His Mistress Called Me a Nanny Until My Husband Arrived

The fashion industry luncheon was held in one of those Midtown hotels that charged more for lunch than most people made in a day. I spotted Maci the moment I walked in, holding court near the entrance in a dress that probably had its own maintenance schedule. She saw me too—her eyes lit up with that particular gleam I'd learned to recognize over the years. The hunting gleam.

She whispered something to the event organizer, a woman with a clipboard and the kind of practiced smile that suggested she was used to managing drama. The organizer glanced at me, then at her seating chart, then back at me with the kind of pitying look reserved for people who didn't know their place.

I made my way toward the main room, and Maci intercepted me with the precision of a heat-seeking missile.

"Blair!" Her voice carried just enough to make nearby conversations pause. "I didn't realize they let plus-ones sit in the main room!"

She said it like it was a delightful surprise, but her eyes were already scanning the room to make sure everyone had heard. Around us, conversations quieted. I felt the weight of attention shift, curious and slightly predatory. The fashion industry loved nothing more than a good hierarchy.

"Maci," I said, my voice level. "Always good to see you."

She blinked, clearly waiting for the crack in my composure. When it didn't come, she recovered with practiced ease. "Oh, you look so tired, honey. Are you getting enough sleep? I know how hard it must be, juggling everything. But you're so strong, doing it all alone."

The words were poison wrapped in silk. I watched her deliver them with the same skill she'd used five years ago, manufacturing vulnerability out of thin air. Around us, people were openly staring now, waiting for the drama to unfold.

"I'm managing just fine," I said, and stepped past her toward my assigned table.

It was the furthest from the stage, tucked against a wall near the service entrance. The kind of table reserved for people who were expected to be grateful just for being invited. Maci's smile widened as she watched me take it in.

"Enjoy your lunch," she called after me, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I'll make sure they bring you extra bread. You look like you could use the calories."

Laughter rippled through the nearby tables. I sat down and opened my menu, feeling the weight of curious stares. The woman beside me—a buyer for one of the major department stores—leaned over.

"Don't mind her," she said quietly. "Maci's been trying to build herself up by tearing other women down since design school. It's her thing."

I smiled at her. "I'm used to it."

What Maci didn't know—what she couldn't possibly know—was that the two men seated across from me were senior partners at Hoffman Group subsidiaries. They'd both recognized me from internal memos, and I could see them exchanging glances as Maci's voice carried across the room. By the end of the day, Grey would know exactly what had happened here.

But that was tomorrow's battle. For now, I ordered the salmon and listened to the industry gossip flow around me like water finding its level.

Later that night, after the luncheon and a full afternoon of meetings, I kicked off my heels in our apartment and found Grey on the couch, his laptop open but forgotten. He looked up when I came in, and I saw the question in his eyes before he asked it.

"How was lunch?" he asked, setting the computer aside.

I sank onto the couch beside him. "About as expected. Maci made sure I was seated at the children's table."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't reach for his phone or make any sudden movements. He'd learned to trust my timing. "You're handling it?"

"I'm handling it," I said, and leaned into his shoulder. "She's building it higher every time."

He nodded, his hand finding mine. "Higher is good."

At six o'clock, his phone rang. He answered immediately, even though we both knew who it was. "Hoffman," he said, his voice shifting into the crisp, controlled tone he used for business. "Yes, I'm aware of the situation. No, don't take any action yet. Just... document everything."

He listened for a moment, then his eyes met mine. "Yes, that's correct. Blair Jensen. Make sure the seating arrangements are noted. And the comments. All of them."

He hung up and pulled me closer. "Dominic says hello," he said quietly.

I closed my eyes, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing. "Tell him I owe him a drink."

The next morning, I woke to the sound of Noel's laughter echoing down the hallway. I found him in the living room, perched on Grey's lap at the chessboard, his small hands wrapped around a bishop like it was a precious treasure.

"Checkmate!" Noel shouted, moving the piece with theatrical flourish. "I win again!"

Grey threw his hands up in mock defeat. "You're getting too good for me, kid. Where did you learn to play like that?"

Noel giggled, his legs swinging. "From you! You're a bad teacher!"

Grey's outrage was perfectly performed. "I am not! I'm an excellent teacher! You're just a chess prodigy!"

I watched them from the doorway, my heart full. This was what Kameron had never understood—that love wasn't about grand gestures or public displays. It was about showing up, day after day, in all the small ways that mattered.

Noel spotted me and immediately abandoned the chessboard. "Mommy! I'm winning! Daddy's losing!"

He ran to me, and I caught him up in a hug, breathing in the scent of his shampoo and the faint hint of the maple syrup he'd had for breakfast. "I can see that," I said, ruffling his hair. "You're going to be a champion."

Over his head, Grey's eyes met mine, and I saw everything we'd built together in that look—the quiet strength, the unshakable partnership, the life we'd created away from the spotlight.

Kameron had thrown away something precious, but he'd never know what it was. And soon, very soon, he'd understand exactly what he'd lost.