Too Late for Regrets: The Betrayer Wants Me Back

“I love you, Ravelle. You are the only woman in my heart.”

Ravelle Caleste Branson stared blankly at her reflection in the vanity mirror. The sweet words spoken by Kyle Stevens—the man who had wrapped his arms around her waist affectionately just yesterday morning before leaving for work—now buzzed in her ears like a swarm of venomous wasps.

What an incredible actor her husband was.

Kyle probably thought his disgusting secret was still safely hidden. The man would never imagine that the illusion of a happy marriage he had built over the past ten years had shattered into pieces since midnight.

Ravelle glanced at the classic Cartier watch on her wrist. It was already nine in the morning. Kyle had not come home since last night, exactly as he had carefully arranged.

Her hands trembled violently as she pulled a blank sheet of paper from her bag. Her chest felt tight, as though struck by an invisible hammer.

What happened last night... on the very day of their tenth wedding anniversary... kept replaying in her mind.

At exactly 11:45 p.m., Ravelle walked through the quiet corridors of Stevens Corporation. In her hand was a small box containing a homemade red velvet cake—Kyle’s favorite cake since their college days, when they used to eat at roadside stalls.

A few hours earlier, Kyle had sent her a message saying he had to work overtime all night because of an external audit. As a devoted wife, Ravelle wanted to surprise him at the very first minute of the new day. She wanted to be the first person to embrace him and celebrate a decade of their life together.

However, the moment she pushed open the slightly ajar door of the CEO’s office, her world collapsed.

The cake box nearly slipped from her grasp. Every muscle in her body tensed, and her blood seemed to freeze instantly.

Sitting in the CEO’s executive chair was Jessica Hepburn. Kyle’s personal secretary—whom Ravelle had always considered a polite professional woman, even a friend—was sitting on her husband’s lap. Jessica’s work skirt had ridden up to her hips.

With a face full of desire, Jessica tilted her head back, allowing Kyle to greedily kiss her neck.

“Ah... stop it, Jessica. I still have a lot of work to do,” Kyle whispered, yet his hands were roughly squeezing his secretary’s waist, pulling her closer.

“Darling, I miss you. It’s been a week since you touched me,” Jessica whined in a coquettish voice that made Ravelle’s stomach churn with nausea.

Without waiting for an answer, Jessica silenced Kyle’s lips. And what truly shattered Ravelle’s heart was the way Kyle returned the kiss with overwhelming hunger, as though he were a man stranded in a desert for years.

Ravelle gripped the doorframe so tightly that she injured her own skin. She did not scream. She did not confront them. Why? Because the blood of the Branson family flowed through her veins—the blood of cold-blooded businesspeople she had abandoned ten years ago for this bastard.

Instead of breaking down in hysterical tears, Ravelle took a deep breath. Her trembling hands gradually became steady. She raised her phone, turned off the flash, then took three photographs and one ten-second video with Kyle and Jessica’s faces clearly visible.

‘Evidence,’ thought her suddenly numb mind, which was nevertheless operating with terrifying efficiency. ‘Never step onto a battlefield without a weapon.’

After that, she turned around. With calm yet icy steps, she walked back into the corridor, threw the red velvet cake into a trash bin, and left that cursed building.

Staring at her swollen eyes in the mirror, Ravelle clenched her fists. Her sadness had evaporated, replaced by burning anger and wounded pride.

Ten years!

She recalled being twenty years old. A naive genius graduate of Wharton Business School who had been willing to sever ties with the powerful Branson family simply because Kyle had sworn that he would build his own empire with her.

For the past ten years, she had always remained behind the scenes. When Stevens Corporation had nearly gone bankrupt five years ago due to a liquidity crisis, Kyle believed the miracle had come from a mysterious investor named Alpha Crimson. Kyle never knew that Alpha Crimson was Ravelle’s alias. It was Ravelle who overhauled the company’s entire risk management strategy, staying awake for three consecutive weeks until she miscarried their first child—a medical secret she had deliberately hidden so Kyle would not feel guilty.

She had sacrificed her health, her career, and her prestigious name for this man.

“You chose the wrong opponent, Kyle,” Ravelle whispered. Her voice now sounded low and dangerous; there was no trace of fragility left in it.

She remembered what Kyle had said when they first rented a tiny three-by-four-meter apartment.

Kyle had hugged her and said, “Ravelle, if I ever betray you, make me poor. Take everything we build together, because without you, I am nobody.”

“Of course,” Ravelle had replied with a laugh.

Now, she was going to turn those words into reality.

Ravelle left the house with determined steps. Her first destination was not an ordinary law firm, but the Civil Registry Office. She wanted to officially file for divorce today. She wanted the papers to be on Kyle’s desk before the man finished making love to his secretary.

Not long afterward, she arrived at the government building and walked straight to the marriage and divorce administration counter.

She sat across from a middle-aged clerk wearing glasses.

“Good morning, Ma’am. How may I help you?” the clerk asked politely.

“I would like to file for divorce,” Ravelle replied. Her voice was calm, flat, and completely free of hesitation.

The clerk nodded and picked up a form.

“Very well. Could you please provide your identification card, your husband’s identification card, and the original marriage certificate?”

Ravelle handed over the documents. She was already mentally prepared for an exhausting legal battle. She knew Kyle might complicate the process in order to protect the image of the company, which was preparing to go public.

However, as the clerk entered their identification numbers into the system, his brow furrowed. He adjusted his glasses, stared intensely at the computer screen, looked at the physical documents, then returned his gaze to the screen.

“Is there a problem?” Ravelle asked. Her business instincts immediately sensed something unusual from the clerk’s expression.

The clerk cleared his throat and looked at Ravelle with an expression that was difficult to interpret—a mixture of confusion and deep sympathy.

“Excuse me, Ma’am... did you say your name is Ravelle Caleste Branson?”

“That’s correct.”

The clerk let out a heavy sigh and turned the monitor toward her.

“Mrs. Ravelle, it seems you do not need to file a new divorce petition.”

Ravelle frowned. Her heart pounded rapidly as a sudden sense of dread seized her.

“What do you mean? I came here specifically to divorce my husband, Kyle Stevens.”

The clerk slowly shook his head and pointed to a line of legal data on the screen connected to the national civil database.

“Mrs. Ravelle, you cannot file for divorce from Mr. Kyle... because according to the country's official records, your marriage ended a long time ago.”

Ravelle froze.

The words suddenly lodged in her throat.

“What...? That’s impossible! Don’t joke with me! We just... we’ve been living together every single day for ten years!”

“I’m not joking, Ma’am,” the clerk said in an extremely serious tone, pointing at the date column on the screen.

“Look at this. The divorce certificate under the names Kyle Stevens and Ravelle Caleste Branson was officially issued and signed by both parties eight years ago. Legally, the two of you have been divorced for eight years.”

The world around Ravelle seemed to stop spinning.

Her face turned deathly pale, drained of all color.

Divorced?

For the past eight years?

How was that possible? If they had already been divorced eight years ago... then who was the woman Kyle embraced every night, and what was the meaning of the ten years of sacrifice she had made?