Drowning Him In Regret novel Chapter 1

Chapter 1 A Pathetic Joke

Right after college, I kicked my penniless boyfriend to the curb and ran off to some fancy country with a silver-spoon prick. Worst call ever.

Two years down the line, that rich bastard ghosted me, leaving me to slink back home, broke and humiliated. And who was sitting pretty now? My ex, of course—loaded, famous, the whole damn deal.

Then he went full psycho, pulling every shady trick to make me his wife. Everyone bought the bullshit. “Oh, he’s so in love, letting bygones be bygones.” What a crock.

The second we said “I do,” he started banging his way through a carousel of floozies, each one a jab to my ribs, his sick way of evening the score.

He’d get in my face, eyes wild, spitting venom. “What’s your fucking deal? Why don’t you care? Not even a little jealous?”

I’d just smirk, staring him down until he flinched. Because I was halfway to the grave, you bastard. Why waste tears on a world I was about to leave behind?

******

Our third anniversary came crashing in, and where was Jude Carson—my dear husband? Lighting up the damn beach with fireworks, draped all over that snake, Vivian Miller.

I was curled up on the couch, a pathetic mess, clutching my phone like it was my lifeline. I dialed him over and over, like some desperate fool who thought he’d actually pick up.

Straight to voicemail. Every. Single. Time.

That cold, robotic beep taunted me one too many times, and the world started spinning. My chest tightened, the room blurred, and then—lights out.

I woke up to sterile hospital lights burning my eyes. The doctor hovered, his face screaming bad news he didn’t know how to sugarcoat.

I didn’t flinch. Just asked, voice dead, “How much time’s left?”

He switched to that bullshit doctor-speak. “Surgery now, followed by regular chemo, and you’ve got a fighting chance.”

I stared at the ceiling, blank. “This is my second go-round with this crap.”

Pain clawed at my chest, sharp and relentless, while sweat prickled my forehead.

“Ms. Watson,” he pressed, “there’s a new drug that could keep the cancer in check. Fifty grand a shot.”

He trailed off, tossing out some faint hope about sticking with it post-surgery for six months.

Yeah, right. He knew I was flat broke.

I was married to the big-shot CEO of Carson Group, and I couldn’t scrape together pocket change. If I had cash, I wouldn’t have let this disease chew me up this long.

I hauled myself off the bed, smoothed my wrinkled clothes, and muttered, “Book the surgery.”

A few grand for the operation? I’d figure it out. Had to.

My fingers grazed the pendant dangling at my chest, and a sour pang twisted my gut.

Back at the apartment, I swung by to thank my neighbor.

“Oh, sweetie, don’t thank me,” she said, her eyes soft with that pity I hated. “Thank Toto. That dog was raising hell with his barking—saved your ass.

“Lucky the ambulance hauled ass to get here. You kids gotta stop running yourselves into the ground.”

Toto’s my Lab, my stray-turned-soulmate.

A year back, barely a month into this sham of a marriage, Jude had the balls to bring some chick into our bed.

I walked in, and they didn’t even pause—just kept at it, loud as fuck, like they were daring me to make a scene.

When it was over, he smirked and hit me with, “Karma’s a bitch, huh? I begged you to stay, and you didn’t give a shit. This is what you get.”

We tore into each other, screaming until I couldn’t breathe. I bolted, heart in pieces, wandering nowhere—until Toto found me.

He was dumped at a vet clinic, shaking, half-gone from distemper. The vet was bitching as he lugged him inside, but Toto’s eyes met mine, and fuck, it was like a knife to the chest.

We were the same—broken, barely hanging on, too damn stubborn to quit but too tired to dream.