Gone With The Regret

Six years after our divorce, I saw Randall Partridge again at the police precinct.
He was a decorated Police Captain, invited to give a lecture. I was just a civilian, there to file a death certificate.
As he passed out candies from his new wedding, our eyes met. Neither of us spoke.
It wasn't until I turned to leave that he called out, his voice soft.
"Vera... do you still hate me?"
I shook my head.
When he went from my bodyguard to a celebrated undercover hero, and I fell from a pampered heiress to a pariah living in the shadows, I suppose I did hate him then.
But hate is born from love.
Six years have passed. I stopped loving him long ago.

1
A young officer, oblivious, called out, "Come on, everyone, get some of the Captain's good luck."
Randall stopped the officer's hand as it reached for me and quickly followed me out.
His voice was rushed. "What are you doing here? Let me help..."
I held up the file in my hand, cutting him off. "It's already done."
I walked straight out of the precinct.
It was a strange coincidence. This was the second time we'd seen each other here.
The first time was when my father was arrested.
Randall grabbed my sleeve, forcing me to stop.
"Are you doing okay?"
Such a clich.
I glanced at the new wedding band on his ring finger and replied with a clich of my own.
"I'm fine."
My gaze seemed to burn him, and he let go of my arm.
Leo's car was parked at the curb.
I looked back at Randall. "My husband is here to pick me up."
His voice was raw, laced with a choked bitterness. "...Okay. Goodbye."
I didn't want to see him again.
The car pulled away, but he remained standing there, a tall, unmoving figure in my rearview mirror until he disappeared from sight.
"Sis, are you using me to ward off old flames?" Leo asked, his face a mask of gossip-hungry curiosity. "That cop looked like his eyes were about to pop out of his head. But the more I look at him, the more familiar he seems."
I smoothed out the creased document in my hands. "Randall Partridge."
Leo's head snapped towards me, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Randall Partridge? The criminal investigation expert? The guy who's always on TV for case analysis, the one they feature in police academy textbooks?"
His reaction was so over-the-top that I had to remind him, "That's him. Eyes on the road."
Leo was still talking to himself. "No wonder he's a Captain at his age. I remember now, he was the one who went undercover for ten years to take down that massive organized crime syndicate. The kingpin's last name was... Vaughn, or something."
"Vaughn," I confirmed.
"Right, right, Vaughn. You don't hear that name often..." He seemed to remember that my last name was also Vaughn and trailed off.
I answered his unspoken question, my voice perfectly calm.
"Yes. That was my father."
The kingpin of the Vaughn syndicate, brought to justice by Randall Partridge himself.
Leo scratched his head, embarrassed. "Sorry, sis. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."
It didn't hurt anymore. It felt like telling someone else's story, my emotions placid and distant.
The silence in the car was a little awkward.
Leo's eyes fell on the file in my hands, and he quickly changed the subject. "So, what were you at the precinct for today?"
I traced the bold letters of the word "DECEASED" on the page.
"To... close out my father's official records."
My father had passed away two weeks ago. He had collapsed in prison, coughing up blood. It was late-stage stomach cancer. He was granted medical parole but didn't even last three months.
On his deathbed, his last words were, "I am a guilty man, Vera. I don't blame Randall. But he deceived you. For that, I wish I could kill him."
My father never blamed me. Not even when he refused every single one of my visit requests for six years. I knew it wasn't because he thought I had led the wolf to his door. He just didn't want me to live my life branded as a criminal's daughter.
Thinking of him, I couldn't help but feel a wave of sadness. To distract myself, I turned to the hesitant Leo.
"Want to hear my story?"
The story of the daughter of the city's biggest crime boss, and the ex-wife of the police department's golden boy. The story of a walking contradiction.

2
When I was sixteen, I was kidnapped by a rival gang.
I managed to escape that night, only to find myself in the slums. The streets were littered with trash and cigarette butts, and rats squeaked in the sewers. Under the flickering gloom of a streetlamp, a drunkard blocked my path.
A boy pulled me behind him, shielding me.
It was eighteen-year-old Randall.
He was wearing a faded black t-shirt, his arms lean and strong. When the drunk's bottle crashed against his arm, he didn't even flinch.
I didn't know then that it was all a setup.
I was just a naive girl swept up in a hero-saves-the-damsel clich.
When my father arrived, I told him, "Weren't you looking for a bodyguard for me? I want him."
Bodyguard was just a title. Back then, Randall had nothing but his strength. I had to find a reason to keep him by my side.
My father admired him, too. He said the boy had a fire in his eyes, that he was destined for great things.
And he was. He studied hard, and two years later, we both got into the same university. The day he received his acceptance letter, his eyes were red. "Vera," he said, "I owe you and your father everything."
"If I could, I'd stay by your side forever."
Randall would wake up at six every morning and take an hour-long bus ride across town to stand in line, just so I could have hot soup dumplings before my 8 a.m. class.
He would spend his entire paycheck on a beautiful brooch I had casually admired, while his own sweater, pilled and faded, was worn for three years straight.
His bag was always stocked with painkillers, band-aids, an umbrella, and sanitary pads for my forgetful self.
He was so good to me, so perfect, that even my father couldn't find a single fault.
The year we graduated, he asked to join the Vaughn Group.
My father hesitated, telling him he didn't need to repay any debt.
But Randall dropped to his knees. "I know I'm not worthy, but I love Vera. I want to earn the right to stay by her side."
I didn't know then that my father was already trapped, backed into a corner by forces I couldn't comprehend. I only remember him and Randall talking in the study for a long time.
When they came out, my father placed my hand in Randall's.
"Randall, promise me you'll keep my girl safe. Keep her happy, and keep her life clean. Honorable."
At twenty-five, I graduated with my master's degree. Randall, through his own merit, had become a key figure in the company.
The higher he rose, the stranger he became.
Once, as I was sketching, he stared at me for a long time and then said, "Sometimes I just want to give it all up for you."
But when I asked him what he meant, he wouldn't say.
At this point in my story, Leo interrupted. "Do you think he meant he was actually falling for you and wanted to give up being an undercover cop?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. And it doesn't matter."
A fleeting moment of hesitation couldn't change his righteous resolve.
At twenty-six, Randall proposed.
We got our marriage license first, then planned the wedding.
The day was magnificent. I was in a pure white gown.
And I watched, in my wedding dress, as Randall flashed his badge and snapped handcuffs on my father's wrists.
"On your wedding day?" Leo asked, horrified. "That's monstrous! Did you go up and hit him?"
I shook my head again. "I didn't get the chance. He left with my maid of honor."
"The maid of honor? Who?"
"His current wife."

3
A few days ago, photos from Randall's wedding had made the rounds in our old college group chat.
The bride, unsurprisingly, was Felicity Fang.
My best friend and roommate from college.
She came from a poor, rural area. She was plain, with thick glasses, and was intensely proud and hardworking. When our English professor mocked her accent, saying it had the "fragrance of the soil," her face turned crimson, but she never bowed her head.
I was the one who approached her first.
I invited her to join the English-speaking group I had with Randall.
Perhaps it was because they shared similar backgrounds and temperaments.
They got along well.
Or maybe... they just clicked.
The cheap street food I couldn't stomach, they both loved. The bright, colorful clothes I adored, they both eschewed for practical, stain-resistant black shirts. When we had to choose between two project topics, they would always, in perfect sync, choose the other one.
But all their interactions were through me. They always kept a respectful distance.
So I never once suspected a thing.
After I got my master's, Felicity was struggling in her career and came to me for help.
I wanted to give her a hand, so I got her a job at the Vaughn Group and asked Randall to look after her.
Unlike our old trio, this time, I wasn't in the middle.
That's when it started.
Why Felicity?
I suppose after hiding his true self for so long, he could finally be himself around her.
And I remained completely in the dark.
Until my wedding day, when Felicity threw herself into Randall's arms.
Tears streamed down her face. "You did it! After ten years of suffering and humiliation, you can finally be yourself again."
After ten years, for the very first time, I saw the real Randall Partridge.
He looked at me from a distance, silent, his expression placid.
It was the look of a man scrutinizing a criminal.
I had so many questions.
What would happen to my father? When did you and she get together?
And... when did you start lying to me?
But he never gave me the chance to ask.
He walked over, holding Felicity's hand, and said coldly, "He won't be detained during the investigation. Pack him a few changes of clothes and take them to the holding center."
He looked at my tear-streaked makeup, and for a moment, his expression softened.
I threw my bouquet in his face.
Then I grabbed a glass of champagne from a nearby table and flung it at them.
The liquid splashed across Felicity's pink bridesmaid dress.
"Randall, don't go soft on her," she said, her voice trembling with manufactured victimhood. "Loving her was just an act. You wouldn't let yourself get caught up in it for real, would you?"
Her words snapped him back to reality.
He picked up a glass of wine and poured it directly over my head.
"A toast, for a toast. This is from Felicity."
"We can talk when you've sobered up."
He turned and left with her, leaving me drenched and humiliated.
For days, I could hardly sleep.
The Vaughn Group was seized, our family's assets frozen. I spent my time dodging reporters and trying to find a lawyer for my father.
The verdict was clear: there was no way out.
It was only then that I learned my father was, in the eyes of the world, a bad man.
The worldview I had held for twenty-something years shattered.
Human nature is so complex. No one is purely evil. He did terrible things, but he also adored his daughter and was a generous philanthropist.
And by the same token, no one is purely good.
Take Randall.
The media lauded him, giving him titles like "The Shadow of Justice" and "The Dawnbreaker."
But I found him in our brand-new, crimson-decorated bridal suite, kissing Felicity.
By then, I had no energy left to fight.
I collapsed.
"What happened to you after that?!" Leo pressed.
"After that... I don't remember much. I think I almost died."

4
Perhaps my brain initiated a protective shutdown.
I became ill, lost in a mental fog.
Perhaps out of pity, Randall didn't file to have our marriage annulled right away.
Instead, he took a two-month leave and took me to see doctors.
Psychological counseling, but I wouldn't speak.
Medication, but I wouldn't open my mouth.
He even had me restrained for ECT.
The side effects were severe, often causing cognitive impairment.
To this day, I can't hold a pen to draw.
Back then, I had no intention of getting better.
I had a razor blade hidden in my vanity. The day my father was sentenced, I would be free.
But Randall was furious.
He pried my mouth open and forced the pills down my throat.
"Do you still think you're the same pampered princess you used to be? Can you stop being so willful?"
In the past, whenever I had to take medicine, I'd throw a little tantrum. And Randall would patiently coax me.
"Be good. The moment you swallow, I'll give you a candy."
This time, there was no candy.
The second he let go, I threw it all up.
Randall's patience was gone. He looked down on me.
"Look at the state of you. I shouldn't even be bothering."
"Then don't."
The door slammed shut. He spent the entire night smoking in the living room.
The next day, Felicity showed up.
They fought, their voices sharp.
"Randall, you're a cop with a brilliant future! She's a criminal's daughter! Why are you still involved with her?"
After a long silence, Randall's voice came, low and strained. "I've taken care of her for ten years. Even if she were just a stray cat or dog, I wouldn't have the heart to just throw her away immediately."
A stray cat or dog... how compassionate of him.
The argument somehow ended with them kissing.
They were defiling the new home my father had bought for me.
I stormed out and smashed everything in sight.
Including our wedding portrait, a picture of two smiling, happy people.
Randall shielded Felicity, just as he had once shielded me.
He watched my breakdown with cold, detached eyes.
Felicity pretended to be terrified. "See? I told you. She has a criminal's blood in her veins. Selfish, violent... it's terrifying."
At the mention of my father, I became hysterical.
I grabbed a shard of glass and lunged at them.
Randall kicked me away.
His voice was filled with disappointment. "Vera, you've exhausted the last shred of mercy I had for you."
The day Randall filed the annulment papers was the day my father's final sentence came down.
Life in prison.
Through the reinforced glass, my father's eyes streamed with tears. He saw the death wish in my eyes.
"My girl, you have to live. I'm begging you."
He had already prepared a way out for me.
A massive trust fund in an overseas account.
My father had never used the word "beg" in his life.
So I thought, fine. I'll live.
The last time I saw Randall was in front of the precinct.
He left me with four words.
"You're on your own."
The story was over.
The car entered a tunnel, and the world went dark, save for the warm, yellow glow of the lights overhead.
The stark white light of a phone screen cut through the dimness.
An unknown number.
"Hello?"
It was Randall. "You left your ID card here. Can we meet?"

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