Goodbye, Mr. Regret

Timothy didn't move a muscle. He wasn't worried at all.

He knew Jessica too well-she could never go through with it. She was just too kind.

"One week," he said softly. "In a week, I'll take you home. After all these years of marriage, we've never taken a trip together."

The next second, Jessica pulled the knife away from his neck.

He thought she was backing down.

But then, without warning, Jessica drove the blade straight into his abdomen.

Blood gushed out, soaking Timothy's shirt in seconds.

He stared at her, shocked and speechless.

Jessica hadn't cut his throat-she was afraid she might hit an artery by mistake.

On this island, their house was the only one for miles. If Timothy got hurt, he'd have no choice but to leave the island for treatment.

And that meant she could finally get away.

Her face was set with fierce determination.

He'd pushed her too far. Now, nothing was off the table.

Compared to the pain he'd caused her, this stab was nothing.

Still gripping the paring knife, Jessica's voice was steady and cold. "I'll never hurt myself again. But if, after my cooling-off period, you still lie to me, I won't hesitate to take you down with me. You think you can drug my water? Then I can poison your dinner just as easily."

With that, she yanked the knife free. Blood spurted out, dark and fast.

Timothy just stood there, not even bothering to press a hand to his wound. The fabric around the gash quickly turned crimson.

Jessica dropped the knife to the floor with a sharp clatter.

She turned and walked into the bedroom.

She figured it wouldn't be long before Timothy had someone arrange for him to leave the island and get stitched up.

A housekeeper hurried out and, seeing Timothy's bleeding wound, blurted anxiously, "Sir, do you want us to get you to a doctor?"

"No need. You can go," Timothy replied.

He leaned on his cane and lowered himself onto the couch.

Blood continued to seep from his wound.

But Timothy ignored it.

He kept replaying the look on Jessica's face-utterly blank, devoid of any emotion.

She really didn't care about him anymore.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his photos. There was one Sallie Lawson had sent him—a picture of Jessica's handwriting.

"When I want them, they're precious. When I don't, they're nothing."

He remembered once, years ago, when he'd nicked his finger slicing fruit at home. Jessica had panicked, first popping his finger into her mouth, then frantically disinfecting and bandaging the tiny cut, brow furrowed the whole time.

That same woman had stabbed him today.

She didn't even blink at all this blood.

He really was nothing to her now.

Jessica waited in the bedroom-fifteen minutes, then thirty. Still, no one came.

She finally stepped out.

Timothy was sprawled on the couch, ghostly pale.

She hurried over.

Blood was still trickling from his wound.

Her brow knit with anxiety.

"Somebody!" she called. "Somebody, help!"

Twice she shouted, but no one came.

He'd bleed out at this rate.

She'd only wanted him to summon help so she could leave with him.

But he'd rather bleed than let her go.

"Timothy, Timothy..." She shook him gently.

Timothy's eyes fluttered open to narrow slits. He reached up, his hand trembling as he touched her cheek, a faint smile curving his lips. "Jessy... you still care about me, don't you?"

And then he passed out again.

"Somebody, please!" Jessica shouted, panic rising.

Still, no one.

She'd seen staff around the villa earlier.

Jessica rushed outside, searching everywhere. Behind the villa stood a row of two-story cottages.

"Is anyone there?" she called.

At last, a few staff emerged.

The head housekeeper hurried over. "Ma'am, what do you need?"

"You didn't know Timothy was hurt?" Jessica snapped.

He lowered his eyes. "We know. He told us to stay out of it."noveldrama

"He's unconscious. Get him to a hospital, now!"

The housekeeper hesitated.

Jessica's tone hardened. "What are you waiting for? Do you want him to die?"

That shook him into action. He pulled out his phone and arranged for a boat.

A few staff carefully carried Timothy onto the yacht.

Jessica turned to the housekeeper. "How long to the mainland?"

"Half an hour."

"First aid kit?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Bring it."

Jessica and the housekeeper boarded with Timothy.

He was laid on a bed in one of the yacht's cabins. Jessica sat by his side, using scissors to cut his shirt away from the wound.

Dark, dried blood had caked around the injury, and the gash itself was deep, the flesh red and exposed.

Jessica's pupils shrank; she pressed her lips together, jaw tight.

With tweezers, she picked up a cotton ball, dipped it in disinfectant, and gently cleaned the skin around the wound.

Once the blood was wiped away, the gash looked even worse, the edges ragged,

a slow ooze of fresh blood still seeping out.

Her muscles were wound tight, aching and swollen; her stomach churned with nausea.

She rushed to the bathroom and vomited, head spinning.

She still couldn't handle the sight of blood.

She remembered when Henry, at age three, had tripped and skinned his knee badly. At the hospital, the doctor asked her to hold his leg still for the anesthetic and stitches He screamed in pain, and as they worked, Jessica had started gagging, nearly passing out herself. The nurses had to carry her out, telling her she just had a weak stomach for blood.

She was usually fine, the doctor had explained some people only react this way when it's their loved ones who are hurt. Seeing strangers bleed didn't faze them, but when it's family, the body just can't take it.