Too Late For Regrets, Mr Sterling

The steam rising from the ceramic mug on my dining table had long gone cold. It was a mug of black, foul-smelling Chinese herbal tonic—the third batch I had boiled this week, and the hundredth I had forced down my raw throat over the last five years.

Every woman who has ever begged the universe for a child knows the smell of that bitterness. For five years, my life had been reduced to a humiliating cycle of basal thermometers, scheduled intimacy, invasive dye tests, and the quiet agony of white test strips that never turned pink.

Whenever my period arrived, Julian would hold me in the dark. He would bury his face in my neck, his hot tears soaking my collarbone, whispering, "Don't cry, Evie. We'll try again next month. God is just testing us. I want a baby with you more than I want my own life."

I believed him. I loved him so deeply that I had walked away from my family's astronomical fortune, keeping my true name buried so he could build his pride from the ground up without living in my father's shadow. I pinched pennies, mended his frayed cuffs, and drank boiling vinegar-tasting herbs until my stomach burned, all because I wanted to give him the family he craved.

Then, my phone chimed on the polished wood.

It was an I*******m notification. A fresh update from Chloe Ross, the widow of Julian's older brother, Ethan.

My thumb tapped the screen.

The image was a high-resolution ultrasound scan, framed by a pair of miniature knit booties and a bouquet of pristine white baby's breath.

The caption read: "Thank you for your sperm, giving me a baby of my own. Ethan is smiling down on us from heaven. Our family line isn't broken after all."

The room suddenly felt devoid of oxygen.

My vision narrowed to a pinprick. My trembling fingers pinched the screen, zooming in on the crisp black text printed across the top of the clinical report:

Patient: Chloe Ross.

Gestational Age: 7 Weeks.

Biological Father / Donor: Julian Sterling.

Julian Sterling.

My husband.

A sound tore from my throat—halfway between a dry sob and a manic laugh.

Five years of bitter tonics. Five years of weeping in his arms over empty cribs. Five years of him whispering that my body wasn't broken, that we just needed time.

And all along, he had walked into a fertility clinic, filled a sterile plastic cup with his seed, and handed it to his dead brother's wife without uttering a single syllable to the woman who shared his bed.

My fingers acted before my mind could intervene. Beneath Chloe's glowing post, amidst the floods of congratulations from our mutual acquaintances, I typed a single character:

?

I didn't even have time to lock the screen.

Three seconds later, the phone in my hand violently vibrated. The caller ID flashed: Julian.

I answered and pressed speakerphone. Before I could draw breath, Julian's voice erupted through the receiver, shrill, breathless, and soaked in volcanic rage.

"Are you completely out of your goddamn mind, Evelyn?! Delete that comment this instant!"

"Julian—"

"She's a widow, alright?!" he roared, the sound of blaring car horns vibrating in the background. He was driving. "Chloe lost Ethan! She sits in that dark apartment every night with nothing to live for! She was lonely, she was falling apart, and she just wanted a child to bring warmth back into her life! Where the hell is your basic human empathy?!"

My knuckles turned bone-white against the table. "She used your sperm, Julian. You fathered a child with another woman. With Ethan's wife."

"Ethan died saving my life!" Julian bellowed, his voice cracking with self-righteous fury. "He took the steering wheel when that truck hit us! He was my brother! His blood paid for my breath! Taking care of his widow is my sacred responsibility—it's family duty! Do you even know what loyalty means, or is your heart really that rotten and selfish?!"

"A child isn't an errand, Julian! It's a life! You gave her our dream!"

"It was an artificial vial in a lab, Evelyn! We didn't sleep together! I performed a medical charity for a grieving woman!" he sneered, each word dripping with disgust. "Do you really have to turn a noble act of brotherly duty into your own petty, disgusting melodrama? You're acting like a jealous, psychotic shrew! Delete that comment before Chloe sees it and has a breakdown, or so help me God, you will regret it!"

The line went dead.

I sat motionless in the dimming afternoon light. Slowly, I reached into the pocket of my oversized wool cardigan and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper stamped that very morning by St. Jude Medical Center.

Beta HCG: 48,000 mIU/mL.

Clinical Diagnosis: Intrauterine Pregnancy, 8 Weeks.

I was pregnant.

After five years of hell, of herbs, of prayers, my body had finally conceived. I had found out three days ago. Tonight was our fifth wedding anniversary, and I had planned to place the tiny white box containing the positive test right beside his dinner plate. I had imagined him falling to his knees, burying his face in my stomach, crying the same tears he cried when we failed.

Now, looking at the sonogram on Chloe's feed, the paper in my hand felt like a death warrant.

My phone pinged again.

Another post from Chloe.

This one was a photo taken from the top floor of Skyview Towers—the premier high-rise in the city, where penthouses sold for twenty million dollars.

Chloe was sitting on a plush white velvet sofa, holding a warm cup of herbal tea. In the background, visible through the open-concept Italian kitchen, stood a tall man in a tailored charcoal suit with his sleeves rolled up.

Julian.

He was standing by the stove, carefully ladling soup into a thermal container, his silhouette radiating domestic peace.

The caption read: "So glad to have you by my side, making me feel the warmth of a home again. Baby kicked for the first time today."

Last month, Julian had begged me to liquidate my private personal savings—nearly fifty thousand dollars from my freelance design work—claiming his architectural firm was on the verge of bankruptcy and couldn't pay its quarterly taxes. I had handed it over without hesitation, eating plain noodles for weeks so he wouldn't stress.

He hadn't paid his taxes. He had paid the lease deposit on a penthouse for his dead brother's widow.

I picked up the house phone, dialed St. Jude Clinic, and spoke in a voice devoid of all warmth.

"Cancel my prenatal intake for tomorrow at nine."

"Certainly, Mrs. Sterling," the receptionist replied politely. "Would you like to reschedule for later in the week?"

"No," I said evenly. "Change the procedure to a surgical termination. First available slot."

It was nearly eleven at night when the front door finally clicked open.

Julian stepped into the entryway, carrying an expensive leather briefcase in one hand and a thin, crinkled plastic takeout bag in the other. He looked flushed, radiating the smug, exhausted satisfaction of a martyr returning from the battlefield.

He hung his coat, walked over to where I was still sitting in the dark, and offered a soft, rehearsed smile.

"Evie, come on. Let's not let things fester," he murmured, walking around the table and leaning down, his arms reaching to encircle my shoulders. "I know I sounded harsh on the phone, but you have to understand the pressure I'm under. I brought you something. Eat it while it's hot."

He set the plastic container before me.

Inside the greasy plastic tub sat a lukewarm puddle of watery rice water, garnished with two gray shreds of pork and half a dried scallion. The plastic rim was crusted with dried residue.

It wasn't takeout.

It was the cold, scraped dregs of whatever gourmet dinner he had spent four hours cooking for Chloe in Skyview Towers.

The sour, fishy stench of the cold grease hit my heightened senses. My stomach heaved violently.

I shoved his arms away and stumbled backward into the hallway bathroom, collapsing to my knees in front of the porcelain bowl, retching until my lungs burned and my chest felt hollowed out.

Heavy footsteps stormed across the tiles. Julian appeared in the doorway, his features contorting into instant, bitter impatience.

"What is wrong with you?!" he snapped, crossing his arms and glaring down at me. "I drove thirty minutes through traffic to bring you your favorite pork porridge, and you throw a fit like I brought you poison! I'm bending over backward trying to cater to you after the way you humiliated Chloe, and this is how you act?!"

I pulled a hand towel from the rack, wiping my mouth, my hazel eyes locking onto his with an icy, terrifying stillness.

"You gave her a baby, Julian."

"Because Ethan is in a grave!" he screamed, slamming his open palm against the doorframe. "He gave up his future so I could have mine! Chloe was alone! Is it an unforgivable sin for a woman to want a child to remember her dead husband by?! You have me! You have this home! You have everything!"

He scoffed, his gaze sweeping over my pale face with utter revulsion.

"Look at you. Bitter, resentful, throwing tantrums over rice porridge while Chloe is lying in bed praying for our forgiveness. You're small, Evelyn. You're pathetic. If you can't open your heart to that innocent baby, then you don't deserve to be a mother at all."

He pulled his car keys from his slacks, his jaw clenched tight.

"Reflect on your attitude tonight. I'm staying in the guest suite at Chloe's to make sure her blood pressure doesn't spike from your malice. Don't call me until you're ready to apologize to her in person."

SLAM.

The door shook the concrete foundations of the apartment.

Ten minutes later, my phone lit up with a notification from Chloe's private story.

A photo of Julian's hand—his gold wedding ring gleaming under the chandelier—resting tenderly against her lower belly.

"Baby's father came back to protect us. He said this is where his heart truly belongs."

I didn't shed a tear. The five years of love, of herbal tonics, of agonizing over pregnancy tests, dissolved into pure, freezing ash.

I walked to the kitchen, took off my five-hundred-dollar wedding ring, and tossed it straight into the garbage disposal. Then, I unlocked the steel security safe under the bedroom floorboards and pulled out an encrypted satellite phone that had remained dormant for half a decade.

I dialed the one number that never changed.

The line clicked on the second ring.

"Princess?" my father's commanding, deeply weathered voice answered from across the ocean.

I looked out the dark window toward the distant, glowing towers of the city.

"Dad," I whispered, my voice as hard and lethal as a diamond. "Send the jet. I'm done playing house.”