Drowning Him In Regret novel Chapter 8

Chapter 8 Done Playing Nice

“Oh? You’re one to talk, Jude. Ditching work to fuck around with your fling? I wouldn’t dream of stealing your crown,‘I shot back.

I knew the score the moment he opened his mouth. The client had finally hunted him

down.

From what I recalled, we’d locked in those project designs months back. So if they were blowing up my phone now, it had to be about revisions.

I’d been the one calling the shots back then–until I was half–dead, too fucked up to care about deadlines.

Was it Vivian keeping his bed warm back then? Or some other nobody? Didn’t matter. He’d had someone, so I’d been as good as invisible.

He’d pawned off my project to another team and, for shits and giggles, told finance to torch my paycheck.

Yeah, I used to get paid for my work. Now? Zilch.

He probably thought I’d come crawling back, begging for his table scraps.

Big mistake. I wasn’t built to beg–not when I was in the right.

Back when we were just dating, he couldn’t outtalk me in a fight. Now, even with my body falling apart, my brain was still a goddamn machine.

He was outclassed, and he knew it.

I kept going, “So the deal tanks, and you come slinking to me? What am I, your fucking backup plan? Only worth a damn when you’re screwed?

“You can’t handle one shitty project? Gotta beg me to bail your ass out?

“Or what, you’re lost without me? Spare me the sob–story crap.”

I’d been feeling stronger lately–less like a ghost. The cash for my meds helped, too. It lit a fire under me.

The night before, I’d done some digging. Turned out, if I cracked his safe and took every last penny, it wouldn’t even be a crime.

No prenup, ever. Though I’d spent years just coasting, half his fortune was mine by law.

Worst case? I’d be “vandalizing my own stuff.” Good luck getting the cops to care

about that.

So, what was my choice? Let this disease chew me up and spit me out, or deal with

his bullshit?

The second one was a cakewalk. At least I’d still be breathing.

That thought made my voice sharper, louder. I wasn’t backing down.

1/3

Chapter 8 Done Playing Nice

Jude hadn’t seen this coming–not after three years of me swallowing my pride. For once, he was tongue–tied.

I was done wasting my breath on him and went to hang up.

But then his cold, snide laugh cut through the line. “Well, fuck me–there’s the real you. Finally dropped the mask, huh? Gotta say, I thought you’d play the saint a bit longer.

“You even spun that sob story about being in the hospital, fishing for sympathy. Shit, Ada, you’re a pro.”

“Jude, I am in the hospital,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

Instant regret. No way he’d buy it. And, sure enough, his laugh got louder, slicing through me like a blade.

He said,“Save the Oscar–worthy act, Ada. I called the doctor. One stitch. One fucking stitch. You call that a hospital stay?

“You really think a little boo–boo’s gonna make me drop everything and cry for you? Keep dreaming, princess.”

I shut my eyes, pain blooming in my chest like an old bruise flaring up. Vivian got a scratch, and it was a full–blown emergency–doctors, nurses, the whole circus.

Me? One stitch, and it was nothing. A fucking footnote.

Why didn’t he ask the doctor what was really going on? Why didn’t he wonder why I

was in oncology, of all places?

Why didn’t he question why the cops were the ones calling him, not me?

Because he didn’t give a shit. That’s why.

To him, I was just milking one stupid stitch to guilt him into ditching his precious deal and playing hero.

Oh, and apparently making Vivian’s allergies flare up because, sure, that was my fault

too.

I dragged in a breath, forcing my voice flat. “Whatever. I’m hitting the hay, then. Gotta chase those dreams, right?”

He fucking exploded. “Don’t you fucking hang up on me!” he bellowed. “This project’s been your baby from day one. You’re not bailing now–you’re fixing this shit.”

“I’m out,” I shot back and slammed the call dead. His high–and–mighty tone made my

skin crawl.

Not even ten minutes later, my phone lit up again. By the third ring, I was ready to lose

1. it.

I grabbed it and yelled, “Jude, what’s your fucking deal? I said I’m out–why the hell are you still bugging me?”

The aide nearby swooped in, fussing like I’d rip my stitches just from shouting. Jude

2/3

Chapter 8 Done Playing Nice

muttered some curse under his breath–couldn’t catch it, didn’t care.

Then his voice turned cold as ice. “You kicked off this project, Ada. You’re seeing it through. No fucking debate.”

Yelling it out felt like shaking off a weight, though. I could breathe easier, think clearer.

He wasn’t wrong–the project was mine from the jump. The hard part was mostly done; it was just dotting i’s and crossing t’s now. And sticking with it meant money. Money meant I wasn’t drowning yet.