My CEO Ex-Husband's Regret

The late autumn wind cut through Stella Carter like shards of ice.

She stood outside the Hudson villa, wrapped in the shabby coat they’d given her upon discharge from the mental hospital—faded, threadbare, and useless against the cold creeping into her bones.

Three years. Three years locked away in a living nightmare while the world moved on without her.

She didn't feel the chill anymore. Only a deep, hollow numbness.

Once, she had been Stella Carter—Miles Hudson’s fiancée, a rising star in the business world. Then Ella Thomas arrived, all innocent tears, and everything collapsed.

Fraud. Leaking confidential information. One accusation after another. The final, fatal blow was a forged diagnosis of mental illness.

Miles, the man who had promised to love her forever, stood by Ella’s side. He never listened. He personally sent Stella to that hell.

The last thing she heard before they took her away was the heartbroken cry of her newborn son.

That single sound kept her alive through more than a thousand nights.

Now she was out.

She pressed the doorbell.

“Who are you looking for?” A hesitant male voice crackled through the intercom.

“Stella.” Her own name felt foreign on her tongue.

A long silence. Then the heavy iron gate groaned open.

Inside, music and laughter spilled from the villa. Ella’s birthday party.

Stella’s nails bit into her palms. The pain kept her upright.

She walked toward the cage that had once promised her a home.

The moment she pushed open the oak door, the noise died.

Under the crystal chandelier, elegant guests turned to stare. Glasses stopped mid‑raise. Forks paused over plates.

Surprise. Contempt. Pity.

And beneath it all, the hungry gleam of spectators watching a trainwreck.

In the center of it all, Miles Hudson knelt on one knee, adjusting Ella’s gown with tender care.

That image stabbed Stella straight in the heart.

“Stella?” Ella was the first to speak. She flinched like a frightened deer, hiding behind Miles, one hand clutching his arm, the other subtly drifting to her flat belly.

The gesture was not lost on Stella.

Miles rose to his feet. His handsome face showed no joy—only irritation at being interrupted. “Stella. What are you doing here? Who let you in?”

His voice echoed through the silent ballroom.

Suppressed laughter rippled through the guests.

“Didn’t she go crazy three years ago?”

“Look at that coat. Did she dig it out of a dumpster?”

“Poor Mr. Hudson. Still being haunted by that woman.”

Each word was a tiny needle, piercing her skin.

Stella trembled—but only slightly. She hadn’t come here to beg or to argue. She had come for one thing, the only thought that had dragged her back from hell.

“Where is my son?”

Her voice was quiet, but it cut through every whisper.

“I want to see my son.”

Miles frowned, looking at her as if she were an unreasonable madwoman. “You still remember you have a son? Hand him to you, so you can drive him crazy too?”

Ella tugged his sleeve, her voice soft and soothing. “Miles, don’t be harsh… Stella just got out. Her emotions might still be unstable. And the child—he is hers, after all.”

Her words pretended to mediate, but they only poured fuel on the fire.

A jeweled socialite chimed in, “Ella is far too kind. How can you trust that woman? What if she hurts the child?”

“Exactly. For the child’s safety, keep her away.”

Stella ignored them all. She didn’t argue. She didn’t scream. She just stood there, looking at Miles with those empty, unyielding eyes.

“I want to see him.”

Her calm was more powerful than any tantrum.

Miles felt a flicker of irritation under her gaze. He didn’t want Stella to ruin Ella’s perfect birthday party. He waved impatiently at a nearby servant.

“Dorinda. Take her to the attic.”

The attic?

Stella’s heart plunged.

She had imagined her son’s room a thousand times—soft carpets, warm light, shelves full of toys. She had imagined every possibility except the attic.

At Hudson Villa, the attic was where junk went. Dark. Damp. No daylight.

Miles had put their son, their only son, in the attic?

The guests exchanged knowing glances. So that child meant that little to him. Raised like a servant, hidden away.

Dorinda approached Stella, her face carrying a flicker of reluctant sympathy. “Mrs. Hudson, please follow me.”

Stella turned numbly and walked.

Past the magnificent ballroom. Down the long corridor. Past lavishly decorated guest rooms. Until they reached a forgotten corner at the far north end of the villa.

Dorinda pulled out a ring of keys, fumbled for a rusted one, and turned the lock.

Click.

A stale smell of dust and neglect rushed out.

Behind the door was a steep wooden staircase, narrow and swallowed by darkness.

Dorinda stopped at the bottom. She would not go up.

“Jared is up there.”

What would Stella find in that dark attic? And what kind of boy has her son become after three years of abandonment?