His regret: Her revenge

 Chapter 1

Krista pov

The screech of tires ripped through the afternoon air, but I didn't turn fast enough.

Something slammed me hard, suddenly the world was spinning, concrete rushing up to meet my face. Pain exploded through every nerve ending as my body crashed onto the asphalt, skidding to a stop in the middle of the intersection.

Blood pooled beneath me, warm and sticky, spreading like spilled wine across the gray pavement. I tried to move, tried to scream, but my lungs wouldn't work and my limbs felt like they belonged to someone else.

The taste of copper flooded my mouth, thick and metallic. My vision blurred, but I could see shapes moving around me, I could hear voices shouting in the distance.

Through the haze of agony, I heard footsteps running toward me.

"Krista!" Alex's voice cut through the fog, and for one desperate moment, hope fluttered in my chest.

Maybe this would finally make him see me. Maybe nearly dying would remind him that I was his wife, that I mattered, that three years of cooking his meals and cleaning his messes and swallowing my pride deserved something more than contempt.

His shadow fell across my face as he knelt beside me, his phone pressed to his ear. "Yes, there's been an accident on Fifth and—"

The phone buzzed, interrupting him. He pulled it away from his ear, and I watched his expression change from concern to something else entirely.

Something eager. Something hungry.

"It's Monica," he said, and my blood ran colder than the concrete beneath me.

"Alex," I choked out, tasting copper. "Hospital."

Every word felt like swallowing glass, but I forced them out anyway. I needed him to understand that I was dying here, that this wasn't something a band-aid could fix.

He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the green button. The phone kept ringing, that cheerful tone mocking my gasping breaths.

Around us, a small crowd was gathering. I could hear their murmurs, their shocked gasps, but none of them came closer.

"Dad, come on." Tyler's voice cut through the air, sharp and impatient. "Aunt Monica's waiting for us."

Our son. Seven years old and he didn't even sound worried.

I turned my head, the movement sending fresh waves of agony down my spine, and looked at the boy I'd given everything for. His arms were crossed, his foot tapping against the sidewalk with barely contained irritation.

"Tyler, your mother—" Alex started, but the boy rolled his eyes.

"So what? She's always ruining everything." Tyler kicked at the curb, his face twisted with the same disgust I saw in Alex's eyes every morning. "We're already late because she was being slow again."

The words hit harder than the car. My own child, my baby, looking at me like I was trash littering the street.

I tried to remember when it had started, when my son had learned to hate me. Was it the day Alex first called me worthless in front of him? Was it the morning Tyler woke up to find me scrubbing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, trying to clean up the dinner Alex had thrown against the wall the night before?

"Please," I whispered, blood bubbling between my lips.

A woman in the crowd pulled out her phone. "I'm calling 911."

"Someone already did," another voice answered. "They said five minutes."

Five minutes. I wasn't sure I had five minutes.

"See? She's fine. She's talking." Tyler tugged on Alex's sleeve, his voice rising to a whine. "Dad, Aunt Monica made that chocolate cake I like, and you promised we wouldn't miss her party."

Alex's phone rang again, insistent and demanding. I watched his face, watched the war play out behind his eyes.

Choose me, I begged silently. Just this once, choose me.

"She'll be fine," Tyler said, and his voice was so casual, so matter-of-fact. "Someone else will help her. We have more important things to do."

More important things. I had carried this child for nine months, nearly died bringing him into the world, and I was less important than birthday cake.

I remembered the night he was born, how small and perfect he'd been in my arms. I remembered Alex promising to be a better father than his own had been, promising to love our family, to protect us.

That man was gone. If he'd ever existed at all.

"The boy's right," Alex muttered, standing up and answering the phone in one smooth motion. "Monica, hey, sorry we're running late."

His voice transformed, became warm honey instead of cold steel. This was the voice I'd fallen in love with four years ago, before the contract marriage, before I understood what I was signing away.

I tried to lift my hand, tried to reach for them, but my arm wouldn't obey. The world was going dark, sounds fading into a distant echo.

"Yeah, we're on our way now," Alex said, his voice warm and eager. "Tyler can't wait to see you."

"Can we go?" Tyler was already walking away, not even looking back. "I don't want to be here anymore. She smells bad."

The woman with the phone gasped. "That's his mother."

"Mind your business," Alex snapped at her, his tone vicious.

Through my blurring vision, I watched my husband hesitate for just a moment. His eyes met mine, and I saw nothing there but inconvenience.

Then he turned his back on me, following our son down the sidewalk.

"Mom's so annoying," Tyler's voice drifted back to me, petulant and cruel. "She probably jumped in front of that car on purpose to make us late."

Alex laughed.

The sound of it carved something out of my chest, something vital and necessary. In seven years of marriage, I'd endured his coldness, his criticism, his occasional violence when he'd had too much to drink. But this casual cruelty, this complete dismissal of my life, was something new.

"Should we follow them? Get their information?" someone in the crowd asked.

"They're gone," another voice answered. "Jesus, what kind of person leaves their wife bleeding in the street?"

The kind I married, I thought. The kind I gave everything to.

Darkness crept in from the edges of my vision, but I fought against it. I wasn't ready to die yet, not like this, not alone on the cold pavement while my family celebrated someone else's birthday.

My fingers twitched against the concrete. Pain radiated from everywhere and nowhere at once.

In the distance, sirens grew louder.

The last thing I heard was Monica's tinny voice from Alex's phone, distant but distinct, asking if they'd picked up her gift. Her laughter bubbled through the speaker, bright and carefree, the sound of a woman who'd never been left to die in the street.

Then the darkness rushed in like a tide, and I let it take me under.