Too Late for Regret

I watched the “Transfer Application Submitted” notification on the computer screen and calmly closed the page.

No one knew that I was living a replay of this entire, messed-up life.

In my last life, I was my parents’ perfect puppet. I took that Executive VP gig at the New York HQ and followed every single one of their orders. All of it, just to be near them and prove I was worthy of being the daughter of the capo, Domenico Carlo Elio.

Everyone had assumed I died fifteen years ago—taken out by a stray bullet and burned to ash. But now that I was back, standing at my biological father’s side, it was clear to everyone that I was nothing more than an intruder.

This life? Before they even had a chance to open their mouths and assign my sister, Elena, the coveted West Coast territory, I preemptively hit “SUBMIT”.

“Dad, Mom, I’ve applied to the Vegas subsidiary. I’m going to join the desert wind farm project.”

The laughter at the end of the long mahogany table screeched to a halt.

My father—Domenico Carlo Elio—pressed his cigar into the silver ashtray, a deep frown carving into his forehead: “Nevada? You’re going to count sand in the desert?”

My mother, Adriana, froze with her fork mid-air. Her voice was gentle but laced with unmistakable confusion: “Rhea, did you fail the HQ assessment? It’s alright. We can have your godfather write you a letter of recommendation…”

I’d been back for two years, and they still saw me as the wild child raised in the Sicilian countryside, the one with an accent who certainly couldn't be trusted with family matters.

“The assessment was an A,” I cut her off. “The transfer is my decision.”

Elena, sitting directly across from me in a custom cream-colored gown, smiled like a perfect little saint: “Sorella (Sister), the sun exposure out there is intense. Your skin is already—” She paused deliberately. “I mean, you suffered enough hardship growing up away from us. Why push yourself so hard now?”

I just looked at her.

Last life, she had the exact same ‘I’m doing this for your own good’ routine:

“Sister, don’t blame Mom and Dad. They’re just afraid you can’t adapt to the pace.”

Every word a polished dagger, yet she always remained the picture of grace. And every time I snapped back, it became living proof that I was ‘tacky and unrefined.’

This time, I simply folded my napkin, looked up, and repeated calmly: “The application is locked. HR won’t process any change requests.”

A heavy silence descended upon the table.

My father let out a cold laugh: “Suit yourself. Just don’t come back crying for me to pull you out one day.”

My mother sighed and, in a rare display, personally spooned a bit of lobster bisque into my bowl. “Eat first, we can discuss this later.”

I didn’t touch the soup.

I’m allergic to seafood, but Elena loves it, so the kitchen serves it almost every meal. Every dinner involves me taking an anti-allergy pill as an appetizer.

The rest of the meal, the three of them switched to Sicilian, laughing as they discussed Elena’s coming-of-age mass next week. Their voices sounded like they were behind a pane of glass.

I quickly finished and left the table. No more desperately hunting for topics, reciting the family tree, or rehearsing a noble accent, all for the sake of squeezing myself into their perfect picture like I did last time. Because I finally knew the truth: I was never, ever meant to be in that family portrait.

Back in my third-floor guest room, I opened my calendar.

Twenty days until the transfer takes effect.

I used a red marker to draw a small ‘X’ over the date. One day closer to finally ditching this suffocating place.

The room, decorated entirely in ‘Morandi Gray’ by some designer, was filled with staggeringly expensive objects, yet it felt cold as a museum display.

In my previous life, I poured all my passion into this mansion:

Mastering firearms, honing my fighting skills, pushing my GPA to 4.0, all just for a single word of public praise from my father at the year-end mass;

giving up my beloved renewable energy projects to accept an arranged marriage with the old-money Chicago mob; I was even negotiating a major port smuggling deal the day my son was born.

And the result?

My father shaking his head at the Christmas gala: “Rhea, can’t you just be more like Elena and stop worrying us?”

Elena giggling behind her hand: “Mom and Dad, don’t be angry. Sister just tries too hard to prove herself.”

My husband sneering in bed: “Rhea Elio, apart from the name, what part of you actually belongs to the Elio family?”

Finally, even the son I raised with my own hands frowned:

“Mom, seriously, can you please just stop the whole thing with Auntie? Why can’t you just chill? You’re straight-up embarrassing me in front of all my friends.”

Last life, I died from heart failure induced by severe depression.

This life, I quit the fight.

Your holy water, your guns, your godfather titles—

I don’t want any of it.

I only want myself.