After My Fiancé’s Public Betrayal, I Wedded His CEO Rival

I stared at the pregnancy test, my heart hammering against my ribs as I waited for the result to appear. One line. Just one. I exhaled, a mixture of relief and disappointment washing over me. Not pregnant. The bathroom light cast harsh shadows across my face in the mirror. I'd been so sure—the nausea, the fatigue, my period two weeks late. But the single pink line was definitive. "It's for the best," I whispered to my reflection, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Jason and I had talked about children, of course.

Chapters

Chapter 2

Morning light filtered through unfamiliar curtains, rousing me from a dreamless sleep. My head throbbed, punishment for last night's whiskey and poor decisions. Fragments of memory drifted back—the hotel bar, those intense dark eyes, strong hands, and a suite with a view of the Seattle skyline. Finn. That was his name.

I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. What had I done? One minute I was drowning in the humiliation of Jason's betrayal, the next I was falling into bed with a stranger whose last name I couldn't even remember.

My phone buzzed incessantly on the nightstand. I reached for it, squinting at the screen. Twenty-seven notifications? At 7 AM?

The first message was from Quinn: *CALL ME RIGHT NOW. ARE YOU SEEING THIS?*

Attached was a link to a tabloid website. My stomach dropped as I clicked it open.

*BILLIONAIRE BACHELOR FINN SHEPARD'S MYSTERY REDHEAD: WHO IS SHE?*

Beneath the headline was a grainy photo that made my blood run cold. Me, wrapped in nothing but a sheet, curled against Finn's bare chest as he slept. The photo was taken through a window—some paparazzo with a telephoto lens had caught us.

My phone continued buzzing. More messages, more links. The story was everywhere.

*Billionaire CEO Finn Shepard launches #FindHer campaign after one-night stand*

*Shepard Industries stock jumps as CEO's love life goes viral*

*WHO IS SHE? Finn Shepard offers reward for identity of mystery woman*

I scrolled through Twitter in horror. #FindHer was trending nationwide. Finn's PR team had turned our one-night stand into a viral sensation—a modern-day Cinderella story, complete with the prince searching for his mystery woman.

Except I hadn't left a glass slipper. According to one article, I'd left a broken watch, an old friendship bracelet, and $100 cash. I vaguely remembered placing the money on the dresser before slipping out at dawn, thinking it would somehow make me feel less... used. Now it made me look like either a thief or an escort.

My phone rang. Quinn. I couldn't talk now—couldn't form words through the panic closing my throat. I silenced it and stumbled to the shower, as if hot water could wash away this nightmare.

---

The office was buzzing when I arrived. I'd considered calling in sick, but hiding would only make things worse. I needed normalcy, needed to pretend my life wasn't imploding in real-time on social media.

"Did you see that #FindHer thing?" someone whispered as I passed the break room.

"I heard he's offering fifty thousand dollars to anyone who can identify her."

I ducked my head, clutching my coffee like a shield. No one knew it was me in those photos—the images were grainy, my face mostly hidden against Finn's chest. But how long before someone recognized me?

"Look at this!" Melissa from accounting exclaimed, holding up her phone to show a small crowd gathered around her desk. "They're saying she's either a high-end escort or a corporate spy trying to get inside information on Shepard Industries."

I froze behind a nearby cubicle, my heart hammering so loudly I was certain everyone could hear it.

"Personally," Melissa continued, "I think she's just some gold-digger who thought she hit the jackpot. I mean, look at this tabloid cover—'WHO WILL CLAIM THE BILLIONAIRE?'—like he's some prize to be won."

The office swam before my eyes. I was the gold-digger. I was the spy, the escort, the opportunist. Every cruel theory was about me—the woman who'd just had her heart shattered and made one impulsive decision.

I retreated to my desk, hands shaking as I pretended to work. How had this happened? One moment of weakness, and now I was the subject of a nationwide manhunt.

---

"Open up! I've got reinforcements!"

Quinn's voice echoed through my apartment door that evening. When I opened it, she stood there with two bags of takeout, a bottle of prosecco, and fierce determination in her eyes.

"You look like hell," she announced, pushing past me into the kitchen. "But we're going to fix this."

"There's no fixing this," I mumbled, collapsing onto a barstool. "Have you seen what they're saying about me? About the 'mystery woman'?"

Quinn uncorked the prosecco with a decisive pop. "Yes, and it's all garbage. But we need a plan. Your parents called me, by the way. They saw the news and want to know if you've 'heard about that poor girl.'"

Despite everything, I laughed—a strangled, desperate sound. "What did you tell them?"

"That I'm sure she's a perfectly nice woman who deserved privacy." Quinn handed me a glass of bubbling courage. "Now, we need to draft a statement for when they inevitably find out it's their daughter."

"They'll be so disappointed."

"Stop." Quinn gripped my shoulders. "You are not the villain here. Jason cheated on you publicly, humiliated you, and you had one night with an admittedly hot billionaire. You're allowed to be human, Ava."

Tears spilled down my cheeks. "What happens when Finn finds out who I am?"

Quinn's expression softened. "I don't know. But whatever happens, you'll face it with dignity—and with me beside you."

I nodded, clinging to her certainty when I had none of my own. But as we drafted careful explanations for my parents, I couldn't shake the dread building inside me. Sooner or later, Finn Shepard would discover my identity. And when he did, what would he want from the woman who'd fled his bed at dawn?

Continue to next part

I scrolled mindlessly through Instagram, sprawled across our king-sized bed in the Manhattan penthouse I'd helped Christopher afford. Ten years of my life invested in his dreams, his company, his success. The afternoon sun streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Central Park—windows I'd insisted on when we were house-hunting, because Christopher had been too busy closing another deal to attend the viewings. My phone buzzed with a text notification. Then another. And another. Mom: *Natalie, call me right now.* Dad: *Sweetheart, is this some kind of mistake?* Mom: *Are you okay?* Before I could respond, photos started flooding in. I squinted at the first image—an elaborate floral arch, white roses cascading down crystal pillars. The Plaza Hotel's grand ballroom, transformed into something out of a bridal magazine. I sat up straighter, a chill creeping up my spine.

Billionaire Modern Romance

7.9

Awakening From A Toxic Billionaire Marriage

7.9

I woke up in a sterile hospital room, my head split open from a horrific car crash. But the pain in my skull was nothing compared to the memory burned into my retinas just before the impact: my billionaire husband, Dawson, walking into a luxury hotel with a woman who looked exactly like his dead first love. When Dawson finally arrived at the ward, there was no panic or relief in his eyes. He just coldly looked at my bloody bandages. "Your reckless driving just forced me to postpone the quarterly board meeting." Even our seven-year-old son, who I almost died giving birth to, didn't spare me a single glance. He kicked my hospital bed in annoyance. "The Wi-Fi here is garbage. You're a bad mom! Dad said Aunt Angelita should be the one living with us!" My blood turned to ice. For five years, I had bent over backward, wearing the hideous pale dresses he picked, starving myself to maintain a fragile figure, all to be a perfect, obedient substitute for a ghost. And this was what I got. An unfaithful husband who would rather bury me in debt than grant me a divorce, and a son who wished I was dead. The weak, subservient Charlene died on that wet asphalt. When the doctor pointed to Dawson and asked for his name, I looked at my husband with a hollow, defensive stare. "Who are you?" I whispered. Using retrograde amnesia as my shield, I was going to tear their perfect world apart.

Billionaire Modern Romance

9.3

BENEATH THE SAME SKY

9.3

Aria and Gavin were a married couple considered perfect by everyone around them. Aria loved Gavin more than her own life. For five years of marriage, Aria sacrificed her career, her friends, and her entire time just to manage the household and serve Gavin. She believed their love was eternal. However, cruel reality struck her hard. Gavin was having an affair with Selina, Aria’s own best friend. But it was not just that... Gavin did not only break Aria’s heart, he had planned everything to destroy Aria’s life completely, all for the sake of his freedom and wealth with his mistress. Aria discovered proof after painful proof. Every day was torture. Her tears ran dry, her heart shattered into pieces. Until finally, a terminal illness came to claim Aria when she was at her most vulnerable state. Would Gavin finally realize and regret his actions? Or would he remain cruel until the very last second?

Billionaire Modern Romance

7.0

Framed By The Billionaire I Saved

7.0

For five years, I was the live-in psychologist who saved billionaire Julian Davenport. I did it to repay a debt, believing he was the boy who once saved my life. On my last day, he and his fiancée framed me. They destroyed my career, turned my family against me, and left me with nothing. I was broken, betrayed by the very man I had healed. Then, a kind stranger found me standing in the rain. He revealed a devastating secret that changed everything: he was my real savior, and the man I sacrificed my life for was a fraud.

Billionaire Modern Romance

8.1

My Fiancé Stole My Research to Give His Mistress Fame

8.1

I stood outside Cassian's office, my hand poised to knock on the mahogany door. The wedding planner's portfolio was tucked under my arm, filled with seating charts and floral arrangements for our ceremony—just one month away. Ten years of devotion had led to this moment. Ten years of molding myself into the woman I thought he wanted. The door was slightly ajar. Strange. Cassian hated interruptions. "Mr. Edwards, I've finished reviewing the quarterly reports," came a woman's voice from inside. Jolie Ramos.

Billionaire Modern Romance

8.0

Starlight in My Heart

8.0

After four years of fighting cancer, I could hold on no longer. Before the end, I wanted one last look at the old Redbrick Factory housing where I’d lived with my parents. Just as I moved to enter, a black Phaeton pulled up. Behind the window sat Gregory—the man I’d hated for seven years. Impeccably dressed, a gleaming gold watch on his wrist, he looked at me as though I were a stranger. “Why are you back?” he asked. I tightened my grip on the old key in my pocket. “I’m going home. Is that a problem?” Pushing the car door open, he stepped out and raised a hand as if to touch my forehead. I jerked away. Between him and me, love had died a long time ago. The time I had left belonged to me alone. … Winter in Rivermouth: the wind cut to the bone. Hugging my threadbare coat tighter, I dragged a battered suitcase and stood before the rusted iron gate of the old Redbrick Factory housing like a ghost—a faded remnant out of place in its own past. Seven years. Everything here looked unchanged, yet felt utterly different. More plaster had flaked from the walls. Moss carpeted the corners, climbing almost to my waist. The air still carried that familiar, old-industrial scent of coal dust. I was about to head inside when a black Phaeton glided silently to a stop beside me. The window rolled down, revealing a familiar face. Gregory. He wore a tailored cashmere coat. On his wrist, a Patek Philippe gold watch accentuated his sharp features—more pronounced, more distant than they’d been seven years before. “Dorothy?” He said my name, a thread of uncertainty in his tone. I nodded. Said nothing. What was there to say? *Long time no see*? Or, *Look, I’m dying, so I came back for a peek at what we used to call home*? His gaze dropped to my misshapen, faded gray gloves. I’d knitted them myself years ago, embroidering a tiny ginkgo leaf on one with white thread. Back then, he’d pointed to a ginkgo tree and said, “See how it holds its fan-shaped leaves until the bitter end? That’s loyalty.” I’d embroidered the leaf as a keepsake of that earnest, foolish promise. Now he wore fine black leather gloves that matched his entire aura—expensive, detached, cold. “Why… are you back?” He seemed to choose his words carefully, finally settling on the most direct, and most cutting, question. Right. Why—why *was* I back? Tugging at the suitcase handle, I kept my voice barely a whisper, stolen by the wind. “I’m going home. Is that a problem?” He frowned slightly, taken aback. *He’s not used to this*, I thought. *The old Dorothy was never prickly.* Of course. The old Dorothy had always been gentle, always compliant with him. “That’s not what I meant.” Stepping out of the car, his tall frame blocked the light in front of me. “Why are you dressed so lightly? You look pale.” He reached out to touch my forehead. Instinctively, I stepped back, avoiding his hand. His arm hung awkwardly in the air before he withdrew it, pretending it was nothing. A heavy, absolute silence settled between us. Between us lay seven years, two lives, and the cancer cells raging through my body—a wasteland beyond all repair. “The house…” He finally grasped for a new topic. “You don’t have a key, do you? I have a spare. I can let you in.” “No need.” Fishing a lone key from my pocket, I showed it to him. “I have it.” It was the one I’d pulled from the door seven years ago, when I left. I’d never thrown it away. Like a brand seared over my heart, it was a constant reminder of what I’d once had, and lost, behind that door. He stared at the key in my hand, his expression complex, finally dissolving into an almost inaudible sigh. “Let me at least carry your suitcase up, then.” He reached for my luggage as if it were the most natural thing. This time, I didn’t refuse. I truly had no strength left. The few kilometers from the station had drained the last of my energy. Lifting the suitcase effortlessly, he walked ahead. I followed, step by step, over the stairs littered with dead leaves, toward the familiar Redbrick Factory apartments. Toward the place where our story began—and where it ended.

Billionaire Modern Romance

After My Fiancé’s Public Betrayal, I Wedded His CEO Rival

Chapter 2

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