After His Mistress Called Me a Gold Digger, I Took Revenge

The 1946 vintage Macallan had possessed a satisfying, heavy density. When I purchased the two bottles earlier that afternoon from a private vault in Manhattan, I had traced the wax seals with my thumb, imagining the warmth it would bring to my first meeting with Lincoln’s parents. At eight thousand dollars a bottle, it was a quiet gesture of immense respect, wrapped discreetly in unmarked velvet bags. I had handed them to Lincoln in the foyer of my modest rented apartment. "Keep these safe," I had told him, suppressing the polished cadence of my upbringing to sound like the ordinary girl he thought I was.

Now, standing in the suffocatingly warm dining room of the Bryants’ faux-Tudor home in Westchester, the air felt entirely wrong.

My fingers drifted to my collarbone, a nervous habit I usually kept buried. Across the table, Reagan Miller swirled a glass of cheap Pinot Grigio. She wasn't supposed to be here. This was a private family dinner, a milestone for a newly engaged couple. Yet here sat Lincoln’s “best friend,” her lips painted a severe crimson, looking entirely too comfortable in the seat that should have been mine.

The entire evening had been a masterclass in marginalization.

"Adelina, be a dear and fetch the extra napkins from the kitchen," Mrs. Bryant had instructed before I’d even taken off my coat. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, had swept over my unbranded, bespoke cashmere dress and dismissed it as department-store clearance. For the past hour, I had been relegated to the role of the hired help, clearing appetizer plates while the Bryants fawned over Reagan.

"Reagan, darling, that necklace is simply divine," Mrs. Bryant cooed now, leaning across the table. "Is it Cartier?"

Reagan offered a practiced, sugary smile. "You have such a wonderful eye, Mrs. B. Lincoln actually helped me pick it out last month."

I kept my face perfectly still, my gaze shifting to my fiancé. Lincoln sat between them, his posture slouched. His hand darted up to adjust his tie—a shiny, synthetic maroon piece he insisted looked like real silk. It was his tell. He only touched his collar when he was lying or cornered.

"Well, Lincoln always did have impeccable taste," Mr. Bryant boomed, cutting his steak. He didn't look at me. "It’s a shame he doesn't apply it to all areas of his life."

The insult hung in the air, heavy and deliberate. Lincoln chuckled nervously, his eyes fixed on his plate. The heat in my chest condensed into a tight, hard knot. I had spent the last year hiding my family’s Wall Street empire, hiding my father’s name, all to find a man who would defend me when I had nothing.

"Speaking of taste," I said, my voice dropping into a measured, unnatural calm that commanded the room. The clinking of silverware stopped. "Lincoln, the gifts."

Lincoln flinched. His hand flew back to his cheap tie. "Right. The gifts. Addie, maybe we should wait until—"

"Nonsense," Mrs. Bryant interrupted, her eyes gleaming with predatory anticipation. "Let’s see what Lincoln’s little fiancée brought us. I do hope it’s not another homemade craft."

Lincoln reluctantly reached beneath his chair and produced the two velvet bags. As he set them on the table, my stomach dropped. The silhouette was wrong. The bags sagged. The heavy, authoritative weight of the crystal decanters was gone.

Mrs. Bryant snatched the closest bag. With a theatrical flourish, she yanked the strings and pulled out the bottle.

Green glass. A bright, garish paper label. A foil-wrapped top.

Martinelli’s sparkling cider. Supermarket brand. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents.

The air in my lungs turned to glass. I stared at the juvenile bottle, my mind racing through the impossible calculus of how the rare Macallan had transformed into cheap, sugary juice.

Then, Reagan laughed. It was a high, smug sound. "Oh, Lincoln! You actually used my suggestion! I told him your gift was a bit too... pretentious, Addie. Sparkling cider is just so much more fitting for your budget."

He had swapped them. Lincoln had taken my gift—a gift worth more than his car—and replaced it with Reagan’s cheap cider, just to validate her opinion. To make me look small.

"Sparkling cider?" Mrs. Bryant’s voice dripped with venomous delight. She held the bottle by its neck like a dead rat. "Oh, Lincoln. You didn't mention your little girlfriend was quite this... struggling. An embarrassing lack of class, really."

"It’s the thought that counts, Mrs. B," Reagan purred, her eyes locking onto mine with triumphant malice. "Not everyone has our palate."

I didn't look at Reagan. I didn't look at the sneering parents. I looked only at Lincoln.

*Defend me,* I thought. *Tell them the truth. Tell them what you did.*

Lincoln adjusted his tie again, his knuckles white. He looked at Reagan, soaking in her approving smile, and then looked at his father. Slowly, cowardly, a chuckle escaped his lips.

"Yeah, well," Lincoln muttered, shrugging his shoulders as he joined in their mockery. "She tries."

The last tether of my affection for Lincoln Bryant snapped, severing cleanly in the suffocating heat of the dining room. I lowered my hand from my collarbone. The ordinary, struggling girl they were laughing at was dead. And the billionaire heiress they had just humiliated was going to tear their pretentious little world apart.