The Billionaire's Regret She Left When He Chose Her

After Ethan Sanchez got caught by paparazzi for the Nth time leaving some young model's apartment at dawn, he did what he always did—had his assistant deliver a new limited-edition bag.

Over the years, we'd reached an unspoken arrangement: every time he racked up another romantic debt, he paid me off.

But this time, the woman in the photos was different. This was the first love he'd been carrying a torch for all these years.

Ethan treated her like she was made of glass, giving her whatever she wanted, crossing line after line without hesitation.

I didn't cry or make a scene. Instead, I calmly slapped a price tag on every boundary he broke.

She wanted to wear my emerald necklace set to a banquet?

Sure. Two million.

Worried people would call her a homewrecker? Wanted me to release a statement clearing her name?

Fine. Five percent of the company shares.

Everyone in our circle laughed at me—shameless, money-grubbing, a parasite bleeding him dry.

But none of them remembered that seven years ago, this "parasite" sold her parents' ancestral home to pay off his debts. That I lived with him in a moldy basement for a full year, surviving on instant noodles.

Back then, he swore he'd never let me down.

Turns out hearts change easily.

Now I know better: money is the only thing you can count on.

I'd finally scraped together enough to buy back the old house.

This pathetic "CEO's wife" title? Whoever wanted it could have it.

——

"Miss Henson, they've agreed to your price."

I stared at my assistant's text and let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

Seven years ago, I'd sold that house at a 20% loss because I was desperate. Now the buyer knew I wanted it back—knew I'd pay anything—and had jacked up the price tenfold.

It didn't matter. As long as I got it back.

A commotion erupted in the hallway. Somewhere in the noise, a woman's whiny voice cut through.

I pocketed my phone and raised an eyebrow.

"What's going on out there?"

Martha Lambert, the housekeeper, was straightening the room. She clicked her tongue, not bothering to hide her disgust.

"Who else? That Miss Fox who just moved in. She's complaining the guest room lighting is bad—says she can't catch the first morning sunlight. Throwing a fit at the butler, demanding to move into the room next to the master bedroom."

"And Mr. Sanchez actually caved. Cleared out the room that was supposed to be your art studio just to make space for her. I've never seen him act this ridiculous…"

Martha had watched me marry into this family. She couldn't help taking my side.

My grip on my phone tightened, but my expression stayed flat.

Once upon a time, I used to lose it over Ethan's women. Crying. Screaming. Asking if he'd forgotten those basement days when we had nothing but each other.

He'd just frown and say entertaining clients was part of business. Tell me to be "sensible." Then send over a bag or wire some money—his version of compensation, dripping with condescension.

Bit by bit, I learned to keep my mouth shut.

I'd just had Martha lock the property contracts in the safe when Ethan walked in.

He set a steaming bowl of bird's nest soup on the nightstand, his voice soft.

"I heard from my secretary you haven't been eating well? This is top-grade blood bird's nest—had it brought in specially from the Harbor District. Eat it while it's hot."

He studied my face. When I didn't give him the cold shoulder like usual, he finally spoke up, cautious.

"Alex, there's something I need to tell you."

"I never had Vanessa use birth control. She's… she's four months along."

"I know I should have told you sooner, but she's a public figure. If paparazzi catch her showing, her career is over. She needs somewhere safe to carry the pregnancy…"