He Regrets After The Countdown to Our Divorce

Melissa’s POV

“Honey, do you like how my outfit looks for the signing?”

It was a gentle question, more like a soft attempt at getting his attention, a small moment of warmth that I should’ve known better than to expect.

What I got in return was a hot, undiluted slap that stung my skin and echoed through the room and I'm turn sent ripples down my spine. My head snapped to the side and abruptly my breath caught somewhere between shock and resignation. This was my husband — or rather, the man who wore the title like a crown but treated me like an unpaid servant.

I pressed my palm to my cheek, feeling the sting spread. His eyes burned with the same disgust I’d seen too many times to count.

“Don’t act coy with me,” Tony sneered, his voice sharp enough to slice through the whole room. “Just because you tricked my mother into marrying me doesn’t mean I’ll allow trash like you to carry my child.”

His words landed harder than his hand. My lips parted, but no sound came out. As I wouldn't dare to talk back to him.

But then, who was even thinking about carrying his child? I thought bitterly. If anything, I would rather sign to carry the child of a mentally deranged stranger than have his. The thought made me almost laugh — not because it was funny, but because that’s what pain does when it has nowhere else to go.

If not for my sister’s condition three years ago — if not for her needing surgery we couldn’t afford, then I would never have agreed to this contract marriage. Never!

Three years. Three years of swallowing pain like breakfast. Three years of silence, of long sleeves hiding bruises, of faking smiles so people wouldn’t ask questions. I’d learned how to hide the evidence well. Makeup on the neck and concealer over the cheekbones. Sleeves that covered my wrists no matter the weather.

If one gets used to things they never wished for, then I suppose I had gotten used to this one — to the sharp words, to the cold nights, to being invisible in my own home.

Sometimes, I’d lie awake wondering if I had forgotten what genuine peace even felt like. I used to hope he’d change. That maybe one morning, he’d look at me and see a person instead of a burden. I’d give him “one last chance” over and over again, like a fool clutching at smoke. But the truth has a way of showing itself — Tony Morgan would never change. And I finally understood that he didn’t deserve my love, not even the smallest piece of it.

As I stood there, still clutching my cheek, a familiar voice broke through the tension.

“How long will you continue to treat your wife like that?”

It was Mrs. Morgan — Tony’s mother — the only person in this family who ever looked at me like I was human. Her voice carried a mix of disappointment and quiet authority. “You know she’s the reason Morgan Group rose from nothing to number one. She’s far more valuable than anyone else in that company.”

Her words made me blink. Not because I hadn’t heard them before as she often reminded him of my worth — but because, deep down, I knew it changed nothing. Every time she defended me, it only made him hate me more.

Tony rolled his eyes, the corner of his lip curling in mockery. “Please, Mum,” he said with a short laugh. “Spare me that speech. You know I could’ve done it all without her.”

The lie slipped off his tongue so easily.

I turned my gaze away, trying to steady my breathing. He would rather die than admit I was the reason Morgan Group had survived its worst years as pride was the air he breathed.

Mrs. Morgan sighed in a manner that it carried years of exhaustion. “I have seen what you’re capable of,” she said sharply. “You and I both know it’s not much. Without her, the company would’ve crumbled long ago.”

Tony’s jaw tightened, his forehead twitching in barely contained anger. The vein on his temple pulsed, and I braced myself for another outburst. He hated being told the truth about me, especially by his mother.

For a second, I almost stepped between them — not out of love but habit. Whenever he looked ready to explode, I instinctively tried to calm him, to take the blame. It was ridiculous how quickly victims learn to protect their abusers.

Mrs. Morgan crossed her arms. “Now, take her to the signing,” she ordered, her tone firm and final.

Tony turned to her, his eyes flaring. “Take her?” He let out a harsh laugh. “Mum, she isn’t worthy of that from me. I’m the CEO and she’s just some overhyped engineer who got lucky. I’ll show you what real strength looks like someday.”

He stormed out without another glance, the slam of the door echoing behind him.

I didn’t move for a moment. My ears still rang from the slap, and the humiliation still burned in my chest. But more than that, I felt the weight of Mrs. Morgan’s worried gaze on me.

“Ma’am,” I finally said softly, forcing a small, shaky smile. “It’s fine. I’ll go to the signing myself. I wouldn’t want to keep our clients waiting.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue but then stopped. Maybe she saw it too — the way my eyes looked hollow, the way my body had learned to fold in on itself whenever Tony was near.

“Melissa…” she whispered. “You don’t deserve this.”

Her words were kind, but I didn’t know what to do with them. Kindness felt foreign now, like a language I’d forgotten how to speak. I just nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.” Then I turned toward the door, clutching my files that I would use to seal the deal with the clients.

As I walked down the long hallway, my heels clicking against the marble, my thoughts swirled.

Three more days.

Three more days until the contract expired. Three more days until I could walk away without owing him or his family a thing.

The thought gave me a strange kind of peace that felt fragile, but enough to keep me moving.

Besides, I told myself, I had done everything right. I’d played the role of the perfect wife even when it tore me apart. For three years, I had cooked his meals, cleaned his house, smiled beside him in board meetings, and pretended not to notice when he came home smelling like other women. I’d done my duty not necessarily because I loved him, but because Mrs. Morgan believed there was still something left in him worth saving.

I had believed her once.

But no matter how much I tried, Tony always found a new reason to hurt me — a wrong tone, a late reply, an outfit he didn’t like. He’d twist anything into an excuse.

And yet he wouldn't feel any atom of remorse or even apologize.

Still, I stayed.

Not because I was weak, but because I had a promise to keep to my sister. Her surgery had saved her life, and that was the only good thing that came out of this nightmare. Every slap, every insult, every night I cried into my pillow, were the price I paid for her heartbeat.

I inhaled deeply, adjusting my sleeves as I stepped out of the house and into the cool air. The faint breeze brushed against my cheek, making the pain flare again, but at least it reminded me that I was still here. Still breathing, of course.

As I reached my car, I paused for a second, staring at my reflection in the tinted window. The woman staring back didn’t look like me anymore. Her eyes looked tired, her skin pale, her smile faint and practiced.

I whispered to her softly, almost like a prayer, “Just three more days, Melissa. Three more days and you’ll be free.”

Then I got into the car, started the engine, and drove off to another day of pretending everything was fine.