Regret17 min read
My Name Still Hangs on Your Spouse Line
ButterPicks18 views
"Footsteps stopped just below my eyes."
I looked up. A pair of polished shoes, then a tall shadow filled the doorway.
"Amaya, are you hurt?" Valentina's agent, Claire, said before I could. Her voice had that practiced care actors use for cameras.
"I—" I tried to answer, my throat dry. "I didn't mean to. Do you believe me?"
Jaxson Thomas didn't move. He stood like a statue, suit sharp, face colder than the clinic lights.
"How is she?" he asked finally.
"Her palms are cut. The doctor cleaned them and bandaged them," Claire said, then her eyes slid over me. "Valentina is shaken. Her tachycardia is still high."
Valentina lay on the bed, bandaged hands folded on the blanket. She smiled at him, bright as if the world always bent to her.
"Jaxson..." she whispered, and tried to sit up.
"Lie down," he said. His hand on her shoulder was firm, not soft.
"Did Claire call you?" Valentina asked.
He hummed once.
"It's nothing, really. Just some scrapes. I'm fine. No need to make a fuss." Her voice was smooth, generous. The room warmed around her words.
I stood by the door. Claire's gaze slid over me like a blade. I didn't know how long I'd been frozen there.
"You came all this way," Claire said and forced a smile. "Mr. Thomas, maybe you should go in. Seeing you might calm her."
He nodded. Claire stepped aside.
I felt ridiculous watching him walk toward the bed like a man heading into a chapel. He gave Valentina his classic patient, reserved look—he was never dramatic. But with Valentina, his patience had an extra shine.
I surprised myself. Against the panic in my chest, I found my voice.
"This is my fault," I said. "I already called the police to document the scene. I'll cover any costs. Please let her be observed. I will pay."
Valentina turned to me and, without a flicker of anger, smiled, "Miss Franke, it's fine. I'm sure it was an accident. I'm not hurt badly. There's no need for the police to fuss."
Claire's smile widened as if the world had just bent in their favor. "See? Miss Franke, we appreciate it."
I swallowed. Valentina said "Miss Franke." Not "Mrs. Thomas."
"I still have my name in his spouse line," I said, feeling the words come out sharp. "If you want me to pay, I will. But do not ask him to speak to me as if I am not his wife."
Valentina blinked. Her smile didn't falter. "Oh, I'm sure Mr. Thomas will help as he can."
Jaxson finally looked at me. The tilt of his head was a question and a command at once.
"Don't make noise," he said. "Leave."
I left.
Outside the room I stood and watched the two of them, his hand smoothing the bandage on her wrist, her head on his shoulder. I had one small, brittle thought: of course he would worry more about her.
"You don't need to pay," Valentina called softly once I was in the hall. "It's not worth it. I'm fine."
I forced a polite smile. "I can't do that. I'll have a lawyer handle it."
Valentina's face shifted for a moment—an imperceptible tightening. Claire's eyes flicked to me with the thinness of a knife.
"Amaya, seriously," Valentina murmured. "We can all handle this quietly. Why make a scene?"
"Because my name is still on his household file," I said. "And for that reason, I will not be cut in half."
She laughed as if I had made a joke. "Amaya, go home. Rest."
He let out one cold word as I left: "Get out."
"Fine." I said. "I'll have my lawyer talk to Claire. And I'll make sure the hospital bill is paid."
He watched me go with an expression I couldn't read. I wanted to tell him then what it was to be the one left at home while the world wrapped itself around another woman.
Back at the station they took my statement. I left after dark. The city had the kind of glow that tricks you into thinking everything is okay. My phone vibrated. It was the hospital billing calling about my grandmother's surgery.
"Miss Franke," the nurse said when I picked up, "we need twenty thousand to buy the grafting materials. Without that, we can't schedule the bypass."
My savings had been spent on the car. That car was now impounded as evidence. I could borrow about ten thousand at best. The taxi left me two blocks from the wealthy neighborhood where we lived. I walked the rest of the way, feeling every expensive house glare at me like an accusation.
When I reached our gate, a black sedan with Jaxson's license plate idled outside. Inside, a quiet warmth. The sight was a new twist in my stomach.
I came in, changed into slippers, and headed upstairs.
"Are you mute?" he said from the living room. "Did you not see anyone was home?"
I kept walking and tried not to answer. He called me back with one cold word.
"Stop."
I turned slowly. "Is your work so unimportant you must stand watch over who walks in and out of their own home?"
He didn't rise. He watched me like I was a problem to be solved.
"Where did you get the money?" he asked finally. "You look bankrupt."
It shocked me that he focused on the money.
"Valentina was barely hurt." I tried to keep my voice light. "So why are you here? To be her shadow?"
His eyes darkened. "You always find a way to make things a fight."
I wanted to laugh. "Maybe I am tired of the fight being one-sided."
He raised a hand. "Come here."
I did not move.
"I mean it," he said softer and closer. "Before I lose my patience."
His patience had always been a kind I couldn't reach. I looked at him and tried to measure him—an impossible task. Then I swallowed and walked over. I had little hope of negotiation.
"You were at the hospital," he said as if that explained everything. "Am I that easy to replace?"
The words stung. "You told me to sign the contract. To keep everything clean. We did that. But your face—"
"Don't start," he said. "You are being childish."
"Fine." I tightened my hands into fists. "Here's an idea. Name the price for our divorce. You want out? Buy me out."
He smiled, small and cruel. "You want money."
"I want fairness." I said, cold now. "I want the thing the contract promised—if you file first, you pay half of your assets. Open your own account. Or pay me now. Fifty million."
He nearly laughed. "Fifty million?"
"Less isn't fair," I said. "You bought her career. You put her into a life where lights followed her. The least I can ask is to be set for life."
"You're delusional," he said. "One million, at most. And stop pretending you can blackmail me."
"Five million?" I tried again.
He flicked the ash from his cigarette. "One hundred thousand."
My laugh was small and fierce. "You're offering breadcrumbs."
He pushed himself up. "Fine. We'll see who blinks."
That night I went to the law office. I paid the doctor's bill and made arrangements for my grandmother's surgery. I tried to think like a businesswoman, because in the end I had to be one.
Two days later, I was called into a meeting. My boss, Philip Schroeder, stared at me like I'd failed him.
"Amaya," he said. "Why did Fengcheng pull out? You were handling the negotiation."
I told him I didn't know. He pulled up the email, and the recipient name was Jaxson Thomas.
"Is he messing with you?" Philip asked. "Do you have a link to him?"
"He is my husband," I said shortly. I didn't want to explain how a loveless marriage had grown into war.
"You've got three days," he said. "Three days to fix this or you're off the project."
Three days. I left the office and called every investor. Hotels, suitcases, favors. I hit wall after wall. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of Jaxson Thomas.
That night I went to the club where deals are made at three in the morning and promises cost more than a mortgage.
"Mr. Yang," I said to a heavy man who ran a mid-tier fund. "I need a minute."
He looked at me like I'd asked him to split a star. "You can't be serious."
"Please, Mr. Yang," I said. "If you invest in our project, we'll open—"
He stopped me. "You want me to bet my money on a company that has Jaxson Thomas breathing down investors' necks?"
He waved me away.
I felt smaller than the band playing on stage.
Back home, I found Jaxson and Valentina at a private table in a quieter restaurant. Valentina, laughing, looked radiant. When they saw me, Valentina's smile widened, but Jaxson's face went still.
"Amaya," Valentina said like she had the world on a leash. "Why are you here alone?"
"I have work," I said. "I'm trying to keep our production afloat."
Valentina raised a brow. "With your husband's interference? You should let him handle his affairs. He will protect you."
"He won't help unless it benefits him," I said.
The room chilled. He stood up.
"Get out," he said.
I touched my wine glass. "I'll toast," I said. "To your success."
I drank, then another. I raised a third glass.
"To your generosity," I said out loud. "To the man who will spend a fortune to make the woman he likes happy, but not to give the woman he married the same thing."
The room fell quiet. Valentina's mask slipped for a beat, then her composure came back. People stared. I kept talking, voice clear.
"You love her in front of the world," I said. "You love her with gifts and teams and contracts. She has you. But you won't give me even a million for the woman you wed legally."
He grabbed my arm. "Enough."
He hauled me out. In the corridor his strength dwarfed mine. People watched. I spat at him from my seat of anger.
"You dog!" I cried. "You think you're clever? You forced me to marry you. You offered nothing then, and now you want to dictate my life."
"Shut up," he snarled and dragged me to the car.
He slammed me into the back seat like I was luggage. "Stop talking."
"Let me go!" I shouted.
At the parking lot he hauled me up the stairs by the arm. I fought him until he lifted me like a sack and carried me. I cursed him; I slapped his face with words sharp as knives.
At the door he hit my hip with his palm. "Stop moving or I'll throw you out."
I clenched my teeth. He was strong in all the ways men like him are: calm wealth, quiet control. I realized then with a clear, cold shock that I was terrified.
He tossed me into the passenger seat of his car and drove away.
When he stopped, he took off his jacket and let it fall over my legs like a shield he was too angry to wear.
"You wanted money," he said. "You wanted leverage. You got loud and public. Now live with it."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bundle of cash. "Twenty thousand for surgery. Ten thousand for fees. The rest is your conscience."
I stared at it like it was a lie.
"You're offering me pennies."
"I offered you the truth," he said. "Take it."
I refused.
He narrowed his eyes. "Fine." He slid the cash back into his pocket. "Go find your own way then."
I walked home.
The next morning an unknown number texted me: Fifty thousand transferred. "Use it for your grandmother. I will also invest in your production. Send me the documents."
I stared at my phone. I typed "Who is this?" and deleted it. My fingers trembled. I wrote, "I will return it. We don't need charity."
Then I pressed send: "Thank you. We will accept the investment but will repay."
No answer. The money cleared.
At the same time, a meeting at the office happened. To my surprise, investor documents arrived. The fund had wires ready. The investor was quiet and direct. He walked into the meeting with the calm of someone who had climbed and decided the view was worth sharing.
"Hunter Buchanan." He extended a hand to me in the conference room. He had a soft confidence, like someone who could have been anything and chose to be kind.
"You?" I said.
"You remember me," he said. "We met a long time ago."
He'd been my college classmate, the steady one who sometimes helped me with homework by the glow of a shared dorm lamp. He signed the papers. He was out of place and exactly the person I needed. The next week he wired funds and people started to listen.
When the news hit: a new investor on board, investors called back. The producers said we could go ahead.
Someone else had turned the tide.
After that, the power in the city shifted for the first time in weeks. I felt the air change. I could breathe.
Inside, Jaxson became colder and stranger. He started to show up wherever I was. He asked questions about my schedule like a man marking territory. I tried to ignore him. One night he came into my kitchen smelling of whiskey.
"Are you sleeping with him?" he asked quietly.
"What?" I had nowhere to take the question because it was not true.
"Don’t lie to me. Is there something more?"
Where did his suspicion come from? From the early years when he could not imagine a life of anyone other than himself?
"I'm with him about work," I said. "Hunter is an investor. There is nothing more."
He advanced. "You are mine to manage until I file to divorce you."
"I am not property," I said.
He laughed without humor. "As long as your name is on my household record, you are my responsibility."
Responsibility. The word vibrated off my ribs.
The next day I received a call from the director, Preston Lange. He was adamant: he wanted Valentina as the lead. He threatened to leave if he could not have her. My head spun. This was the pressure that ran through every seam of my job.
I went to find Preston at his apartment. His assistant slammed the door in my face. Then he came out—sneering, tired—but when I said I could find a way, he stopped.
"You think you can make her say yes?" he asked.
"I can try," I said.
Later, Hunter sat across from me. He held a napkin and a cup of coffee like they were precious objects. "Let me handle Preston," he said. "You handle Jaxson."
"How?" I laughed brittlely. "He buys silence with his name."
"You didn't used to wait," he said softly. "You used to move first."
At night Jaxson started to push boundaries. He came to the house at all hours, uninvited. He cornered me in the bedroom once and—like a storm—his words and hands crossed lines. He said it was my fault.
I left the bed the next morning with bruises that refused to hide. I went to the clinic.
The doctor didn't ask questions. He gave instructions. "Rest," he said. "No strenuous activity. Keep the wound clean."
Later, upstairs while I was dressing, I heard the shower run. I thought it was yesterday replaying. I thought wrong.
Jaxson walked into the room with a towel around his waist. He sat on the edge of the bed.
"Why did you tell Valentina about us?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?" I said.
"At the parking lot you said something about me. You told her I was a faithful man," he snapped. "You made her break up with me."
"I didn't," I wanted to shout. "I told her you were a good man. I told her the truth as I knew it."
"You were with my car that night," he said, voice low, "and now she is gone. You know where she is."
"I'm telling the truth," I whispered.
"You better be."
That night he was rougher than before. He claimed it was because he was hurt. He claimed ownership with a kiss heavy and dishonest. He told me to be quiet, to be grateful, to not make any more trouble.
In the morning my body was an echo of the night. He had left more than prints; he had left fear. I went to the office, because that is what I did when I needed to feel solid. At my desk a note sat: Hunter had called. He had arranged a meeting and invited Valentina to read the script. Valentina agreed.
When the news spread, it hit Jaxson in the way a man used to getting everything takes the first surprise of denial. He called and demanded to be involved in casting. I told him no.
He said one thing that stayed with me: "You asked for fifty million. You will never get it with your temper."
I laughed, but it came out small. A week later, the studio announced full funding. Preston smiled like a man who had been rescued. Valentina agreed to star, but under conditions: she would be involved in casting choices. That meant actors around her would be chosen for their craft, not for proximity to Jaxson.
Our film started on time.
When the cameras rolled, I could feel the irony. The man who had tried to tug every thread of my life now found himself standing at the spot that meant nothing without me making it move. He sat at the back and watched us build what he could not buy. I watched him watch us.
For months I did my job. I kept the company afloat. The film became my blood. I slept in offices, took calls at odd hours, and found ways to make things happen—because now the money existed, but the execution was still mine.
Hunter and I built trust. He was kind without being intrusive. He asked about my grandmother and sent messages that asked if I was eating. He never overstepped. He respected my life and my choices. I started to like him as a friend. That was new and safe.
Jaxson's behavior shifted. His coldness cracked now and then, and there were moments when he looked like a man remembering something he'd lost. He came less like a storm and more like a shadow.
One night, I found him in my study. He looked older and raw. The sleeves of his suit were wrinkled. He held the black box he'd once offered to Valentina—the jewelry box, useless as it was.
"You still stay," he said.
"Because I have to," I said. "Because your household file still lists me."
He put the box on the table. "Open it."
Inside was a watch—simple, not a ring, not a jewel. He tapped it between finger and thumb like it was evidence.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you asked for money," he said. "And because I have no patience left for games."
"Is that your apology?" I asked.
He looked at me like I had asked him for the sun. "I never apologized."
"Then what is this?"
"A start," he said. "At something less ugly."
I laughed, which felt strange. I had spent years listening to him be practical, to be blunt, to treat people's feelings like items that could be moved.
"I don't want a start that's bought," I said. "I don't want to be part of another ledger."
He winced. "I can make it easier for you. Sign the papers. Take the money. Move on."
"No." I swallowed the anger and the tiredness and said what I'd been practicing. "Fifty million. Half goes to your assets if you file. It's not a price. It's security. It's my life."
He looked at me for a long breath. "You will never sign with such greed."
"Then file," I said. "Stop waiting for me to take the first hit."
He folded his hands and thought about the contract he had once forced me to sign. He thought about the clause that punished the filer. For a long time he said nothing.
Outside, the city breathed. I watched him as if he were a stranger with my old name in his mouth.
He stood. "You are tired," he said. "I'll give you three days."
"Three days?" I echoed.
"I will prove you wrong. Or I will not."
"Prove me wrong how?"
"By staying."
He left.
Three days later Hunter called and said the film's cut looked raw and beautiful. Preston called and said he was ready to shoot more. Investors asked for more projects. Our company began to breathe.
Jaxson called less and less. When he did, his voice was softer, careful.
I began to sleep at the office. My grandmother's surgery healed. I watched the ward at odd hours and thought about how my life had been stitched back together by small acts.
Months passed. The film opened and critics were kind. Prestigious film festivals liked it. People in the industry started to use our name with respect. My phone filled with messages—offers, congratulations, and sometimes love notes from strangers who had loved the heroine I helped create.
Jaxson drove by the premiere. He sat in the crowd with Valentina beside him. He clapped; he looked like he was applauding something that had married his money to someone else's talent.
At the after-party he stood near the wall. I walked up.
"You look good," he said. He surprised me with how honest it sounded.
"It was a lot of work," I said.
"You did it without me."
"You offered me obstacles," I said. "I removed them."
He winced as if the truth stung him. "I did not mean to—"
"You never did intend to be kind," I said. "You chose who to be kind to."
He looked at me like a man who had finally seen the seam he had been sewing his whole life.
"I don't know how to be the man you need," he said quietly.
"Maybe you don't have to be him," I said. "Maybe you can be honest. Maybe that's enough."
He shifted. His jaw worked. "Did you mean it? The fifty million—was that real?"
"Yes," I said. "I asked for a sum I knew would make you feel the cost of your choices. I wanted security. Not blood. Not revenge."
"So what now?" He had the tiredness of a man who'd lost a map.
"Now," I said, "we stop pretending this is about house lines and household records."
"I still see your name there," he said.
"You can stop seeing it," I said. "But don't ask me to be your background. I'm either part of the picture or I'm gone."
He stepped closer until I could smell him—clean clothes and a trailing scent of cologne. He wasn't menacing. He was small and raw.
"Leave with me," he whispered.
"Where?" I asked.
"Anywhere," he said. "I will make it different."
I felt the memory of the fourteen-year-old who had once been taken into his house like a shelter. That girl had wanted love. I had wanted love in my own life.
"Jaxson," I said, "ten years ago I was a child who needed a home. I am not that child anymore. I know the weight of my choices now."
He looked at me as if the sentence were a door opening.
"Do you regret it?" he asked.
The question was simple and dangerous.
"You asked me once to be mine. I tried. I failed. I will not be bought or bullied into silence again."
He closed his eyes. "Then I'll try to make you stay."
"Try," I echoed.
We did not reconcile that night. We did not sign papers. He did not give me fifty million. He bought the watch back in his pocket and wrapped the box like it was a promise. For the first time he wanted me to be there because he wanted me, not because his life needed me to be his.
I thought about what I wanted. Power. Respect. A place where my name meant my work, not where it hung like a line on a roster. I had worked for that. Hunter's investment had made it possible. My company was now my life, and it had wings.
Months later Jaxson sat across from me at the company table. He had changed his posture. He was less storm and more quiet study.
"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. "I was cruel. I thought... I thought I could control what I couldn't understand."
"You hurt me," I said. "You took things you didn't own."
"I know," he whispered. "I am sorry."
The apology did something in the room. It didn't fix everything. It did not erase nights that left scars or the times I had to push myself up because he cursed me with silence. But it was the first honest thing he had offered.
"You can regret it," I said. "You can beg me back. Or you can spend what you have making amends that matter."
He reached out and put his hand under the table and held mine for a second—a brief, human contact without ownership. It was not a marriage vow. It was a small, new agreement.
"I will," he said. "No more games."
I let my hand rest there and realized I had grown stronger. I had learned that bargaining could be more than fear. It could be a tool for survival.
On the tenth anniversary of a small promise we once made out of pity, I stood alone on a small stage when the film we made won an award. I walked up to the microphone with the weight of a thousand small decisions behind me.
Jaxson stood in the back, clapping with everyone. He had not tried to take the stage. He had learned, somehow, to be a man who could watch and be content.
I held the small trophy in my hand and spoke.
"Thank you to everyone who believed," I said. "And to those who didn't—your doubt made us better."
After the applause, I thought about how I had spent ten years between being a child and being who I wanted to be. I thought of the contract signed, the clause that once strangled me, and the nights I had cried into my pillow.
I walked off stage and found Hunter and the film crew who had become my second family. There was Jaxson at the edge of the crowd. He watched me with the same careful eyes he had used on Valentina but now tinged with a humility that broke the mask.
He stepped forward and held out the black watch. No box. No flourish. "For your time," he said quietly. "And for my foolishness."
I could have taken it, then and there, and felt the old tether tighten. Instead, I smiled and shook my head.
"Hold it," I said. "I earned my life. If you want to give me something real, be honest and help us make better things. Be my partner in work, not in ownership."
He looked at me like the world had rearranged itself. He nodded slowly. "I will," he promised.
We did not become lovers overnight. We did not return to the old pages of "husband" and "wife" that had been written for convenience. Instead, we made a new agreement—one of decency and respect. He started stepping back from small tyrannies. I kept my name on the company doors.
Months later, my lawyer called me into his office. The divorce papers sat like neat white statements. He had not filed. I signed the papers on my terms. He paid what the contract demanded—far less than fifty million but enough to remind him of the cost of control.
After I left the lawyer, I stood in the sunlight and looked at the little postcard of the city in my hand. I thought about the woman I'd been at fourteen and how she would look at me now. I thought about the man who once thought he could own a person.
I walked home, not to a house that belonged to him alone, but to a life I had built.
On the mantel, there was still the family registry. My name hung on the spouse line. It would take time to remove it officially.
That night Jaxson knocked at my door. He looked tired. He held two cups of coffee. He smiled, small, human.
"Can I come in?" he asked.
I looked at him and said, "You can come in. But come as a person, not a passport."
He nodded. "I will be a person."
We sat at the kitchen table, two cups between us. He cleared his throat.
"You were right," he said. "My life was simpler when I thought things could be bought. You showed me they can't."
"And you showed me," I said, "what it looks like when a man tries and stumbles."
He laughed softly. "Then let's try without ownership."
"Okay."
Outside the house, lights sorted the city into pockets of life. Inside, I took a sip of coffee and for the first time in a long time I felt the shape of a future that was mine.
I had been afraid of losing everything. Instead, I had gained what mattered: my name, my work, my dignity.
And he—Jaxson Thomas—joined me in the slow, clumsy business of becoming better.
The End
— Thank you for reading —