bag down.

"Stop doing this," she said. "Whatever you think you proved tonight, you did not prove it. You embarrassed yourself and you embarrassed me and if you can just behave like an adult and go back to how things were then we do not need to make this bigger than it is."

She meant it. She was genuinely standing there believing the correct response was for me to go back to being the man who stayed quiet and asked for nothing.

I looked at her for a long moment. 

"I want a divorce.