CEO's Regret After I Divorced Chapter 42 You’re actually mental

Ryan’s POV

I stood there watching Serena drive away with Julian, the roses hanging limp in my hand like my crushed hopes.

The car’s taillights disappeared around the corner, taking with them any chance I had of talking to her tonight.

Damn it.

I loosened my tie, feeling like I couldn’t breathe properly. The realization hit like a physical blow—Serena was truly moving on.

That designer with his smug smile and casual familiarity was stepping into the space I’d left vacant.

I tossed the roses into a nearby trash can with more force than necessary. How had I forgotten that? Sophie had loved roses.

"Mr. Blackwood?" Simon’s voice ca from behind . My assistant had been waiting discreetly in the car. "Should we head back to the office?"

"No," I said firmly. "We’re not giving up."

"What’s the plan for tomorrow then, sir?"

I stared at the now-empty street where Serena had just been. "Lilies," I said decisively. "She never liked roses. Serena preferred lilies."

Simon cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Actually, sir, Mrs. Blackwood—I an, Ms. Quinn—is allergic to lilies,as I recall."

I turned to stare at him, feeling like I’d been slapped. "She’s allergic? How do you know that?"

"She had a reaction at the company Christmas party three years ago when you brought in floral arrangents. The dical team had to be called."

I had no mory of this. None whatsoever. Where had I been during this incident? Probably working in my office, oblivious to my own wife’s dical ergency.

"What does she like then?" I asked, hating how desperate I sounded.

Simon hesitated. "I believe she’s partial to Violets, sir. Nothing too formal or arranged."

Anger coursed through , but it wasn’t directed at Serena—it was all for myself. I didn’t even know what flowers my own wife preferred. Three years of marriage, and I knew nothing about her likes, her allergies, her preferences.

Three wasted years treating her like she was invisible when she was right there in front of .

I really am the worst husband in the world.

***

The next day, Julian was out of town on business—a piece of information Simon had acquired through his network. It was the perfect opportunity to try again without interference.

I waited outside Dreamland Studio, a bouquet of Violets in hand. My heart actually raced when I saw her pushing through the glass doors, looking breathtaking in a fitted navy dress that highlighted every curve. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, exposing the elegant line of her neck.

The mont she spotted , her steps faltered slightly before she regained her composure. I moved quickly to intercept her path.

"Serena," I said, my voice coming out lower than intended. I extended the flowers toward her. "I thought you might prefer these."

She glanced at the flowers but made no move to take them. "What do you want, Ryan?"

"To talk," I said simply. "I’ve made reservations at Chen’s." I watched her eyes widen slightly—she loved that restaurant’s authentic local cuisine. "Rember how you always said their dumplings were the best in the city?"

"You never wanted to go there," she said, suspicion clear in her voice. "You always preferred French or Italian."

I nodded, accepting the criticism. "I made a lot of mistakes. Not appreciating your preferences was one of many."

She shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of our conversation. "I’m not interested in dinner, Ryan."

"Then let drive you ho," I persisted, falling into step beside her as she tried to walk away. "I ca specifically to see you."

"You’re wasting your ti," she snapped, stopping suddenly to face . Her eyes flashed with irritation. "There’s nothing between us anymore. Nothing. Even if you’re suddenly deciding to be nice to now, it’s too late."

God, she was magnificent when angry. The sharp angle of her cheekbones, the fierce light in her eyes, the slight flush across her skin—I’d never truly appreciated this side of her during our marriage.

"I know I hurt you," I admitted. "I know I wasn’t the husband you deserved."

"That’s putting it mildly," she scoffed.

"But I’m asking for a chance, Serena. Just one dinner."

"No."

"Then yell at so more," I suggested, surprising myself with a smile. "Get it all out. Tell exactly what a terrible husband I was. And then we can go eat."

She stared at like I’d grown a second head. "You’re insane," she finally muttered, shaking her head. "You’re actually ntal."

With that parting shot, she turned and walked away, her ponytail swinging with each determined step.

I watched her go, still clutching the Violets, feeling strangely encouraged despite the rejection. She’d engaged with . She’d shown emotion. Anger was better than indifference—it ant she still felt sothing.

And that was enough to keep going.

Several days passed before I saw her again, this ti at the Westfield Gala—an event I’d specifically arranged to attend after learning Dreamland Studio had been invited. I arrived fashionably late, scanning the crowded ballroom until I spotted her standing with Maya near the champagne fountain.

She looked stunning in a floor-length erald gown that caught the light whenever she moved. I straightened my tie and made my way toward her, ignoring the curious glances from other attendees who were no doubt wondering about the status of our relationship.

"What a pleasant surprise," I said smoothly as I approached.

Serena gave a cool look. "It’s just a gala, Ryan. Nothing surprising about it."

Maya, never one to miss an opportunity to twist the knife, jumped in with false brightness. "Well, well. Look who’s suddenly beco so attentive! I don’t recall seeing this level of devotion when you two were actually married."

I’d expected Maya’s barbs. She’d never approved of , and with good reason—I hadn’t treated her friend well. Instead of bristling as I might have in the past, I nodded in agreent.

"You’re absolutely right," I admitted, eting Maya’s startled gaze directly. "I made terrible mistakes. I took Serena for granted."

Maya’s eyebrows shot up, clearly not expecting this response. She turned to Serena with a questioning look. "Is this for real? The great Ryan Blackwood admitting he was wrong?"

When Serena didn’t answer, just stared fixedly across the room, Maya leaned closer to her. "Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?" she whispered, though not quietly enough that I couldn’t hear. "The man seems genuinely sorry."

"I think I see Mr. Quinn arriving," Serena said suddenly, pointedly changing the subject. "We should go say hello."

Before I could say anything else, the two of them walked away, leaving standing alone with my half-empty champagne flute.

I watched her retreating figure, a hollow feeling spreading in my chest. Had I truly lost her for good? The thought was unbearable. I downed the rest of my champagne in one gulp, the bubbles burning my throat.