Drowning Him In Regret novel Chapter 3

Chapter 3 Payment

Before we said our vows, we’d struck a deal: Jude wanted a wife on his arm, I wanted his bank account.

Every month, without fail, he’d wire me 60 grand. If I was short, all I had to do was open my mouth.

He threw it in my face once, voice dripping with venom, that he knew I was only in it for the cash. Why else would I have ghosted him for that loaded jackass who ditched me for Kasenland for two years?

He never figured out who this “rich boy” everyone gossiped about was, but he’d bet his life I was just a money-grubbing leech.

Once we were married, I barely touched his money. But even with 60 grand hitting my account every month, I was always one step from broke.

Staying ahead of the cancer meant popping pills that cost a fortune, and the endless scans and check-ups bled me dry just as fast.

Today was only the second time I’d ever gone to him, swallowing my pride to ask for help. The first was when my mom passed.

Back then, he didn’t hesitate—just handed over 300 thousand dollars, clean and simple, no strings.

This time, though? He didn’t even look up, too busy stroking Vivian’s hair, cooing at her like I was a ghost in the room.

Only when Vivian quit her fake-ass sobbing did he bother to glance my way, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk. “You want money? Sure thing. Just beg for forgiveness.”

“You screwed up,” he spat. “You hurt her. Say sorry to Vivian, or you get nothing.”

Vivian’s eyes popped wide, all mock surprise, but that smug grin spread like wildfire.

She clung to Jude’s sleeve, pouting just enough to play the part. “Jude, baby, let it go. I’m not that messed up. Maybe she didn’t mean to be such a cunt.”

“Doesn’t matter what she meant,” he growled, voice sharp as a blade. “She’s apologizing. You’re the one I care about, Vivian. Not her.”

He scooped Vivian up and eased her onto the couch with a tenderness I’d never known.

He then yanked out his checkbook with a smirk, scribbling a number with this cocky flourish that practically screamed, Go fuck yourself. Then he dangled the check in front of me like it was a goddamn carrot.

“Come on, just beg. Say you’re sorry, and this 1.5 mil’s all yours,” he taunted, voice dripping with smug bastard energy.

I stared at the check, and for a fleeting moment, the fire in my chest dulled to a simmer.

He’d dragged women through our house before—countless faces, all meant to cut me down.

But that was always behind closed doors, our dirty little secret. Out in public, no matter how much he fucked around, I was still Mrs. Carson—his untouchable wife.

This time, though, he was doing it for her. Throwing his money in my face to make me crawl for Vivian’s smug satisfaction.

He knew I wouldn’t come begging unless I was out of options. That was the whole point, wasn’t it?

He wanted my self-respect ground into the dirt, wanted me to feel like trash. Only then would he sleep easy.

I stood there, glued to the spot, while the room pulsed with stares—coworkers gawking, judging, or tossing me scraps of pity I didn’t want.

Vivian’s eyes locked on mine, gleaming with vicious glee, daring me to break.

Her earlier jab echoed in my skull. “The one he doesn’t give a shit about? That’s the real mistress.”

I jammed my hand against my chest, pressing hard, as if I could squash the ache before it swallowed me whole. Cancer was a mean bastard, but this hurt cut deeper, sharper.

“Shove your money up your ass,” I said, voice cold and steady.

I spun on my heel and marched out of that office, head held high, done with his sick little power trip.

He hated me—fine. Let him try to rip me to shreds. Crushing my pride wasn’t enough for him; he’d need to draw more blood to feel like a man.

But if he ever found out I needed that cash to keep my heart beating—and he’d waved it in my face just to yank it away? Hell, he’d probably throw a goddamn party and toast to my misery.

I staggered through my front door, every inch of me screaming for collapse, wrung out like a dishrag.

Bone-deep exhaustion weighed me down, my eyes burning for sleep, but the pain—fuck, that relentless pain—clawed at any chance of rest.