The Husband Who Regrets Too Late (Their Second-Chance Wives #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ivy

When the oven gave a crisp ding, the vintage clock in the room had just struck five in the morning.

I slipped on my oven mitts and carefully lifted the baking tray out of the oven.

Three chiffon cake layers in different sizes rested on the tray, each with a perfectly golden caramel-colored surface.

The air was filled with the rich aroma of vanilla and cocoa beans.

I took a small breath, and a happy smile spread across my face.

Perfect. Damian would love it.

Today was Damian's thirty-fifth birthday.

I'd barely slept for three days preparing this surprise party.

Sure, I could've handed everything off to the butler, but I wanted to do something myself.

Something that showed I cared. Like baking his birthday cake from scratch. He used to say he loved my cooking.

At least, he used to.

The thought stung. My smile faded.

The last three months had been strange. Damian was busier than ever, and even our occasional dinners together felt distant.

That look in his eyes—I couldn't read it anymore.

It made me feel unsafe. Before we married, I'd worried about what would happen when the honeymoon phase ended.

The gap between us was absurd. He was mature, gorgeous, rich enough to buy city blocks. And me? Just an ordinary girl.

But he must love me. Why else would he have married me? Right?

He was just exhausted. A well-planned birthday party might be exactly what we needed to get things back on track.

I shook off the spiraling thoughts and focused on the work.

"Ma'am, I brought the cards. Are these the right ones?" Mrs. Mackenzie walked in carrying a stack of greeting cards.

"Thanks." I set down my piping bag, wiped my hands on my apron, and took them from her.

There were lots of designs. As I flipped through, one slipped out. Before I could bend down, Mrs. Mackenzie snatched it up and stuffed it in her pocket. I'd only glimpsed what looked like a woman's long hair on the back.

"What was that? A photo? Didn't look like a card." Her odd behavior confused me. Mrs. Mackenzie was the most composed person on the estate. Always proper, always polite. That fumbling move was completely unlike her.

"Apologies, ma'am." Her voice was quieter than usual. She touched her nose, eyes on the floor. "Must've been leftover from when I decorated. Forgot to clear it out."

"The person on it—"

"Just some singer," she cut me off quickly. "You know how the sir is about clutter. Everything unused gets tossed. My mistake."

I accepted the explanation reluctantly. Damian was particular about that stuff, so no wonder she seemed nervous. Though I didn't know he had a favorite singer.

"No problem. Just throw it away."

Mrs. Mackenzie looked relieved. She changed the subject smoothly. "Ma'am, the white roses are ready. Should I trim the stems?"

I shook my head. "Today's special. I want to arrange everything myself." I gave her a genuine smile. "Just polish the silverware on the long table one more time with the cloth. Damian likes it bright."

"Yes, ma'am." She winked at me. "Sir's lucky to have you."

I didn't respond. Just smiled. But deep down, a secret hope stirred—would Damian be proud of me?

Once everything was ready, I stood before the full-length mirror in the master bedroom, checking my gown for any flaws.

I'd invited everyone we knew in New York—or more accurately, everyone Damian knew from his college years and Wall Street circles. I had to look flawless for them.

I still remembered the first time Damian took me to dinner with his friends. It was casual, so I wore jeans. I swear, if I'd known everyone else would be dressed to the nines, I would've ditched that comfortable but stupid outfit.

I stuck out like a sore thumb. Everyone's eyes swept over me. Damian didn't say anything at the time, but after we left, he frowned and told me I needed to be more refined around his friends.

He ignored me for two days after that. I didn't know how to make it right, so I just kept baking the little cakes he'd once praised. By the third one, he finally picked up a fork and took a bite.

After that, I buried all my bright, colorful clothes in the back of the closet.

Be elegant. Be refined. Be Mrs. Wentworth.

I reminded myself constantly, even though I hated the constraints.

But for Damian, I had to adapt. Today, to fit the occasion, I chose a champagne-colored silk gown—Damian had once said I looked good in that color after a gala.

The neckline and back had small cutouts that showed my collarbone.

I pinned my hair into a loose, elegant low bun and kept jewelry minimal—just pearl earrings. Just right.

I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. Only when I was sure the woman reflected back was elegant enough, proper enough, beyond criticism, did I finally relax.

My phone vibrated on the vanity.

My heart skipped. Had Damian texted back? But the screen lit up with discount notifications from luxury brands.

Disappointed, I sat on the edge of the bed and opened our chat. The last message was still mine from seven-thirty this morning. "Honey, what time will you be home? Should I pick you up?"

No reply. Not one.

My finger hovered over the screen for a long time. I didn't send another message. Damian hated being bothered with trivial things during work.

I took a deep breath, pushed down the bitter feeling, and set the phone aside. This was normal. Damian had been up late in meetings. Maybe he hadn't seen it yet.

But by the time guests started arriving, my phone still hadn't buzzed.

The estate's grand fountain plaza filled with luxury cars. Men and women in haute couture strolled arm-in-arm into the hall. The quiet estate suddenly burst with life.

I had to set aside my worry, put on my perfect smile, and greet his friends.

"Oh, Ivy! This is gorgeous!" Mark, one of Damian's college buddies, threw his arms open for a double kiss. "These white roses—so classy! Totally Damian's style. Oh my God, you even remembered I only drink club soda? You're an angel!"

"Of course. Everyone should enjoy the birthday party.

" I held my champagne flute, smiled graciously, and gestured for a server to bring his special drink.

Mark was one of the few in Damian's circle who actually treated me kindly.

I liked him. As for Damian's other friends...

we were fine on the surface, but I always felt their eyes held something—pity, scrutiny.

like Damian marrying me was some kind of tragedy.

"Damian's the luckiest guy alive to have married you," another familiar wife chimed in, looking at me enviously. "Look at this table setting, the temperature of the champagne—Ivy, you take such good care of this home."

Everyone murmured agreement.

They were all happy. They all praised me.

I stood at the center, smiling, accepting compliments, occasionally raising my glass. I looked like any happy, respectable wife. But only I knew that beneath all the praise, my palms were sweating.

Why hadn't Damian replied? Had something happened?

I forced the smile to stay in place, but my eyes kept drifting toward the entrance. Time crawled. The sunset bathed the estate lawn in gold and red.

The crowd's chatter faded, but Damian still hadn't appeared. No message. My smile grew stiff.

I rubbed the cold edge of my phone, finally about to call him when—

The estate gate rumbled with an engine.

"He's here!" someone shouted.

Everyone rushed to the entrance. I stayed at the back, holding the cake, palms drenched in sweat. A servant opened the door. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and adjusted my smile to perfection.

My heart hammered. All the anxiety from waiting melted away. All I could think about was the surprise on Damian's face. He rarely smiled, but when he did, it was breathtaking. In two years of marriage, I'd never stopped craving that smile.

Click. The heavy brass handle turned from the outside.

The crowd fell silent. Everyone held their breath. Then the door swung open, cold air rushed in, and the candles on the cake flickered wildly.

Damian walked in wearing a charcoal gray bespoke suit.

"Surprise! Happy birthday, Damian!"

Cheers erupted. Streamers and confetti filled the air.

But it lasted only seconds before dying out completely.

I stood at the back, sensing something wrong. But the feeling vanished, drowned by my joy at seeing Damian. I hugged the cake, moved through the parting crowd, my smile spreading uncontrollably. "Damian, happy birth—"

My voice died in my throat.

The rest caught there, sharp and painful.

Damian was still devastatingly handsome—high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, radiating that cold, commanding presence. But when he saw all this, there was no surprise. Worse. His eyes held only irritation and indifference.

But what froze my blood wasn't his expression.

It was the woman beside him. Half-draped against him.

He'd brought a woman home on his birthday? The absurdity hit me like a truck. Confused, I looked up at her instinctively.

She was dazzling. Wine-red vintage gown, long curls cascading over her shoulders, skin so pale it seemed to glow.

"Jesus," Mark muttered beside me.

The air solidified. I felt every eye turn to me. They were all looking at me with pity.

"Ivy? You threw this party?" Damian broke the silence.

I stood there stiffly, clutching the cake, stammering. "Yes. And this is..."

"Oh, everyone's here! How fun." The woman interrupted me without hesitation. She tilted her head—practically leaning on Damian's shoulder—and waved casually. "Hi, Mark. Long time no see. Sorry, did I crash your party?"

No one answered. Everyone shot furtive glances at me. The unease grew heavier. Something was wrong. Something I didn't know.