His Mistress Humiliated Me Before I Married a Billionaire

The private restaurant was dim and quiet.

I checked my reflection in the bronze elevator doors before stepping out. Black blazer, sharp shoulders, chin held high. I had spent ten years walking on eggshells for Bryan Woods. I wasn't about to do it for another man.

I expected a cold business partner. I expected a man with a prenup in hand, ready to tell me what was required of a trophy wife.

The host led me into a secluded dining room overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

Maverick Foster was already standing by the table.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a dark charcoal suit that screamed effortless power. His jaw was cut sharp, his dark eyes intense. But the second his gaze landed on me, that hard edge melted away.

He stepped forward and held out a bouquet wrapped in brown paper.

"For you," he said.

I froze. They were dusty blue hydrangeas. My favorite flower. A flower I hadn't mentioned to anyone since I was eighteen.

"Thank you," I said, taking them carefully. The cool petals brushed against my wrist.

"Please, sit," he said. His voice was deep, smooth, and calm.

I sat across from him. Right beside my silverware sat a delicate porcelain cup. Pale steam rose from the rim, carrying the rich scent of cinnamon, cardamom, and sweet vanilla.

I stared at it. "Is this..."

"Vanilla chai," Maverick said. "From the small shop on 4th Street. I had them send over the blend an hour ago."

My throat tightened. In Seattle, Bryan had called my tea a waste of money and threw my tins in the trash.

A low saxophone note drifted through the room. Soft, vintage jazz hummed from the speakers overhead. It was the exact playlist I used to listen to while working late on my design sketches.

On the table between us rested a leather folder. Maverick gently slid it toward me. Inside were cloth swatches and thick cardstock. Soft mist-blue silk laid against shimmering champagne-gold ribbon.

"The wedding palette," Maverick said quietly. "If you approve, of course. We can change every single detail if you don't like it."

I looked down at the colors. Mist-blue and champagne-gold. The two shades that filled almost every sketchbook I ever owned.

A cold prickle of defensiveness rose in my chest. I set the folder down with a sharp snap.

"How do you know all this?" I asked. My voice sounded harder than I meant it to. "The flowers. The tea. The playlist. Did my father hand you a dossier on me?"

Maverick didn't get angry. He didn't snap back. He just leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes fixed on mine. He looked at me as if there was nobody else in the entire city.

"Your father told me nothing, Hazel," he said softly.

"Then how?"

"I've been paying attention for a long time," he said. His tone was low and steady. "Longer than you know."

A strange shiver ran straight down my spine. It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger. It was something heavy and unfamiliar, and it left my chest feeling completely hollowed out.

I left dinner that night completely unsettled.

***

The next morning, Birdie didn't bother knocking.

She kicked my penthouse bedroom door open, carrying three bags and a tray of iced coffees.

"Wake up, Hazel!" she yelled, clapping her hands. "We are burning Seattle to the ground today."

The next forty-eight hours were a complete blur. Birdie, Kamryn, and Luciana dragged me from Fifth Avenue down into SoHo. They raided my suitcase and tossed out my oversized, dull gray sweaters. They bought tailored wool coats, cashmere wraps, and silk blouses.

By Sunday afternoon, we had a private fitting room reserved at a boutique bridal atelier.

"Try this," Luciana said, thrusting a backless gown of pale champagne silk into my arms.

I stepped behind the heavy velvet curtain. I stripped off my jeans and slipped the cool silk over my head. It clung to my ribs, caught my waist, and pooled around my feet like water.

I took a deep breath, gripped the curtain, and pulled it back.

The dressing suite went dead silent.

Luciana covered her mouth with both hands. A second later, a tear spilled over her lashes and rolled down her cheek.

"Oh, stop," Luciana laughed through a wet sniffle, fanning her face frantically. "I'm ruining my makeup. It's just... you look like you again."

We all burst out laughing, and the heavy tension in the room snapped.

Birdie grabbed a chilled bottle from the silver bucket by the sofa and filled four flutes to the brim. She shoved a glass into my fingers and thrust hers high into the air.

"To Manhattan," Birdie shouted, her eyes blazing with fierce pride. "Bryan Woods can choke on his own ego. The queen is back."

"To the queen," Luciana chimed in, tapping her glass against mine.

I looked into the giant gilt mirror on the wall. Behind me, Kamryn stood near the doorway with her arms crossed. Her sharp eyes met mine in the glass. She didn't say a word. She just gave me a single, slow nod.

Something cold and long-dead inside my ribs flickered back to life.

For ten years, I made myself small so an insecure man could pretend he was big. That girl was gone. She died on a Seattle street corner.

I held my glass up to the mirror, took a sip, and didn't look away.