His Mistress, My Revenge

The clock on my nightstand read 2:17 AM when I slipped out of bed. Logan's breathing remained steady, undisturbed by my careful movements. In the darkness, I traced my fingers along the edge of my scars—a habit that had become my silent ritual whenever I needed strength. Tonight, I needed more than I'd ever drawn from them before.

I dressed silently in the bathroom, the one space Olivia had coveted but couldn't claim. My reflection in the mirror showed a woman I barely recognized anymore—hollow-eyed, tense-jawed, a ghost of the dancer I once was. But tonight, something else flickered in those eyes. Determination. Fury.

The text from Ethan had been cryptic: *Spencer Plaza. Midnight. South entrance. Come alone.*

I crept through our apartment, past the guest room where Olivia slept. A faint snore drifted from behind the door—the sound of someone who felt perfectly secure in her position. That would change soon enough.

The night air hit my face as I stepped onto the sidewalk, the first breath of freedom I'd taken in years. The cab driver didn't speak as I gave him the address, didn't ask why a woman in designer pajamas beneath a trench coat was heading to a corporate building in the middle of the night.

The Spencer Hotel Group headquarters loomed against the night sky, its illuminated logo a beacon I'd been avoiding for five long years. As promised, Ethan waited at the south entrance, his tall frame silhouetted against the glass doors.

"You came," he said simply, pulling me into a brief hug that felt like home.

"I didn't have much choice." My voice sounded stronger than I felt.

He led me through the silent lobby, past security guards who nodded respectfully—at him, I thought, until I caught one murmuring, "Good evening, Ms. Spencer."

The elevator climbed to the executive floor, where my father's office—my future office—waited. Ethan unlocked the door with practiced ease.

"Your father wanted to be here," he said, flicking on the lights. "But I convinced him to give us this time alone first."

"He knows?"

"About Logan? Yes. About what you're planning to do? Not yet." Ethan's eyes, warm and steady, met mine. "But he's ready to back whatever play you make."

I sank into my father's leather chair, running my fingers along the polished desk. "I don't even know what play I'm making yet."

"Yes, you do." Ethan placed a thick folder before me. "You've known since you saw those photos."

I opened the folder to find legal documents, financial reports, property deeds—the skeleton of Logan's life laid bare. "How long have you had these?"

"Since the day you married him." Ethan's voice held no apology. "The Spencer family protects its own, Natalie. Even when they're trying to hide."

"I wasn't hiding," I whispered. "I was proving something."

"And what did you prove?" His question hung in the air between us.

That I could be loved for myself, I wanted to say. But the words died in my throat as I remembered Logan's face when he looked at Olivia—the genuine desire I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

"I proved that I'm a fool," I finally said.

Ethan knelt beside the chair, his hand covering mine. "No. You proved you're capable of extraordinary love and sacrifice. Now it's time to prove something else."

"What?"

"That you're a Spencer." His smile held no warmth now, only fierce determination. "And Spencers don't get betrayed without consequences."

I spent the next hour absorbing the truth of my position—that legally, I owned the penthouse Logan had designed, that his firm's biggest clients had come through Spencer connections, that his entire life had been built on a foundation I had unknowingly provided.

"When you're ready," Ethan said as dawn approached, "every resource of the Spencer empire is at your disposal. Your father has already instructed the board."

I stood, suddenly feeling taller than I had in years. "I'm ready now."

* * *

The dishwasher's grinding noise greeted me when I returned to the apartment. Logan and Olivia were still asleep, but the machine's death rattle echoed through the kitchen like a mechanical sob.

I opened the door, releasing a cloud of steam and the smell of burned plastic. The heating element had melted through the bottom rack, fusing with a fallen utensil. Without thinking, I grabbed my toolbox from under the sink and began disassembling the front panel.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Logan stood in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, eyes narrowed with disgust. I hadn't heard him approach.

"Fixing the dishwasher," I replied, continuing to unscrew the panel.

"Put that down." His voice had that dangerous edge. "Now."

I set the screwdriver aside, my newfound courage momentarily faltering under his glare.

"Jesus Christ, Natalie." He ran a hand through his hair. "Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is? My wife on her knees like some... some handyman?"

"The repairman can't come until tomorrow."

"Then we wait. Or we buy a new one." He snatched the screwdriver from the counter. "This is beneath you."

Beneath me. The irony almost made me laugh. For years, he'd treated me like I was beneath him, and now he was concerned about my dignity?

"What's going on?" Olivia appeared in the doorway, wearing one of Logan's shirts and nothing else. Her legs seemed endless, her hair artfully tousled. "Is something broken?"

"The dishwasher," Logan said, his tone instantly softening. "Don't worry about it."

"Oh no!" She pouted. "I was going to make my famous frittata for breakfast."

Logan's face transformed, the scowl melting into a smile. "You cook?"

"Of course!" She laughed, the sound like tinkling crystal. "I love cooking for special people."

I watched in disbelief as Logan moved to the refrigerator. "We have eggs, cheese... what else do you need?"

"You're going to cook?" The words escaped before I could stop them.

Logan had refused to cook for me for our entire marriage. Not once in five years had he so much as boiled water.

"I'm helping Olivia cook," he corrected, already pulling ingredients from the shelves. "Why don't you go get dressed? You look... disheveled."

I stood slowly, wiping my hands on my pajama pants. As I turned to leave, I caught Olivia's triumphant smirk.

"Oh, and Natalie?" Logan called after me. "Call someone about that dishwasher. We need to show proper hospitality to our guest."

Proper hospitality. I walked to our bedroom, my mind racing with the conversation I'd had with Ethan just hours before. Every resource of the Spencer empire at my disposal.

Logan wanted to show hospitality? Fine. I would show him hospitality—Spencer style.

But first, I had a brunch to attend.