Dying for Revenge While His Mistress Played Mother

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Sterling mansion, casting long shadows across the marble foyer. I stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, reviewing the charity gala plans Eleanor had demanded by noon. Three weeks into this marriage, and I'd already learned that disappointing my mother-in-law was not an option I could afford—not yet, anyway.

The sound of the front door swinging open caught my attention. I looked up, expecting one of the household staff, only to freeze at the sight of a striking blonde woman striding in as if she owned the place. She didn't notice me at first, too busy directing the chauffeur behind her who struggled with several designer suitcases.

"Just put those in Nathan's room," she commanded, her British accent crisp and authoritative. "I know the way."

Charlotte Hayes. I'd memorized her face from photographs, studied her background extensively, but nothing had prepared me for the visceral reality of her presence. She moved with the confidence of someone who belonged here far more than I ever would.

Our eyes met across the foyer. Her smile was dazzling, predatory.

"You must be Isabella," she said, approaching with her hand extended. "Nathan's... arrangement."

I took her hand, feeling her perfectly manicured nails press slightly too hard against my skin. "And you must be Charlotte. Nathan mentioned you'd be returning from London soon."

"Did he?" Her eyes gleamed. "How considerate of him to prepare you." She glanced around the mansion with proprietary interest. "This place hasn't changed a bit. It's like coming home."

Before I could respond, she was already ascending the stairs, calling over her shoulder, "Don't worry about showing me around. I know exactly where everything is."

I watched her disappear toward the west wing—toward Nathan's bedroom—and felt a cold certainty settle in my stomach. My revenge had just become considerably more complicated.

* * *

"The lilies are completely wrong," Eleanor Sterling declared, her voice carrying across the ballroom of The Plaza where preparations for the Mount Sinai charity gala were underway. "I specifically said calla lilies, not stargazers. The scent will be overwhelming."

I stood beside the florist, whose face had gone pale. "Mrs. Sterling, I have the order form here where you—"

"Are you suggesting I don't know what I approved?" Eleanor cut me off, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

"No, of course not," I replied smoothly, though the order form in my hand clearly showed her signature beneath 'stargazer lilies.' "I'll have it corrected immediately."

The florist shot me a grateful look as Eleanor turned her attention to the place settings.

"Two million dollars," she reminded me for perhaps the tenth time that day. "That's the minimum we expect to raise tonight. Sterling Enterprises' reputation depends on the success of this event."

"I understand," I said, making notes on my tablet.

"Do you?" Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "Because organizing a gala of this magnitude requires a certain... social finesse that I'm not convinced you possess."

I swallowed my retort, reminding myself of the bigger picture. Every humiliation was just another step toward my ultimate goal.

"Oh, Charlotte, darling!" Eleanor's voice suddenly warmed as she looked past me. "Come see what we've done with the space."

I turned to see Charlotte gliding toward us in a silk dress that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

"It's coming together beautifully," Charlotte cooed, kissing Eleanor on both cheeks. "Though I might suggest moving the orchestra to the north end—the acoustics would be better."

"Brilliant idea," Eleanor beamed, then turned to me. "Make a note of that, Isabella."

I dutifully wrote it down, though we both knew the orchestra placement had been finalized weeks ago and couldn't be changed without significant cost.

"Charlotte, I'd like you to meet some of our major donors," Eleanor said, taking Charlotte's arm. As they walked away, Eleanor's voice carried back to me: "This is our real daughter-in-law, the one Nathan's heart truly belongs to..."

I stood alone among the flowers that were apparently all wrong, my hand tightening around my pen until I feared it might snap.

* * *

The gala was in full swing, crystal glasses clinking and Manhattan's elite circulating beneath the chandeliers. I stood at the periphery, monitoring the event while remaining as inconspicuous as possible—exactly as Eleanor had instructed.

Across the room, Nathan stood with Charlotte pressed against his side, his arm possessively around her waist as they laughed with his Harvard friends. I watched as she tilted her face up to his, their intimacy on blatant display.

Ethan Vance caught me watching and smirked, whispering something to the group that sent their eyes darting in my direction, followed by poorly concealed laughter. I lifted my chin and turned away, focusing instead on checking with the catering staff.

The commotion at the entrance came without warning—raised voices, then screams. I turned to see security guards struggling with a disheveled man who had somehow breached the perimeter. The glint of metal in his hand—a scalpel—caught the light as he broke free, wild-eyed and shouting incoherently about experimental treatments at Mount Sinai.

"Nathan!" Charlotte's scream pierced the chaos as the man charged toward their group. She dropped her champagne flute and fled in the opposite direction, her heels clicking rapidly across the marble floor.

I didn't think. I moved.

Shoving past frozen onlookers, I reached Nathan just as the man lunged. I threw myself between them, feeling a searing pain as the scalpel sliced deep into my arm. Security tackled the assailant seconds later, but the damage was done. Warm blood soaked through the silk of my gown, the pain intensifying as adrenaline began to fade.

Nathan stared at me in shock, his face pale. "Isabella?"

I pressed my hand against the wound, blood seeping between my fingers. Without a word, I turned and limped away, leaving a trail of crimson droplets on the immaculate floor. No one followed me as I slipped through a service door, searching for somewhere private to assess the damage.

The cut was deep, would definitely need stitches. But as I leaned against the wall in the empty hallway, watching my blood stain the expensive wallpaper, I couldn't help but wonder—would Nathan have done the same for me?

The answer echoed in the silence, as empty as the space behind me where a concerned husband should have been.