My Goodbye His Regret

For three years, Arthur Finch has never publicly acknowledged our marriage.

He was in the middle of a panel interview when the moderator asked.

“Professor Finch, a question from our online audience. Are you drawn to the steady, quiet type, or someone with a little more… fire?”

Arthur, a man who has made a career of precision and discipline, answered with a straight face.

“Neither. I’m drawn to a person.”

The moderator blinked, then recovered with a practiced smile. “Of course. And what kind of person might that be? Is she here with us today?”

He turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the audience until it found me. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

“No.”

I clutched the lab report in my pocket, the paper crinkling under the pressure. A familiar, hollow smile touched my lips. In the periphery, I saw his expression flicker with something like surprise as I slowly stood up and walked out, leaving the auditorium behind.

1

“Is it Lily Monroe?”

Someone from the audience shouted the question, their voice sharp in the sudden quiet.

My steps faltered at the door.

Lily Monroe. Arthur’s brilliant protégée, his current research partner. Their names were always linked, on publications, at academic conferences. The rumors were relentless.

The air in the auditorium seemed to solidify. My nails dug into my palms.

I held my breath, waiting for Arthur’s denial. A drowning woman grasping for a phantom hand.

After a few seconds of silence, he simply offered a mild, academic smile.

“I’d appreciate it if we could keep the focus on our field of study. Let’s stick to professional questions, please.”

He didn’t deny it. He never did.

The hope I’d been holding, a fragile bubble in my chest, finally burst. The fall left an aching void.

2

Distracted, I wasn’t watching where I was going and bumped right into someone in the lobby.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled automatically.

“It’s alright, Mrs. Finch.”

I looked up at the sound of the voice and met a pair of bright, clear eyes in a face that radiated an almost ethereal innocence.

She smiled, her eyes curving into gentle crescents.

“The panel isn’t over yet. Aren’t you going to wait for Professor Finch?”

It was Lily Monroe. I’d seen her a few times when I’d visited Arthur’s lab. She was one of the very few people who knew about our marriage.

Before I could answer, my eyes caught on the tailored wool coat draped over her arm. It was identical to the one I’d picked out for Arthur. But he was obsessively clean, a man who recoiled from anyone touching his personal things, especially his clothes.

It must be a coincidence, I told myself.

But then, following my gaze, Lily let out a soft, musical laugh.

“Oh, this? Professor Finch lent it to me during that rainstorm last week,” she said. “I just had it dry-cleaned and was bringing it back to him. We’re heading to the lab together after this.”

She then lifted the thermos in her other hand. “He’s been a little under the weather, so I brewed him some herbal tea.”

I said nothing.

She watched me, her head tilted. “You don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Finch?”

Beneath the flawless, harmless facade, the challenge was unmistakable. My gaze flickered to the cheerful pink flowers painted on the thermos, a stark contrast to everything I knew about my husband’s minimalist tastes.

I managed a faint smile. “Thank you for taking care of him. I have to go, I have another engagement.”

I turned, but her voice followed me, sharper this time.

“Don’t you see it? Arthur doesn’t love you at all. He won’t even tell the world you exist. What’s the point of clinging to a marriage like this?”

I stopped. I turned back and looked at her, my expression calm. I opened my mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, I walked out into the crisp afternoon air. Under the weak sun, I unfolded the crumpled lab report and stared at the clinical, damning words, lost in thought.

3

Later, sitting in a sterile examination room, my phone rang. It was Arthur. His voice was clipped, laced with an unfamiliar thread of anger.

“Where are you?”

I gripped the phone, my knuckles white, and stared out the window at the inky black sky. The interview would have been over for hours. The man who treated his laboratory like his true home should have been on his way there by now.

“I’m at home,” I lied.

The silence on the other end stretched, punctuated only by the faint sound of his breathing, slightly heavier than usual.

“Arthur?” I prompted, my voice tentative. “Are you still there?”

“…So am I.”

His voice was a low growl, charged with an emotion I couldn’t decipher.

My stomach dropped. Caught in a lie. The embarrassment was a hot flush on my cheeks. I collected myself, forcing a casual tone.

“Just kidding. I’m working late at the office.”

He was quiet for a moment, then let out a short, cold laugh. “Working late? You have a talent for composure, I’ll give you that.”

I curved my lips into a smile he couldn’t see. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Another long pause. This was his way. I braced myself and pushed forward. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I should get back to…”

“Why did you leave early?” The question was hard, edged with something that sounded almost like hurt.

My fingers tensed around the phone.

It was true. In the past, no matter what he said or did in public, I would always stay until the very end. I would find him in a quiet corner, slip my arm through his, and plead, “Can you come home tonight?”

And every single time, without fail, he would coldly refuse.

The memory faded. I laughed softly into the phone. “Isn't this better? I’m not bothering you anymore.”

A beat of silence, then a scornful chuckle. “…Then you’d better keep it that way.”

4

The screen went dark, and for a moment, I felt completely adrift. The man across from me said something, but the words didn’t register. Not until he waved a hand in front of my face.

“Ava?”

I blinked, pulling myself back to the present. “Sorry, Liam. What did you say?”

He sighed, a look of deep concern in his eyes. He repeated his question. “Are you really not going to tell him about the diagnosis? He’s your husband, Ava. He has a right to know.”

I forced a light, airy laugh. “It’s just a tumor. It’s not like it’s a death sentence.”

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and false. We both fell silent. As my oldest friend, Liam knew my family history. He knew about my grandmother, and my mother. He knew this disease was a dark inheritance passed down the women in my family.

And he knew the mortality rate was not insignificant.

5

Liam drove me home. As I got out of the car, my leg gave out, a sudden numbness spreading through it, and I nearly crumpled to the pavement. He shot out, grabbing my arm to steady me.

“You okay?”

I gave him a grateful look and a small shake of my head. As he was about to leave, he hesitated.

“Surgery always has risks, Ava. You should really talk to Arthur…”

I cut him off with a bitter smile. “He hates me enough already, Liam. I don’t want him thinking I’m trying to win his sympathy.”

He sighed, but didn’t push it.

The taillights of his car disappeared into the night. I turned toward my front door and froze.

Arthur was standing there, under the dim porch light. He must have been there for a while. Half of his face was lost in shadow, but the chill emanating from him was palpable.

I composed myself. “What are you doing here?” I asked quietly.

His eyes, cold and hard, fixed on me. He sneered. “The office? Working late? Or were you with him?”

It took me a second to process. I looked at him, really looked at him—at the way his hair was slightly disheveled, his tie loosened.

“You… you went to my office to look for me?” The words came out in a breath of disbelief.

In all our years together, he had never shown the slightest interest in my work, in my life outside of him.

He didn’t answer, but his intense, dark stare was confirmation enough.

My fists clenched. “I was actually at…”

“Enough.” The word was a blade. “I don’t want to hear it.”

He brushed past me into the house, his face a mask of fury. He went straight to the bedroom, pulled a duffel bag from the closet, and began throwing clothes into it. As he walked back through the living room, he didn’t even glance in my direction.

“Arthur.”

I called his name. He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down, as if he hadn’t heard me.

A knot of panic tightened in my chest. I pushed myself off the sofa, ran to him, and grabbed his hand.

His skin was warm. His whole body went rigid at my touch. He turned his head slowly, his eyes deep, dark pools. For a second, I thought he was waiting for me to say something more. But then a flicker of impatience crossed his face.

I let go of his hand, my own suddenly feeling clammy. “Can we… can we talk?” I asked softly.

He stared down at me, his gaze glacial. “Talk about what? About how you cheat and lie? Or how you walk out on me whenever you feel like it?”

I wanted to defend myself, to explain, but the words died in my throat. I lowered my eyes and they landed on his forearm. The sleeve of his shirt was rolled up, revealing a pale, jagged scar against his skin.

6

As his expression darkened, I felt my own hand moving, as if of its own accord. I reached out and gently touched the scar.

The reaction was instantaneous. His body tensed like he’d been hit with an electric shock. He grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron. His black eyes were churning with a storm of emotions.

“What are you doing?”

His fingers tightened, but I barely felt the pain. I was lost, staring at that mark on his skin.

The memories flooded back.

Five years ago. The screech of tires, the crunch of metal. Arthur throwing his body over mine an instant before the impact. He’d almost died to save me. He survived, but his dominant hand was shattered, the nerves shredded.

I remembered standing in his hospital room, my face a cold mask, telling him it was over.

He’d pulled at his pale lips in a weak attempt at a smile, his uninjured hand reaching for mine. “Don’t do this, Ava. Don’t joke like that.”

I pulled my hand away. I pointed at the thick bandages covering his arm. “Arthur, I don’t want a boyfriend with a crippled hand. I don’t want people staring at us, pitying us. Please,” I begged, “just let me go.”

For a man as proud as Arthur, my words were a deliberate, cruel demolition of his dignity. I will never forget the look in his eyes. It was like watching a fire die, leaving behind nothing but gray ash and a burning, profound hatred.

In the present, his grip on my wrist tightened until his knuckles were white, veins standing out in stark relief. Then, just as slowly, his fingers uncurled, one by one.

He looked away, his voice so raw it was barely a whisper. “Fine.”

Pulled from the memory, my eyes stung with unshed tears. “Does it still hurt?” I murmured.

Arthur looked startled, then his brow furrowed in a deep scowl.

“Is this performance amusing to you?” he bit out. “You got what you wanted. Do your part. Anything else is a privilege you haven’t earned.”

He turned and strode toward the front door.

I took a deep breath, the air burning my lungs. “If it weren’t for me,” I said to his back, “you would be with Lily Monroe, wouldn’t you?”

He stopped dead in his tracks. He whipped around, his eyes shot with red, and roared, his voice raw with a fury I’d never seen.

“Ava, what the hell is wrong with you?”

My heart seized. The man who prided himself on his composure, on his intellect, was cursing at me.

I clenched the fabric of my sleeve, lowered my gaze, and whispered to the floor.

“Yes. I am.”

He must not have heard me. He just stood there, staring, his chest heaving.

The sound of the door slamming shut rattled the walls and echoed in my ears long after he was gone.

7

I sat on the living room sofa, hugging my knees to my chest, and surveyed the room. Every surface, every shadow, seemed to radiate a cold emptiness. My gaze landed on our wedding photo on the mantelpiece—a picture of two strangers, their smiles polite and distant.

My vision blurred, and the past rushed in again.

After I broke up with him, I thought I’d never see Arthur again. But then his father, the chairman of Finch Enterprises, offered me an internship. My mother was sick, my own father had remarried and moved on, and it was Chairman Finch who had paid for my college education. He took me under his wing, mentored me personally, taught me everything.

The day I closed my first major deal on my own, I ran to his office, the signed contract in my hand, eager to share the news. But I found something else on his desk by accident. A medical report. The words “Stage Four Stomach Cancer” burned themselves into my memory.

Later that day, he called me into his office.

“The company, and Arthur,” he’d said, his voice heavy. “I worry about them both. Arthur is consumed by his research. He has no interest in marriage, and even less in the business.”

He paused, his eyes pleading. “Ava, I’ve watched you grow up. Could you possibly…”

I knew Chairman Finch like a father. I understood what he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

And so, two years after I had destroyed him, I went to find Arthur. I asked him if he would marry me.

He took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, then crushed it out in an ashtray. Through the haze of smoke, he stared at me, his eyes filled with cold, mocking amusement.

“Why?”

“I want to take over Finch Enterprises,” I said. “Your father told me that whoever marries his son gets control of the company. And as far as I know, you’re his only son.”

He told me to show him how much I wanted it. To prove my sincerity.

But as I stood on my toes, my lips just inches from his, he recoiled as if burned.

He laughed, a sound full of contempt. “Marry you? In your dreams.”

I was figuring out how to break the news to his dying father when Arthur reappeared.

“Go home. Get your passport. We’re going to the courthouse.”

He didn’t say another word.

…

A full week passed, and Arthur never came home. I was drowning in work, consumed by a competitive bid for a massive new project. This deal could elevate Finch Enterprises to a new level. We’d worked ourselves to the bone for a month, running endless models and analyses.

And at the bidding conference, we lost. By a margin so slim it was statistically impossible. It was a figure our competitor, based on all my research, should never have submitted.

My assistant was running through the post-mortem analysis as we walked out. I stopped her.

“Hold the report,” I said. “Just tell me. What’s your personal take on what just happened?”

As she hesitated, my gaze drifted past her, across the lobby. And my body went rigid.

8

I never expected to see Arthur here. He despised the corporate world.

Then I saw Lily Monroe standing beside him. And standing in front of them, smiling, was the very man whose company had just beaten ours by an impossibly narrow margin.

Lily was calling the man “cousin.”

And I heard her, clear as day, introduce Arthur as her boyfriend.

Just then, she spotted me. Her smile widened. She looped her arm through Arthur’s, stood on her toes, and leaned in to kiss him.

Arthur turned his head away, a frown creasing his brow, and he started to say something. But then his eyes met mine.

His pupils contracted. A flash of pure panic crossed his face before he could hide it.

I looked away. “Get the car,” I told my assistant, my voice clipped. “We’ll debrief back at the office.”

But at the elevators, Lily caught up to me, alone.

Her voice was laced with derision. “I heard Mrs. Finch lost out to my cousin—and everyone knows he’s all charm and no brains.”

“What do you want, Lily?” I asked coldly.

“Aren’t you curious? How did our bid come in just under yours? Such a coincidence.” She leaned in closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper only I could hear. “You have Arthur to thank for that. He despises you, you know. So much that he’d rather give away his own family’s project than see you succeed.”

A tremor went through me. I turned slowly to face her.

“What… did you say?”

Seeing my reaction, she tilted her chin up, her eyes gleaming with triumph. The victor, surveying the vanquished.

“I said, you’ve lost, Ava. The project, and the man. You’ve lost him to me, completely and utterly.”

Before I could think, my hand was moving.

The sharp crack of the slap, followed by a second one, echoed in the vast, empty space.

“You…” she stammered, her hand flying to her cheek. She stared at me, her face contorted in disbelief and rage, momentarily speechless.

My voice was low and steady. “You do not get to slander Arthur.”

“What are you doing?”

A familiar, sharp voice cut through the air from behind me. I froze.

Arthur strode past me, his eyes fixed on Lily. He took in her reddened, swelling cheek, and his face hardened into a cold fury. He moved her behind him, shielding her, and then his gaze, sharp as a shard of glass, landed on me.

He repeated the question, his voice dangerously low. “Ava, what are you doing?”

I pushed down the acid wave of bitterness in my throat and calmly rubbed my stinging palm.

“You didn't see? Should I demonstrate again?”

I raised my hand, but this time, he caught my wrist in a vice-like grip.

“Enough,” he snarled.

9

Seeing her protector had arrived, Lily immediately reverted to her innocent, helpless persona. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks in perfect, glistening trails.

“I just saw that you lost the bid… I was only coming over to offer Professor Finch’s condolences,” she sobbed. “I didn’t think you’d take your anger out on me just because my cousin won…” She punctuated the lie with a pathetic, heart-wrenching sniffle.

I didn’t bother to argue. I just looked at Arthur.

“Do you believe her?”

He once promised me that no matter what happened, he would always be on my side. Because I trust you, he had said.

A fog seemed to roll over his eyes, obscuring whatever was there. I couldn’t read him.

After a long, suffocating silence, he stared at me, his words slow and deliberate.

“Ava, are you really that sore of a loser?”

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