HIS REGRET (Ex-Husband wants Me Back) novel Chapter 107

**Shadows of the Past – By Emma Clarke**
**Chapter 107**

Hours before Daven made his unexpected appearance at Josh’s preschool, an unsettling stillness enveloped the apartment.

“Mr. Daven?”

The air was thick with silence, punctuated only by the soft, monotonous hum of the air conditioner. No music wafted through the air, no television flickered in the background—nothing. Arsen felt a creeping unease settle in the pit of his stomach. There was something profoundly wrong about this quietness, especially considering the weight of what Daven had just uncovered.

Could it be…?

“No,” Arsen whispered to himself, shaking his head in an attempt to dispel the troubling thought. He placed the familiar morning espresso on the table, prepared just the way Daven liked it. But as he surveyed the room, his gaze fell upon several disarrayed items that hinted at a chaotic night.

The whiskey bottle on the mini bar was almost drained, a stark contrast to its usual state. The glass ashtray overflowed with the remnants of cigar butts, the lingering aroma of tobacco and clove mingling uneasily with the artificial scent of the room freshener. This was all Arsen needed to know—Daven had spent the night in a manner that was far from typical for him.

Arsen’s eyes darted around the living room, desperately trying to piece together the remnants of the previous night’s events. Was Daven still asleep? Still incapacitated by the effects of alcohol? That would be highly unusual… but not entirely out of the realm of possibility.

Should he check on him?

In all the years Arsen had worked under Daven, he could count on one hand the instances he had witnessed the man lose control, let alone succumb to intoxication. Daven was a man who buried himself under mountains of paperwork, losing himself in the silence of his office, using work as a shield against whatever tempest raged within him. He kept busy, at least until he could reclaim some semblance of equilibrium.

But perhaps this time… it had simply been too much.

Arsen could empathize. Everyone would be shaken by the revelations that had come to light.

If he were in Daven’s shoes, Arsen would have canceled every engagement on his calendar, flown straight back to Mighatan, and confronted his wife, Vanessa, face-to-face. How could she treat Daven in such a manner? After all the trust he had extended to her… even if, perhaps, this wasn’t entirely her fault.

Yet, infidelity? That was never a solution. Not for anyone.

And now, a marriage that seemed so flawless from the outside—admired and envied by many—was beginning to unravel at the seams.

“This isn’t my affair,” Arsen exhaled sharply, trying to release the burden that pressed down on him. “Mr. Daven?” he called out again, his voice resonating louder this time. “Maybe I should check his room.”

With a hesitant breath, he made his way toward the master bedroom.

Just as he reached the door, it swung open.

Daven emerged, already dressed in a charcoal shirt and dark slacks that fit him perfectly. His hair was impeccably styled, and his posture exuded a sense of control that seemed at odds with the turmoil that had unfolded. He looked nothing like a man who had spent the night drowning in sorrow.

Maybe it was all a figment of Arsen’s imagination.

But something had undeniably changed. This version of Daven—standing before him now—felt colder, sharper, and unmistakably distant.

“What’s causing all this commotion this morning?” Daven asked, his voice laced with a frosty edge as he shot Arsen a piercing glance. He strode into the room with his usual air of confidence, heading straight for the minibar and perching himself on a barstool without a backward glance. He casually pushed aside the half-empty whiskey bottle from the previous night, as if it were nothing more than a trivial detail.

“I had someone come in and tidy up, Mr. Daven. Right after we head to the meeting you scheduled,” Arsen replied, fully cognizant of Daven’s aversion to disorder.

Daven remained silent, instead reaching for the coffee cup Arsen had prepared for him.

“What brings you here so early?”

Arsen let out a nervous chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s… not exactly early anymore, sir.”

But he halted abruptly, catching the sharpness in Daven’s gaze, which clearly indicated that he was not in the mood for banter. In an effort to ease the tension, Arsen quickly poured another cup of coffee, hoping it would help smooth things over. “Apologies, sir. I just wanted to ensure you were alright.”

Daven took a deliberate sip, his expression calm yet inscrutable. “Well, I am fine, if that’s what you’re trying to ascertain. Why would you think otherwise?”

Arsen swallowed hard, grappling with how to respond.

“Read me today’s schedule,” Daven commanded flatly, his eyes fixed on the coffee cup in his hand as if it held all the answers.

This was a situation far more intricate than any business negotiation, high-stakes bid, or volatile stock chart. This pierced deeper—something that breached the strongest defenses of Daven Callister’s heart.

Betrayal.

From his wife.

The woman whose public image he had meticulously safeguarded. The one to whom he had given everything: status, luxury, freedom. He had always thought she was simply too engrossed in her own pursuit of happiness, the kind that sparkled like the life of a socialite. But behind the facade, she had been playing with fire.

With someone who didn’t even merit a name.

Her own personal assistant.

What bewildered him wasn’t the betrayal itself—it was the absence of fury. There was no eruption. No urge to scream, to hurl something against the wall, or to curse until his voice cracked.

Shouldn’t he be feeling all that?

And yet… he didn’t. All he felt was an unsettling emptiness. A strange void that defied explanation. His heart wasn’t shattered, but it was far from whole. Still, deep down, he recognized that something had cracked wide open.

Something that once was called a marriage.

A bond he had once believed would endure. Two individuals, together. Happy. Constructing a life hand in hand until death parted them. Was that truly too much to ask? Why did it now feel like a distant dream?

Was this what disappointment felt like?

It must be. And perhaps that was why, last night, he had turned to smoking and drinking—not because he had lost control, but because he understood… there was nowhere to place the suffocating weight within him. Not even within himself.

Did he still love his wife?