Regret Is A Poison, My Love Is Dead

Don't touch me. He shook off my hand, his eyes cold as ice. Just thinking about sharing a bed with a calculating woman like you for three whole years makes my skin crawl.

Three days ago, he drove through a torrential storm just to buy me my favorite lavender-lemon cake, and ended up in a horrific car crash.

Now, his memory had rolled back to three years ago, right when we first got married and he absolutely despised me.

Holding his first love close, he crushed the wooden hairpin I had personally carved for him under his heel. "Trash belongs in the trash can."

Today was my birthday. It was also our wedding anniversary.

Outside the window, he was setting off a massive display of fireworks across the Manhattan skyline for that other woman.

Over the phone, his cold, detached voice came through. "Vivian? She's nothing but a cheap substitute."

I slid the simple wedding band off my ring finger and signed the divorce papers.

Christian Blackwood, I am finally letting you go.

Vivian's POV

The smell of disinfectant in the ICU was sharp and suffocating.

I stood outside the glass wall, staring blankly at the man hooked up to the ventilator.

Christian Blackwood.

My husband. The ruthless CEO of Blackwood Enterprises.

Three days ago, just to get me a cake from that boutique bakery downtown, his car collided with an out-of-control truck in the middle of a heavy storm.

The doctor said he suffered a severe traumatic brain injury. Whether he would ever wake up was entirely up to fate.

For three days and three nights, I hadn't left his side. My tears had long run dry.

The heart monitor suddenly spiked. The man on the bed slightly twitched his fingers.

My heart leaped into my throat. I rushed into the room like a madwoman.

"Christian! Are you awake? Christian!"

I grabbed his trembling hand, my tears spilling over again, splashing onto his pale skin.

Slowly, those deep, dark eyes opened. After a fleeting moment of confusion, his gaze locked onto my face.

There was no warmth. No relief of surviving a near-death experience.

Only bone-chilling coldness and pure, unfiltered disgust.

He yanked his hand back as if he had touched something toxic.

"Don't touch me."

His voice was hoarse, but it cut through me like shards of glass.

I froze, staring at him in disbelief.

"Christian... what's wrong? It's me, Vivian..."

"Vivian?" Christian let out a mocking laugh, his eyes dripping with contempt. "What kind of game are you playing now? My grandfather already forced me to marry you. What more do you want?"

It felt like a lightning strike. My mind went completely blank.

Grandpa forced him to marry me?

That was three years ago!

Three years ago, Arthur Blackwood used his failing health to force Christian to marry an ordinary, self-made UN simultaneous interpreter. Me.

Back then, Christian's heart belonged entirely to his high-school sweetheart, Tiffany Sterling.

He hated me to the bone, believing I was a gold-digger who used his grandfather to climb into his bed.

But over the last three years, I was the one who stood by him through the brutal board battles at Blackwood Enterprises. I spent three years chipping away at his icy heart.

Just two weeks ago, he had pinned me against the floor-to-ceiling window of our penthouse, whispering against my ear, "Vivian, once this merger is done, I'm giving you the grandest wedding. I want the whole world to know you are my wife."

But now, he was looking at me like I was his worst enemy.

The doctors rushed in to run tests. Afterward, the chief neurologist called me out into the hallway.

"Mrs. Blackwood, your husband suffered retrograde amnesia from the impact. His memory has reset to three years ago, right around the time of your wedding."

The doctor's words were a blunt knife sawing at my heart.

"Will he... will he ever remember?" my voice shook.

"It's hard to say. He could remember tomorrow, or... he might never remember for the rest of his life."

I don't even remember how I walked back into the room.

By then, Christian's mother, Eleanor, had arrived. She had always despised me. Now, she was holding Christian's hand, wiping away tears.

"Oh, Christian, you scared me to death! Don't worry, sweetie. I'll make sure that leech pack her bags and get out of our lives immediately!"

Christian leaned against the pillows. Even pale and in a hospital gown, he still possessed the intimidating aura of a billionaire mogul.

He looked up, his cold eyes sweeping over me as I stood at the doorway.

"Now that I'm awake, this joke of a marriage ends," he said, his tone casual but incredibly cruel.

"My lawyers will draw up the divorce papers. Vivian, take the cash settlement and get out of my sight. I'm going to find Tiffany."

I dug my nails deep into my palms, swallowing the metallic taste of blood in my throat.

"Christian, these past three years, we..."

"Shut up!" Christian snapped, his eyes flashing with irritation. "Don't bring up these three years. Just thinking about the fact that I was forced to share a bed with a calculating woman like you for three whole years makes my skin crawl."

My heart shattered into a million pieces.

I looked at the man I had loved with every fiber of my being, and he felt like a total stranger.

The Christian who used to warm my cold feet under the covers, who would massage my shoulders after a grueling day of interpreting, who drove through a storm just because I casually mentioned a cake... that Christian was dead.

He died in that car crash.

I took a deep breath, forcing my tears back.

"Fine," my voice was quiet, but steady. "I agree to the divorce."

Vivian's POV

I returned to our mansion in Greenwich.

This place used to be my sanctuary. The cashmere rugs I picked out, the custom couple mugs we made at a pottery class, the framed photo of us chasing the Northern Lights in Iceland...

Every corner was filled with proof of his love.

The next afternoon, the front doors were thrown open.

Christian walked in, looking sharp in a tailored black suit. Right next to him, holding his arm, was Tiffany Sterling, wearing a delicate white dress and looking like a fragile doll.

I stood at the top of the stairs, watching their locked hands. My chest tightened so hard it was difficult to breathe.

"Christian, the decor here is so depressing. I really don't like it," Tiffany whispered, looking around the living room with a pout.

Christian looked down at her, his eyes filled with the exact tenderness I used to receive.

"If you don't like it, we'll throw it all out."

He turned to the butler, his voice instantly turning frigid. "Throw away everything that belongs to Vivian. Re-decorate the entire place exactly how Tiffany wants it."

The butler froze, looking at me awkwardly. "Mr. Blackwood, but... you personally picked out these items with Mrs. Blackwood..."

"I said, throw them out!" Christian roared, his glare piercing through me. "Are you deaf? Or does she run this house now?"

The maids didn't dare hesitate. They immediately started packing.

I watched my favorite cashmere rug get rolled up. I watched our custom mugs get tossed into a trash bag with a sharp clink.

That was the mug Christian had held my hand to mold.

"Wait."

I hurried down the stairs, snatching a small wooden box from a maid's hands.

Inside was a wooden hairpin Christian had hand-carved for me on my twenty-fifth birthday. He had told me he would love me forever.

"Drop it," Christian's icy voice sounded behind me.

I clutched the box to my chest, my knuckles turning white. "Christian, this is mine."

"Is there a single thing on your body that wasn't bought with my money?" Christian stepped closer, looking down at me with utter contempt. "Vivian, did you really think playing the role of Mrs. Blackwood for three years made you the owner of this estate?"

He snatched the wooden box from my grip and threw it onto the hardwood floor.

Crack.

The box splintered, and the wooden hairpin inside snapped in half.

Without an ounce of hesitation, Christian stepped forward, grinding the broken hairpin into the dust with his expensive leather shoe.

"Trash belongs in the trash can."

My breath caught in my throat.

I stared at the broken pieces on the floor. My eyes burned, but I refused to let a single tear drop.

Tiffany stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Christian's, saying softly, "Christian, let it go. Vivian has lived here for three years, after all. We should leave her with some dignity. Why don't we let her stay in the basement guest room for now?"

The basement room was damp, dark, and usually reserved for temporary cleaning staff.

Christian spared me a cold glance. "Since you're taking your sweet time signing the papers, you can stay in the basement. Tiffany is staying for dinner tonight. You'll cook. Her stomach is sensitive, and she can't stand restaurant food."

I snapped my head up to look at him.

In the past, Christian never let me cook. He said my hands were meant for professional interpreting, not kitchen grease. If I ever made a meal, he would fuss over my hands for hours.

Now, he wanted me to play maid for his first love.

"What? You got a problem with that?" Christian stepped into my personal space, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Vivian, learn your place. Until the divorce is finalized, you better keep your head down and keep Tiffany happy."

I looked at his familiar face, suddenly feeling a bone-deep exhaustion.

"Fine. I'll do it."

I turned and walked into the kitchen without looking back.

Behind me, the sound of their laughter echoed through the house. It felt like a physical blow, leaving me bruised and bleeding inside.

Vivian's POV

I was a top-tier simultaneous interpreter.

For the past three years, to support Christian's career, I had stepped back and only took on minor translation gigs. Now that Christian had frozen all my credit cards, I had to get back to work to prepare for my departure.

I contacted my former mentor and secured a spot as the lead French interpreter for a massive multinational merger.

On the day of the conference, I wore a sharp, professional blazer and arrived early at the venue.

However, when the acquiring party's delegation walked through the door, my blood froze.

Walking at the head of the group was Christian, looking powerful and intimidating in his bespoke suit. And right next to him was a glammed-up Tiffany.

Blackwood Enterprises was the buyer.

The moment Christian saw me, his brow furrowed in deep annoyance.

"What are you doing here?" his voice dripped with disgust, as if he had run into a cockroach.

My mentor quickly stepped in to explain, "Mr. Blackwood, Vivian is our agency's most elite French interpreter. She is running the translation for today's session..."

"Replace her," Christian cut him off ruthlessly. "I don't want a toxic, manipulative woman near my meetings."

My mentor looked cornered. "But Mr. Blackwood, it's too late to find a replacement, and Vivian's professional skills are unparalleled..."

Tiffany gently pulled on Christian's sleeve, offering a sweet, magnanimous smile. "Christian, it's fine. Since Vivian needs the job, let's just treat it as charity. Besides, I'm here as the cultural ambassador today. I might need her to explain some complex French terms to me."

Christian scoffed, his eyes scanning my face like a blade. "Since Tiffany is begging for you, you can stay. But you're not interpreting for the room. You are Tiffany's personal translator. You translate exactly what she says."

The meeting began.

It was a highly technical negotiation filled with complex legal and financial jargon.

Tiffany didn't know a word of French, but she insisted on pretending she was fluent. She deliberately spoke at an insanely fast pace, throwing in American slang, then looking at me mockingly.

I kept my face completely expressionless. Using my years of training, I took her incoherent ramblings and translated them into flawless, elegant, and highly professional business French.

The French delegates nodded in high appreciation of Tiffany's "brilliant insights."

During the coffee break, one of the French representatives walked over and spoke to Tiffany in French: "Miss Sterling, your business acumen is truly impressive, and your French expression is incredibly elegant."

Tiffany didn't understand a word. She turned to me.

I translated the compliment perfectly.

Tiffany smiled triumphantly and clung to Christian's arm. "Christian, look! Even the French are praising me."

Christian patted her hair lovingly. "My Tiffany is always the best."

Then, he cast a freezing glare at me, whispering in a voice only the three of us could hear, "See that? That's real talent. While you, Vivian, even in a designer blazer, are nothing but a glorified shadow speaker, a human Google Translate. You will never compare to a single finger of Tiffany's."

I stood there, keeping my spine perfectly straight.

My years of hard work, my elite education, my pride. All crushed under his boot just to elevate another woman.

I didn't argue. I just lowered my gaze, hiding the dead silence in my eyes.

"You are absolutely right, Mr. Blackwood," I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "I am just a speaker. Miss Sterling, would you like me to proofread your speech for the second half of the meeting?"

Christian sneered at my submissive attitude, grabbed Tiffany, and walked away.

Vivian's POV

The merger was a massive success, and Blackwood Enterprises won big.

That night, Christian threw a massive celebration party at a five-star hotel in Manhattan. At the same time, he officially announced his engagement to Tiffany Sterling.

The news shocked the city's high society. Everyone knew Christian had a secret wife of three years. Now that Tiffany was back, the "substitute" was finally being discarded.

The next day, my agency received a high-paying project.

The CEO's office of Blackwood Enterprises had sent an email requesting us to translate Christian and Tiffany's engagement vows and destination wedding invitations into French.

And Christian had personally demanded that I do it.

My boss looked at my pale face with pity. "Vivian, we can reject this. I'll make up an excuse."

"No need," I took a deep breath and took the papers. "I'll take it."

I went back to my desk and opened the document titled To My One and Only.

With just one glance, my tears started falling onto the keyboard.

"In this chaotic world, you are my anchor. Without you, I am just a ghost ship drifting in the dark. I would trade all my success just to keep you safe and happy forever..."

These were the exact words Christian had written in his journal, with red eyes and a slight slur, on the night we got our marriage certificate three years ago.

Back then, he had just reclaimed Blackwood Enterprises, and the company was in a terrible state. I had stayed up with him night after night.

He had told me, "Vivian, once I have total control of the company, I am going to read these vows to you in front of the whole world."

Now, he was giving those exact vows to Tiffany.

Trembling, I grabbed the papers, walked out of the agency, and took a cab straight to the Blackwood headquarters.

The secretary didn't dare stop me. I pushed open the door to Christian's office.

Christian was sitting at his desk. Seeing me burst in, his face darkened. "Who gave you permission to come in? Get out."

I slammed the document onto his mahogany desk, my voice cracking from the sheer pain. "Christian, do you even have a heart? Do you have any idea who these vows were originally written for?!"

Christian glanced at the papers, his eyes turning even colder.

"What? Jealous because you saw what I wrote for Tiffany?" He stood up, leaning over the desk, staring at me. "Vivian, are you delusional? I wrote these vows five years ago for Tiffany. I just never got the chance to read them to her. Did you actually think I wrote them for you?"

I felt like I was plunging into a freezing abyss.

Five years ago?

No. He wrote them three years ago. He had even drawn a little lavender flower, my favorite, at the bottom right corner of the page.

But he had forgotten everything.

He had taken the most sacred memories of our love and handed them to another woman.

"Christian, you really... don't remember a single thing," I whispered, tears finally escaping my eyes. "You took my soul, my love, and gave it all to her."

"Cut the act. It's pathetic." He walked around the desk, grabbing my chin in a grip so tight my bones ached. "A gold-digger who climbed into my bed for money doesn't get to talk about love. Translate those vows perfectly. If you try to mess with the translation, I will make sure your agency disappears from New York overnight!"

He threw me back.

I stumbled, hitting my back against the cold wall.

Looking at this merciless man, I suddenly started laughing. It was a laugh of pure despair.

"Fine. I'll translate it," I wiped my tears, pulling myself together. "Don't worry, Mr. Blackwood. I will make sure it is flawless. I wish you both... eternal happiness."

Vivian's POV

I walked out of the Blackwood tower, feeling completely hollow.

The sky was gray, and a cold rain was falling on my face, but I couldn't feel the chill.

"Vivian!"

A warm, anxious voice called out from behind.

I turned slowly to see Julian Mercer running toward me, holding a black umbrella.

Julian was my colleague and a partner at the translation agency. For the past three years, he had watched me suffer in silence, knowing all the pain I had buried.

"What did he do to you?" Julian placed the umbrella over my head. Seeing my ghostly pale face and bloodshot eyes, his heart broke.

He quickly took off his trench coat and wrapped it around my shivering shoulders.

"Julian..." my voice was barely a whisper, "He gave my vows to someone else."

Julian's fists clenched. He didn't say a word. He just gently pulled me into a hug, patting my back. "Let it out, Vivian. Cry. You need to leave him. The UN office in Geneva has a long-term interpreting project. I got you a spot. Come with me. Leave this place and live the life you deserve."

Leaning against Julian's shoulder, all the pain and humiliation I had bottled up finally spilled out in quiet, shaking sobs.

Suddenly, a violent grip grabbed my wrist, pulling me out of Julian's arms.

It was Christian.

"Christian! What the hell are you doing?!" Julian snapped, stepping forward, but Christian's bodyguards immediately blocked him.

Christian gripped my wrist so hard it felt like it would snap. His eyes were dangerously dark. "Vivian, I'm impressed. The ink on our divorce papers isn't even dry, and you've already lined up your next husband?"

I winced in pain, trying to pull away. "Let go of me! Christian, you don't have the right to control me!"

"Right?" Christian sneered, pulling me flush against his chest. His warm breath hit my cold face. "As long as we aren't officially divorced, you are still my wife. Parading around with another man in public... are you trying to humiliate me?"

He glared at Julian, his voice dripping with malice. "Julian Mercer, right? It seems like your agency wants to go bankrupt."

Julian didn't back down, locking eyes with him. "Christian, if you don't love her, let her go. Torturing her like this... does it make you feel like a man?"

"What's mine stays mine, even if I don't want it anymore," Christian said coldly.

He threw me into the back of his SUV and slammed the door shut.

The tension inside the car was suffocating. Christian grabbed my chin again, forcing me to look at him.

"You want to go to Geneva? You want to be with him?" A cruel smirk played on his lips. "In your dreams, Vivian. Until Tiffany's wedding is over, you aren't going anywhere. If you try to run, I promise you, Julian's career will be over."

I looked at him, the very last spark of hope in my eyes completely dying out.

"Christian, you are pathetic," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Are you keeping me here because you lost your memory, or because... you are too terrified to face who you really are?"

Christian flinched as if struck. He angrily pushed me away. "Shut up! Your only purpose is to stay and watch Tiffany be happy."

Vivian's POV

There were only three days left before Christian and Tiffany's engagement party.

Today, Christian's assistant dragged me to the most exclusive bridal boutique in Manhattan.

"Mr. Blackwood ordered that since Miss Sterling is trying on her wedding gown and the French designer only speaks French, you must be here to translate," the assistant delivered the order coldly.

I stood in the luxurious boutique, watching Christian and Tiffany sitting on a velvet sofa sipping tea. I nodded numbly.

Soon, the French designer wheeled out a dress covered in a delicate garment bag.

"Mr. Blackwood, this is 'The Nebula,' the gown you personally flew to Paris to commission six months ago for your bride. It is finally complete," the designer introduced passionately in French.

Hearing "six months ago" and "The Nebula," the blood drained from my face.

Six months ago, Christian had lied and said he was going to Paris for a business trip. When he came back, he had whispered secretly that he had prepared a massive surprise for our upcoming wedding ceremony.

So, this was it.

The bag was zipped open, revealing a gown covered in tens of thousands of tiny diamonds, the skirt sparkling like a starry night sky.

Tiffany's eyes lit up, and she gasped. "Oh my god, it's gorgeous! Christian, did you really customize this for me?"

Christian looked at the gown, his brows slightly furrowing. I knew he didn't have the memory of making this dress, but he simply assumed he must have ordered it for Tiffany five years ago.

"As long as you like it," he said softly.

With the help of the staff, Tiffany quickly put on the gown.

But when she walked out, she looked ridiculous. The waist was suffocatingly tight, the chest was completely loose, and the hem was way too long.

The designer frowned, speaking rapidly in French: "This is wrong. This gown was made strictly according to Miss Stone's measurements. This lady has an entirely different body frame. Of course it doesn't fit!"

The designer recognized me. Because six months ago, Christian had brought my photos and exact measurements, staying in their Paris workshop for three days and nights to perfect it.

I stood there, my fingernails biting into my palms, trying to stop myself from shaking.

Tiffany didn't understand French, but she could read the designer's expression. She turned to Christian, pouting, "Christian, why does it fit so poorly?"

Christian looked at me coldly. "What did he say? Translate."

I took a deep breath, looked straight into Christian's eyes, and translated in a flat voice: "The designer said this gown was custom-made to my exact measurements."

The air in the room instantly turned to ice.

Tiffany's face twisted in ugly jealousy.

Christian's expression darkened. He looked at the ill-fitting gown on Tiffany, then at my slender frame. A wave of irritation crossed his face.

"If the size is wrong, alter it," Christian said coldly.

The designer shook his head repeatedly. "Mr. Blackwood, the design of this dress is seamless. If we forcefully cut and alter it, we will destroy its soul. It is a complete waste of art."

"Translate," Christian commanded.

I translated the designer's words word-for-word.

Christian walked over to Tiffany, wrapping his arm around her waist. He looked down at the designer and me with sheer arrogance. "I paid for it. I can cut it however I want. Since it was made for Vivian, that means this dress is already dirty. Cut it. Alter it to Tiffany's size. If you won't do it, your shop will be closed by tomorrow."

My heart, at this very second, died completely.

I watched the designer reluctantly pick up the shears. I watched the sharp blades cut through the sparkling fabric of "The Nebula."

Every snip felt like it was cutting through my heart.

I watched the man who used to love me rip our memories to shreds and grind them into the dirt.