The Billionaire's Regret: My Tortured Ex-Wife

The mud was freezing. It seeped through the fabric of her trousers instantly, biting into her skin.

Karen dropped to her knees.

The impact jarred her spine. A sharp rock hidden in the slush cut into her left kneecap, but she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing her pain. Not yet.

"Move," Isaiah commanded from above her.

She began to crawl.

It was a grotesque procession. The rain beat down on her back, heavy and relentless. Every movement was a struggle against the suction of the wet earth. She dragged herself forward, her hands sinking into the mire.

Ahead, the mourners stood in a semi-circle around a fresh grave. They were a sea of black umbrellas and pale, angry faces.

Victoria King, Isaiah's mother, stood at the front. She wore a veil, but Karen could feel the burning intensity of her glare. Beside her was Bird Villarreal, Clementine's younger sister. Bird was sobbing, her body shaking, held up by a man Karen didn't recognize.

Karen reached the edge of the crowd.

Isaiah walked past her, his shoes crunching on the gravel path, untouched by the mud. He grabbed Karen by the back of her soaking collar and hauled her forward, forcing her right up to the granite headstone.

Clementine Villarreal. Beloved Daughter, Sister, Mother.

"Apologize," Isaiah hissed in her ear. His hand was a vice on the nape of her neck. "Apologize to her. For the life you took. For the child you killed."

Karen looked up at the stone. Rainwater ran down the engraved letters like tears.

"I didn't..." Karen started, her voice trembling. "I didn't kill her."

Isaiah's fingers tightened. He forced her head down.

"Apologize!"

He slammed her forehead against the base of the monument.

Pain exploded behind her eyes. White light flashed in her vision. She tasted copper in her mouth. Warm blood trickled down her forehead, mixing with the cold rain, blinding her in one eye.

"Murderer!" Bird screamed from the crowd. Her voice was shrill, hysterical. "You killed my sister! You monster!"

Something hit Karen in the face. A white rose. The thorns scratched her cheek. Then another. Then a clod of dirt. The crowd was turning into a mob. Their grief was transforming into violence.

Karen was dizzy. The world was spinning.

Isaiah released her neck to step toward Bird, to comfort the grieving sister. He left Karen kneeling in the mud, bleeding, surrounded by hatred.

She looked up. Through the haze of pain and rain, her eyes locked onto an object sitting on a small table next to the grave.

It was an urn. A beautiful, white ceramic urn painted with delicate gold vines. It held Clementine's ashes, waiting to be interred.

Something inside Karen snapped.

It wasn't a loud snap. It was the quiet sound of a final thread giving way. She had lost her husband. She had lost her freedom. She had lost her dignity. She was bleeding in the mud while the man she loved comforted the sister of the woman who had destroyed her life.

If they wanted a monster, she would give them a monster.

Karen pushed herself up. Her legs were shaking, covered in filth. She wasn't trying to run away. She lunged forward.

"Karen, don't you dare!" Isaiah's voice rang out. He had turned around, seeing her trajectory.

It was too late.

Karen grabbed the urn with both hands. The ceramic was cold and wet. It was heavy. Heavier than a soul should be.

She turned to face them. To face Isaiah, Victoria, Bird, all of them. A smile twisted her bloody lips. It was a broken, jagged thing.

"This is what you wanted," she rasped.

She raised the urn high above her head.

"No!" Isaiah sprinted toward her.

Karen slammed the urn down onto the marble paving stones.

CRACK.

The sound was like a gunshot. The ceramic shattered into a thousand shards. A gray cloud puffed up into the air-bone dust and ash-before the rain instantly caught it, beating it down into a gray sludge that mixed with the mud at her feet.

Silence. Absolute, horrified silence.

Then, chaos.

Isaiah reached her a second too late. His momentum carried him into her. He didn't grab her; he kicked her. It was a reflex of pure, unbridled fury. His boot connected with her stomach.

Karen folded. She hit the wet ground hard, curling into a ball. The air left her lungs.

But she started to laugh.

She lay there in the mud and the ashes of her rival, laughing. It was a guttural, ugly sound that tore at her throat. It was the sound of someone who had nothing left to lose.

Sirens wailed in the distance, getting louder.

Isaiah stood over her, his chest heaving. His face was twisted into a mask of pure loathing. He looked down at the gray sludge washing over his expensive shoes.

"You are going to rot," he spat at her. "I will make sure you never see the sun again. I will make sure you die in a cage."

Police officers swarmed the hill. They grabbed Karen, hauling her up from the mud. They wrenched her arms behind her back.

The cold steel of handcuffs clicked shut around her wrists. It pinched her skin.

Karen didn't struggle. She let her head hang back, the rain washing the blood from her eyes. She looked at Isaiah one last time.

Her eyes were dead. The light was gone.

"Goodbye, Isaiah," she whispered.

They dragged her away, her feet leaving trails in the mud, right through the remains of Clementine Villarreal.