Your Regrets Means Nothing To Me Novel Novels & Stories

There was no turning back now. I stood there, watching her for a moment, searching for something—anything—that would make me stay. But the words refused to come. Instead, I turned and walked away, leaving behind the only woman I had ever loved. As I drove back to the mansion, I waited for a sense of relief. But it never came. The weight in my chest grew heavier with every passing mile, a suffocating reminder of what I was losing. No, this wasn’t a relief. It was a regret. Pure, unfiltered regret.

“Jensen… sorry…” Her eyes were red as she raised her hand and slapped herself. “I am sorry… I regretted it for the past three years… please forgive me. Please look at me one more time…” I rolled down the window halfway and looked at her with a cold expression. “Chelsea, do you think it is appropriate to say this in front of my wife? Do not come near me and disgust me again. I do not want to see you. Do not insult the word regret. You do not deserve it.”

I let the water cascade down my back, my palms pressed on either side of the wall, my mind reeling. In a couple of weeks, I'd be married again. How had things gone so wrong? No! I shook my head. I was not going to think about this today. I was going to go to work, get things done and forget about the past and move on. No more fucking pity party. I climbed out of the bathroom, dried myself with my towel and proceeded to dress up for work. I came out of my room and made my way downstairs. I passed the dinning hall straight to the front door and as I was about to open the front door, I heard the sound of my mother's voice.cslling my name and I turned around.

Henry shouted, "No! Yelena, I will never divorce you! And the child—why did you never tell me about it?" His voice trembled as he spoke. He was probably regretting it, but what was the use of regret? We could never go back. No matter how hard he tried, it was over. "I will never agree to a divorce!" Henry insisted. "Don't joke with me. This isn't funny at all." So, he thought I was joking.

After learning that I had recovered my memory, Ethan looked at me with sorrowful eyes and asked what my plans were for the future. I thought about it and felt inexplicably sad. The future? Although Ethan would not let the doctor tell me, I knew my own body, especially from my increasingly frequent episodes of unconsciousness and vomiting blood. I already knew that I had no future. During this time, I spent most of my days sleeping. Today was one of those rare days that my condition and mood were somewhat good. As such, I wanted to go outside and look around. Ethan pushed my wheelchair. He had grown much thinner during this period.

he said. “I know you do not regret it.” “You cannot know that.” “I understand.” He laughed and held me closer. “You are using that word against me.” “You taught me.” “I regret everything.” I lifted my face. “Liar.” “I regret the first batch of eggs.” “That is fair.” “I regret buying the wrong sheets before you stopped me.” “You never bought them.” “I considered them.” “I regret that you were allowed near a shop.” He kissed my forehead while we continued moving.

And by the time he reached the final page, he finally realized just how much I had loved him—how much of my happiness had revolved around him and how much of my suffering had been caused by him. Connor curled up on the floor, holding the diary close, pressing desperate kisses against its cover as if it were my face. "Clara, I'm sorry," he choked out. "I regret it so much. Please… Please come back to me… Come back to me, will you?" I sat beside him, emotionless, watching his agony unfold. What use was regret? Could regret bring me back to life? No. I wouldn't be moved by a murderer's tears. …

that I would remain exposed, unmarked, and unnoticed. She wanted more than just me gone.She wished for me to be forgotten. FINAL SCENE I shut the book and turned to face the others. "We've been waiting for this," I remarked. "It's not a narrative. Not a theory." “Proof," Reyna uttered softly. "Of everything," Rico continued. I no longer felt a sense of dread from the weight in my chest.Gravity was the sensation. heavy. grounding. Actual. My story had been rewritten once by Cerra. I was going to write the truth now. I also had no intention of using ink. I intended to use fire.

My dad had been conned by three women in his lifetime. The first broke his heart. The second left him bankrupt. The third got him killed. The day I buried him, I swore I would never make the same mistakes he had. When Eloise Russell asked whether I was interested in becoming her kept man, I pulled out a contract and started negotiating my price. One of her best friends laughed and said, "Traditional gold diggers pretend they don't care about money. They play hard to get so they can squeeze out more later. The new generation just puts a price tag on themselves right away. Now that's smart." I ignored the sarcasm in her voice and focused on calculating how long it would take me to save en

The soft and painful regret burned underneath the thin answers the same way it burned underneath the formal duty and the sealed wing—private, recurrent, exact, and still unable to rearrange pure radiance back into the woman the claim had spent everything to keep. I existed inside the soft regret without the capacity to extinguish it or to turn it into residual density. The light did not age with the dens’ seasons. What the permanent mark held was the dens’ ordinary living under a fixed star and a king who would not take a queen—and underneath that settled shape, the soft and painful regret of a claim that had refused to let the collection be clean and had still lost the living center. The se