Too Late For Regret: His Telepathic Wife

For six years of marriage-ten years of knowing him- I had quietly endured my husband Easton's sarcasm and that tongue of his, which wounded without ever drawing blood-only because I have a gift: I can hear the desperate, soundless pleading at the bottom of his heart.

When he belittled me in front of the whole company at the annual gala, I heard him screaming inside:

[Blair, I love you too much! I don't want anyone coveting you! I will never let anyone take you from me!]

So I swallowed the humiliation whole and bore the laughter of the room.

When he handed out astronomical year-end bonuses to the other executives and gave me nothing, I endured that too-only because, deep in his heart, he was murmuring:

[Blair, I'm so afraid. I'm so afraid the only thing you love is my money.]

But at the airstair of the family jet to Aspen, he gave the seat that was mine-his wife's-to that ambitious assistant of his, Arianna, and then booked me a coach ticket on a commercial flight and told me to find my own way there.

That was the moment I heard his heart, clear as a bell, one more time:

[Look at me, Blair. Please look at me. Demand your seat back! Lose your temper at me! Tell everyone this plane is yours, and show them all that I, Easton, belong to you!]

But this time, I no longer believed in his love. I turned, and slid the wedding ring off my finger.

When I asked him for a divorce, he came completely undone.

Chapter 1

Blair's POV

In six years of marriage, the reason I stayed at Easton McGowen's side was the desperate shouting behind every cruel word he threw at me-and because of it, I had gone soft a thousand times.

But today, on the private tarmac at Teterboro Airport, my husband's executive assistant, Arianna Foxx, was sitting in the window seat that belonged to me, his wife-right beside Easton-with the silk scarf I had given him for our anniversary wrapped around her neck.

For ten years-four of them before he ever put a ring on my finger- I had believed that Easton wore cruelty the way other men wore armor. Every time he called me worthless, something inside him screamed: If you leave, I will die. I had propped myself up on those unspoken cries, telling myself that because I could hear the lament of his soul, I was meant to be his only salvation.

But now, looking at that radiant woman inside the cabin window, I finally understood-those hidden voices were just another cage, and I had walked into it myself.

The cabin door of the Gulfstream G650 stood open, its dark walnut paneling cold in the noon sun. Easton's parents, Buford and Dotty, were already seated; Dotty held a glass of champagne. And between Easton and his mother, in the window seat that should have been mine, sat Arianna Foxx-an executive assistant who had been with the company barely eight months. She wore an ivory cashmere sweater that blended into the cream leather of the cabin. On the folding table in front of her sat a crystal glass etched with my name: BLAIR MCGOWEN.

I stood in the doorway with my boarding case still in my hand.

Easton looked up at me from his seat and did not move an inch. He was thirty-two, with a sharply cut jaw and eyes like polished slate-deep, and cold. To the public he was the ruthless captain of McGowen Group. In private he was an emotional cripple who could not say a tender word without wrapping it in barbed wire.

"Blair, why are you still standing there?" His voice drifted down the airstair, cold. "Arianna needs to go over the Aspen resort expansion file with me in flight. It's easier if she sits next to me. Buy yourself a coach ticket and fly out on your own-there are several flights a day out of Newark. It's not as if you have anything urgent to do. That little job of yours won't even notice you're gone for a week."

His words landed on the tarmac like a bucket of ice water. But deep in his skull, something entirely opposite was roaring:

[Look at me, Blair. Please look at me. Demand your seat back! Lose your temper at me! Tell everyone this plane is yours, and show them all that I, Easton, belong to you!]

I looked up at the crystal glass on the table, etched with my name. For six years, every family trip had been planned by me. This morning's white orchid arrangement on board-I had ordered it. The gluten-free meals in the Aspen villa's refrigerator, for his mother's allergy-I had arranged them. I had even packed Arianna's three enormous suitcases myself last night, one by one, and paid a driver to haul them out to the tarmac.

"That is my seat, Easton," I said. My voice was steady and calm, though it shook at the edges.

In the cabin, Arianna set down her sparkling water with a small, bright clink. She raised a timid hand and waved at me, her eyes full of wounded innocence. "Oh, Blair, I'm so sorry! Mr. McGowen asked me to sit here so I could put my laptop on the table. I had no idea you'd mind... I'll get up right now."

She made as if to unfasten her seatbelt. Easton caught her wrist and pressed her back into the leather seat.

"Stay where you are, Arianna," he said coldly. Then his gaze swung up at me like a blade. "Blair, don't make a scene on the plane over a seat. It's ugly, and it means nothing. You sit at home all day with nothing to do-that little job of yours doesn't even cover one of my coats. Apart from the empty title of Mrs. McGowen, what do you actually have to show for yourself? Arianna is the most capable employee I have. She works eighty hours a week making me money. You? You can't even mop a floor properly. The least you could do is show her some respect."

A deeper silence fell over the cabin. His father, Buford, took a sip of champagne and stared straight ahead, as though a public humiliation were simply routine. His mother, Dotty, sighed in irritation and adjusted the pearl necklace at her throat.

But inside Easton's skull, an invisible panic was ringing like thunder:

[Say something, damn you! Shout at me! Climb up those stairs, drag her out of that seat, throw her off! Prove you care! Are you really just going to stand there with that dead face? Get angry at me!]

For ten years, I had obeyed that soundless begging again and again. When he belittled me at the gala, I swallowed it, because I heard him crying inside like a small, unloved child. When he handed out huge bonuses to his executives and gave me nothing, I endured it, because his inner voice was trembling with the fear that I only loved his money.

I looked at Arianna's slightly bowed head and the triumph she could not quite hide at the corner of her mouth, then at Easton's tight, arrogant jaw.

Ten years of exhaustion, down to the bone, turned to utter stillness in that instant. The bridge that had bound my heart to his twisted nerves gave a sharp crack-and broke.

I did not shout. I did not go to the counter to buy a coach ticket.

I walked toward Easton, one step at a time.

His chest seized; his shoulders went rigid. Arianna shrank back into the soft leather.

I stopped beside him and looked down at my left hand. On my ring finger sat a plain platinum band. Six years ago, before his father had handed him the company, he had bought it at a small, unremarkable jeweler's.

I turned the cold metal, and it slid over my knuckle.

Gently, I set the platinum ring down on the walnut table-right beside Arianna's laptop.

"What is this supposed to mean?" Easton's voice shook. The color drained from his lips.

"Easton, I want a divorce," I said.

The silver band touched the wood without a sound. What followed was a dead, ringing silence.

Easton stared at the ring. His jaw twitched; the muscle beneath his pale skin jumped violently. Then his face flooded red, as though he had been mortified beyond bearing.

He looked like a man pushed off a cliff by the one person he trusted, falling, waiting to hit the bottom.

"Blair, get down here!" Dotty's voice cracked out, her patrician haughtiness breaking through the silence. "Don't ruin the family's Aspen holiday with this childish little stunt! You know perfectly well how much pressure Easton is under financing the resort expansion. You're thirty-one years old, still coasting in that little PR job of yours-how can you still be this immature?"

"Blair," Buford said, his tone carrying the weight of a man used to command, "put your jewelry back on and sit down. The McGowens do not discuss family matters on a private jet. It is indecent."

I looked at the two of them coldly. For ten years they had stood by and watched their son flay me alive, piece by piece. Every time I went to them for help, Dotty produced the same speech: Blair, a woman should put her family first once she marries; your salary doesn't amount to anything; Easton is under so much pressure out there, so be more forgiving. A wife should know her place, she would add, and stop being so suspicious all the time.

"Arianna is his executive assistant," I said, looking straight into Buford's eyes without flinching. "So why is it that on a private family trip, an outsider who has been on the payroll for eight months gets to sit beside my husband-while I, your family, your son's wife, am handed a coach ticket and told to fly commercial? Is it because I'm just a PR manager drawing a salary?"

Buford opened his mouth and produced nothing. He lowered his head to the financial paper in his hands. Dotty turned her face to the clouds beyond the window and pretended not to care. But I knew neither of them could answer, because there was no respectable answer to give.

Easton shot to his feet; the armrest shrieked against the carpet.

"A divorce?" He gave a cold sneer, his voice climbing into a hysterical roar to cover the trembling of his hands. "Over a seat? I'm asking you to grow up. You have no family, no trust fund, and no career worth the name! That job of yours-I'm the one who kept it for you with a single word. Without the name McGowen, you are nothing! If you want to throw a tantrum, then get off my plane!"

The poison came out of him as smoothly and lethally as ever. And yet, somewhere behind his eyes, he had already dropped to his knees, sobbing like a lost, terrified child in a dark forest:

[No... pick it up! Blair, put the ring back on, I'm begging you! I was only joking, I only wanted you to look at me! I hate Arianna, I don't care about the expansion file at all! I put her next to me only because I wanted you to hold my hand and sulk and tell me you were jealous... Blair, please don't go. Without you I'll die. Look at me, please, just look at me!]

I looked at him. Every syllable of that tearing agony came through, clear as day.

And my heart, out of habit, gave one small, answering twitch.

But for the first time in ten years, I chose to ignore the pain. I simply looked at him, my face utterly still.

A man who loves you only inside his own skull, and tramples you in the daylight, does not love you at all. What he loves is the safety that cruelty gives him.

"Fine," I said quietly. "As you wish. I'll get off the plane."