Too late for sorry: My Ex Husband’s Ruin

Fayre

"Is Daddy coming?"

Phoebe’s tiny, frail voice broke the silence in the living room. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her oversized birthday hat slipping slightly to the side. She looked so pale, her small hands clutching the hem of her party dress.

I forced a bright smile, though my chest felt like it was caving in. "Of course he is, baby. Daddy just got held up at work. You know how busy he gets."

"But he promised," she whispered, her lower lip trembling. "He promised he would be here for my cake."

"I know, sweetheart," I said, walking over to adjust her hat. "He'll be here soon."

I turned away before she could see the tears pooling in my eyes. I walked into the kitchen, trying  to calm my nerves.

Elma, our longtime housekeeper, gave me a sympathetic look as she arranged the candles on the cake. "Should I try calling Mr. Mitchell again, ma’am?"

"No," I replied. "I’ve called him six times. He knows what today is."

I stared blindly out the kitchen window. I used to be a brilliant researcher, a core member of a prestigious medical institute, but I chose to step away from my career to support my husband and focus on my family. I gave up everything to be by Phoebe's side, to fight this terrible illness with her. I endured Mitchell's growing distance because I believed he was just being stressed about my sick child and he was taking it hard, but his attitude lately proved otherwise.

My phone vibrated on the counter.

I snatched it up, hoping it was Mitchell with an explanation. Instead, my stomach dropped.

It was a text from Ria. My step-sister.

He’s taking such good care of me today, Fayre. Don't wait up.

Attached was a photo of Mitchell’s hand resting on her  pregnant stomach. Lately, I had been repeatedly receiving these provocative messages from her—subtle taunts meant to rub her connection with my husband in my face.

The front door opened.

"Daddy!" Phoebe cheered weakly from the living room.

I rushed out of the kitchen, ready to confront him, ready to demand why he was ignoring his sick daughter on her birthday.

But the words died in my throat.

Mitchell stood in the foyer. He wasn't holding a present but was holding Ria by the waist, gently guiding her inside as if she were made of fragile glass.

Ria’s  pregnant belly protruded under her designer maternity dress. She leaned  against my husband, a delicate, practiced look of exhaustion on her face.

"What is she doing here?"

Mitchell looked up, his jaw tightening the moment he saw me.

"Keep your voice down, Fayre," Mitchell warned, helping Ria out of her coat. "Ria is moving in with us."

"Moving in?" I repeated, my voice shaking with absolute fury. "Are you out of your mind? She is not staying in my house!"

"Come on, Fayre, why can't you be sympathetic with your step-sister?" Mitchell snapped, his dark eyes flashing with annoyance. "She just lost her husband. She's pregnant and vulnerable, and she needs all the care and attention in the world right now."

"Sympathetic?" I laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "You know we’ve been fighting ever since we were little! You know exactly what she’s like! How do you expect us to live under the same roof?"

"Because it’s not about you!" Mitchell shot back, stepping protectively in front of Ria. "It's about making sure she has a safe environment for her baby."

"And what about your actual child, Mitchell?" I screamed, no longer caring if Elma was listening. I pointed at the living room where Phoebe was watching us with wide, terrified eyes. "You didn't even call to wish your daughter a happy birthday! You didn't even show up for her hospital appointment yesterday, even when I kept pleading on the phone that she was scared and wanted her dad there!"

Ria shifted behind him, letting out a soft, theatrical sigh. "Mitchell, please don't fight with her. I don't want to cause trouble. I can just go to a hotel..."

"You are not going anywhere," Mitchell said to her softly.

Then he turned back to me, his expression turning downright cruel.

"Stop the dramatics, Fayre," he sneered, his voice dripping with disgust. "I know exactly what you're doing. You're just using Phoebe's illness as an excuse to gain my attention."

I physically recoiled. The words hit me like a slap to the face. I suddenly realized that while he always comforted me outwardly, he had been privately complaining to Ria about me. He actually believed I was weaponizing my daughter's suffering.

"How could you say that?" 

"Her illness is getting worse, Mitchell!"

Before he could answer, Ria suddenly let out a sharp, breathless groan.

"Oh... ah! Mitchell!" She clutched her lower back, her knees buckling slightly.

Mitchell’s entire demeanor shifted into sheer panic. He caught her immediately, holding her tight. "Ria! Are you okay? Is it the baby?"

"My back," she whimpered, tears instantly springing to her eyes. "It hurts so much. The doctor said stress is bad for the baby..."

"Elma!" Mitchell roared, not even looking at me. "Get the heating balm from the medicine cabinet! Now!"

Elma scrambled out of the kitchen, looking terrified.

"Mitchell," Ria whispered, her voice incredibly weak, but her eyes slid over his shoulder to meet mine. A vicious, triumphant smirk danced on her lips. "Could you... could you massage my ankles? They're cramping so badly."

"Of course," Mitchell said without hesitation. He guided her to the armchair in the hallway, kneeling on the floor at her feet. My husband. Kneeling for another woman, massaging her while our sick daughter sat abandoned in the next room.

"Get out." 

Mitchell didn't even look up from Ria's feet. "I told you, Fayre, she’s staying."

"I said get her out of my house!" I screamed, lunging forward to grab Ria's suitcase.

Mitchell stood up so fast he knocked the chair back. He grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight. "Are you insane? She is pregnant! Stop acting like a jealous, unhinged lunatic!"

"I am your wife!" I yelled, trying to yank my arm free. "And today is your daughter's birthday!"

"You think I care about a stupid birthday party when Ria is in pain?" he shouted back.

"Mom? Dad?"

The fragile, trembling voice made both of us freeze.

I turned my head. Phoebe was standing in the doorway separating the living room and the hall. Her birthday hat was gone. Her face was completely drained of color, her lips a frightening shade of blue.

"Phoebe, baby, go back to the couch.”

She took one step forward, her tiny hands reaching out to nothing.

"Mom..." she gasped, her eyes rolling back. "Help me

"Phoebe!" I screamed.

She collapsed, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.