The Billionaire's Regret After I Died

I had been living as someone that was unneeded and unwanted for years because of my chubby figure, but the marriage with my billionaire husband and my adorable daughter tricked me into feeling like I was worth something, even though I was the wife that was hidden away. But the truth is, when I was kidnapped, my husband left me to die, burning in the fire.

When I survived and came back as a beautiful, charming woman, he looked at me with full desire.

Please don't marry him, I am better than him.

He begged for me when I married another man, but it was ridiculous that he didn't even know who I truly was.

This time, it was my turn to play the game.

Chapter 1: The Call

Rachel's POV

The smell of vanilla and burnt sugar hung heavy in the air when my phone buzzed against the counter. I wiped my hands on my apron before picking it up, half expecting it to be Amber’s teacher again about another art project.

But when I saw the name on the screen, my stomach fluttered.

Adrian.

My husband. The man who almost never called.

In the five years we had been married, I could count our phone calls on one hand, each one short, polite, and painfully formal. He was the CEO of The Grand Regal Hotel, a man made of schedules and control, not spontaneity. If he was calling now, something was wrong.

“Adrian?” I answered, trying to sound calm. “What happened?”

“The pastry chef cut his hand,” he said without preamble. His voice was crisp and efficient, the tone he used when delegating work, not speaking to his wife. “We need someone to finish the custom cake for tonight’s movie party.”

I blinked. “You mean—?”

“I need you to handle it.”

For a moment the world stilled. It had been years since I had stepped foot in that kitchen, his kitchen now, but something inside me lifted. The thought of returning to the place where I once poured my heart into flour and sugar filled me with a strange, bittersweet excitement.

“I’ll be there right away,” I said quickly.

“Don’t mention we’re married,” he interrupted, and my brief warmth froze. “You’re just a former employee helping out.”

There it was, the reminder. The invisible line drawn between us. I wasn’t his wife in the public eye, not even a rumor. Our marriage was a contract between two families, signed out of obligation, buried in secrecy.

“I know,” I murmured.

“Good.” He hung up.

No goodbye. No pause. Just silence.

I stood there for a moment, my fingers tightening around the phone until my knuckles went white. The air felt thick, heavy with things I never said aloud.

No, he was gentle sometimes, but his gentleness was reserved for that woman.

Shaking myself out of it, I changed quickly. I slipped into a dark tracksuit, something loose and comfortable. I had put on weight over the years. Every extra curve felt like a reminder of everything I had lost, control, confidence, maybe even him.

Still, work was work. I tied my hair back, took one last look in the mirror, and whispered to my reflection, “Just focus on the cake.”

By the time I reached The Grand Regal Hotel, my pulse had steadied. The building loomed ahead, sleek glass and marble reflecting the city’s skyline. I had helped build its reputation back when I was head pastry chef, back when my name meant something here.

The familiar scent of roasted coffee and vanilla greeted me the moment I stepped inside. My heels clicked softly across the polished floor as I passed old colleagues. Some smiled in surprise; others barely recognized me.

And then I saw him.

Adrian stood by the kitchen pass, giving orders to the staff. His silver-gray suit fit him perfectly, the crisp line of his shoulders sharp against the soft lighting. His dark blonde hair was combed back neatly, not a single strand out of place. When he turned and saw me, his expression didn’t change.

“You’re here,” he said simply, voice even, eyes unreadable. “The cake needs finishing. You have an hour and a half.”

“Yes, Mr Parker,” I replied automatically, the words tasting bitter.

His gaze lingered for a heartbeat, assessing, distant, all business. Then he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne, cedarwood and distance.

When he was gone, the kitchen relaxed.

“Rachel! You actually came!” my old sous-chef Greg exclaimed. “We thought tonight was doomed.”

“Nice to see you too,” I said, managing a small smile.

I slipped into a uniform and moved to the workstation. The half-finished cake sat before me, elegant layers of sponge and cream, delicate sugar roses waiting to bloom.

For the next hour, I lost myself in the rhythm of it. My hands moved automatically, smoothing, piping, sculpting, each motion muscle memory. The noise of the kitchen faded until it was just me, sugar, and silence.

When the last petal fell into place, Greg let out a low whistle. “You’ve still got it.”

Adrian came back just as I was setting down the piping bag. He examined the cake in silence, his eyes scanning every detail. After what felt like forever, he nodded once.

“Well done,” he said.

Two simple words, but my heart surged. At home he rarely noticed the small things. But here, as his employee, my work still meant something.

I forced a steady smile. “Thank you, sir.”

He turned away. “Help me move it to the banquet hall.”

We pushed the cake cart together through the gilded corridors. The hum of conversation grew louder as we neared the lobby. The film company’s party was already in full swing, laughter, glasses clinking, the faint sound of jazz echoing through marble halls.

I tried to keep my head down. My palms were sweaty against the handle of the cart. Then I heard Adrian’s breath catch. His attention fixed ahead, and when I followed his gaze, my stomach dropped.

A woman in a crimson silk dress stood by the bar, her golden curls catching the light. Even from across the room, I recognized her instantly.

Marissa.

She was arguing with a man whose hand rested far too low on her back. Before I could blink, Adrian was gone, striding across the floor like a storm.

“Let her go!” His voice boomed over the music.

The man stumbled back, startled. Adrian caught Marissa’s wrist and pulled her close, shielding her as though she were something fragile.

And that was when his shoulder hit the cake cart.

Time slowed. The three-tiered cake tilted forward in dreadful slow motion. I lunged, trying to steady it, but the weight overpowered me. The whole thing crashed onto the marble floor, icing, fruit, cream, everything exploding like a grotesque snowstorm.

The cart tipped, and I stumbled with it, landing face-first in what used to be a masterpiece.

For a second, there was only silence. Then laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone gasped. Someone else raised their phone.

I could feel frosting dripping from my hair down to my chin. My hands trembled.

Adrian finally turned, and the look in his eyes wasn’t concern. It was disgust.

I waited for him to come help me, to say something, anything.

But instead, he tightened his grip around Marissa’s shoulders, whispered something to her, and walked away.

He didn’t even look back.

I stood there, sticky and humiliated under the chandelier’s glow, surrounded by laughter and pity.

In that moment the truth was clear, painfully, irreversibly clear. Whenever Marissa needs Adrian, he will always pick her.

Not me.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and whispered to myself, so quietly no one could hear,

Yet even as the words left my lips, I still can escape that stubborn, hopeless longing which wells up every time I see his back.

Adrian… please don’t go.