The Billionaire's Regretful Goodbye

The suite was a battlefield of passion and aftermath.

Linsy's eyes fluttered open to a world veiled in aching soreness. Her limbs felt leaden, her joints stiff, like a marionette whose strings had been stretched too far. A dull throb pulsed behind her temples, and as she lifted her hand to rub her brow, she became acutely aware of the heaviness clinging to her bones, a total physical exhaustion, she was a pure emotional residue.

She shifted slightly and froze. what the ...?? she couldn't believe her eyes.

A tall figure lay beside her, his broad chest rising and falling rhythmically under the tousled sheet. The man’s profile was like a sculpture chiseled from cold marble, sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and thick brows that curved with intensity even in sleep. He looked almost ethereal, his dark hair messy from their midnight chaos, lashes resting on his cheeks like shadows from forgotten dreams.

Michael Helwart.

Her breath caught. She stopped breathing for a minute. Her throat tightened with a bitter mixture of regret and resignation. This man, her husband of three secretive, uncelebrated years, was never meant to know her this way. At least, not like that.

She sat up slowly. The duvet slipped down her shoulders, revealing flushed skin imprinted with crescent-shaped marks, echoes of passion that felt more like wounds. Her gaze drifted down to the sheets. Blood. A stark bloom against the pristine white, jarring and cruel.

Her heart gave a weak lurch.

Last night was unheard of. She shut her eyes, willing the memories away but they surged, vivid and unrelenting. His hands. His whispers. The name he moaned into her ear. My Sweetheart!.

She wasn’t ‘my sweetheart' . She never had been. But for one night, she had been his escape. His substitute. A means to an end,an available option.

Biting her lip, she rose. The floor was littered with remnants of their entanglement, her bra tangled around the bedpost, his cufflinks glinting on the carpet, stockings torn beyond repair. She gathered the crumpled pieces of her professional attire, slipped into them silently. Her blazer was wrinkled, the skirt off-center. The laddered stockings she balled into her palm and tossed into the waste bin with the finality of someone discarding a dream.

By the time a knock sounded at the door, Linsy was the picture of composure again, shoulders squared, hair neatly pinned, lips stained a neutral rose. Her mask, so well-practiced over the years, was back in place.

She opened the door. The girl standing there was young, soft-featured, with wide eyes and the innocence of a lamb. The kind of girl Michael Helwart liked, fresh, pure, untouched by the world.

Linsy gave her a glance, then stepped aside.

“Just lie on the bed and wait for Mr. Helwart to wake up,” she said flatly. “You don’t need to say anything else.”

Her gaze slid back to the man still sleeping, still tangled in sheets that reeked of betrayal. Her chest tightened. That sour ache returned, curling behind her ribs. She turned and left.

In the hallway, Linsy stood by a large window as pale morning light filtered through. She stared at the city below, where cars bled through intersections like rivers of steel, indifferent to her turmoil. Her thoughts returned to the previous night. His desperation, his drunken slurs, the tears that burned against her skin as he wept into her arms.

The name. That one name.

" My Sweetheart"

His first love. His once-in-a-lifetime girl.

And she is Linsy , the ever-loyal secretary and hidden wife, who had simply been a vessel for his grief. Her body had been a mourning ground.

She pulled out her phone, hoping for distraction. But the headline on the screen stopped her cold: Rising Star Violet Bento Returns to Austrus with a Fiancé!

There it was. A real dagger plunged straight into her chest.

So that’s why he had drunk himself into oblivion last night. That’s why he had sought solace in her arms, whispered apologies between kisses he didn’t mean. The woman he couldn’t forget was back. And engaged.

Linsy clenched the phone so tightly her knuckles paled. Her eyes burned. She blinked, but a single tear slipped free.

It’s over, she thought. This sham of a marriage it’s time to let it die.

The cold wind from the corridor's window grazed her face like an indifferent slap. She reached into her bag and pulled out a box of slim cigarettes. Lighting one, she inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around her face like a veil. It softened the pain but didn’t erase it.

Just then, Simon came jogging up the hall, cheeks flushed and breathing short. “Ooh Linsy, glad you are here, Mr. Helwart's suit arrived. I’ll take it in—”

“Wait.” Linsy's voice was quiet but firm.

Simon froze, not sure what he had done wrong.

“He doesn’t like blue,” Linsy said calmly. “Change it to black. Use a checkered tie, not striped. Make sure it’s ironed again, ensure no wrinkles. And don’t use a plastic garment bag. Hang it up. He hates the sound of plastic.”

Simon’s eyes widened. Linsy's knowledge of Michael Helwart preferences was encyclopedic. Every habit, every dislike. She had never made a mistake in all these years.

“Thank you, Linsy! ” Simon said, humbled, before rushing off.

Suddenly, a low growl echoed from the suite, followed by a woman’s terrified scream.

Linsy stiffened.

Moments later, the door swung open and the frightened girl scampered out, red-faced and half-dressed. " Now he didn't like the girl,she chose him, he must be very mad!" Linsy thought, raising her brows.

“Linsy … Mr. Helwart wants to see you,” Freddie said, eyes red and voice small.

Linsy's heels clicked against the marble floor as she walked to the door. She paused, inhaled the last drag of her cigarette, crushed it into the ashtray, and pushed the door open.

The room was chaotic.

The broken lamp lay like a casualty of war. A cracked phone screen buzzed with calls, and a chair had been overturned in what must have been a furious rage.

Michael Helwart sat on the edge of the bed, chest bare, expression stormy. His body was a sculpture of rage and power, sharp collarbones, taut muscles, a faint mermaid line peeking from beneath the sheet. But it wasn’t his physique that stunned. It was the darkness coiling in his gaze, a tempest brewing in the hollows of his eyes.

Linsy moved silently, switching on the light, pouring a glass of water, and placing it beside him. She was calm, routine, familiar, his ghost of stability.

“There’s a meeting at 9:30, Sir ,” she said softly. “You should get up.”

He ignored the water. His eyes were fixated on the now-empty space where the girl had stood, disbelief and anger tightening his features.

Linsy noticed. “You can get dressed now,” she added, placing the shirt on the bed.

But he didn’t move.

He turned those storm-cloud eyes onto her.

“Where did you go last night?”

His voice was a quiet demand, low and rumbling like distant thunder.

Linsy’s breath caught. Her throat tightened. Was he… blaming her? Did he think she had let this happen?

“I was in the office,” she replied steadily. “The project’s been exhausting. I must’ve fallen asleep.”

Silence.

Then a cold snort. He stood, wrapping a towel around his waist, and stalked off to the bathroom.

Linsy's heart constricted. He couldn’t even let her see him now, as if she were unworthy of witnessing his vulnerability.

She turned away. Her lips trembled.

When he returned, she moved forward to button his shirt, her hands as precise as ever. Despite her 1.68-meter height, she still had to stretch to tie his tie.

She rose on tiptoe, fingers threading the fabric, concentrating on the knot. The tension between them hummed like a live wire.

Then she felt it, his breath, warm and ticklish against her ear.

“Linsy” he whispered, voice gravelly.

She paused. “That woman last night…” He leaned closer. “Was it you?”

Her fingers froze. The tie slipped through her fingers.

The silence between them was louder than any scream.