His Mistress Wore My Louboutins

The red light on my camera blinked three times before going dark. I tapped the side of the device, hoping it was just a minor glitch. "Hey guys, technical difficulties! Give me one second," I said cheerfully to my invisible audience, though I knew my microphone had probably died along with the camera. I'd been in the middle of my weekly mukbang stream, showcasing a new Korean barbecue place that had opened downtown. The comments had been flowing, my viewer count climbing steadily. Now, silence. After five minutes of futile troubleshooting, I sighed and packed up my equipment. The restaurant manager gave me a sympathetic smile as I explained the situation. "Equipment failure happens to the best of us," he said kindly.

Chapters

Chapter 2

The morning after discovering Marcus and Rachel's betrayal, I sat across from Amy at our favorite café in Silver Lake, clutching my latte like a lifeline. The foam art—a heart—seemed to mock me. Outside, the California sun bathed everything in golden light, oblivious to my shattered world.

"I can't believe I was so blind," I whispered, my voice surprisingly steady despite having barely slept. "Six years of marriage, and I never suspected a thing."

Amy reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Unlike Rachel's perfectly manicured nails, Amy's were short, practical, with chipped blue polish. Real. Like her friendship.

"Listen to me, Lily," she said, her dark eyes intense. "Before you do anything, you need proof. Concrete evidence. Not just what you heard."

"Why? I know what I heard," I said, the cold hardness in my chest from yesterday still present, still growing.

"Because when you confront them—if you confront them—they'll deny everything. And if you're thinking about divorce..." She lowered her voice. "California's a community property state. You need to protect yourself."

I stared into my coffee. "Marcus handles all our finances. He has access to everything—my streaming revenue, our joint accounts..."

"Exactly why we need to be smart about this." Amy's tone shifted, becoming more focused. "I know someone. A private investigator. Discreet, thorough. He can help you gather what you need."

The idea of hiring a PI seemed so dramatic, so unlike my normal life. But then again, nothing about my life felt normal anymore.

"Okay," I nodded. "Set it up."

Three days later, I met Frank Barnes in the back corner of a quiet bookstore café in Los Feliz. He was nothing like the TV detective I'd imagined—just an ordinary-looking middle-aged man with observant eyes and a notepad.

"Mrs. Thompson," he greeted me quietly, using my married name. It stung.

"Lily, please," I corrected him.

He nodded, all business. "Amy explained your situation. I'll need access to your apartment when they're not there, and some basic information about their routines."

I provided everything he asked for, feeling like I was in some surreal dream. This couldn't be my life—planning surveillance on my husband and best friend.

"One more thing," Frank said as our meeting concluded. "Don't change your behavior. Act normal. The moment they suspect you know something, they'll cover their tracks."

A week later, Frank handed me a manila envelope in the same bookstore. "Just the preliminary findings," he said gently. "You might want to review these privately."

In my car, hands trembling, I opened the envelope. The photos were crisp, high-resolution, damning. Rachel, entering my building at 11:43 PM on a night when Marcus had told me he was working late. Another of them in the lobby, his hand on the small of her back, her head tilted up toward him with unmistakable intimacy. The timestamp showed 7:15 AM—when I was at my morning stream.

"Preliminary findings," Frank had called them. As if there could be any innocent explanation.

That night, while Marcus showered, I used the password I'd seen him type countless times to access his email. My heart pounded so loudly I was certain he would hear it over the running water.

What I found was worse than I'd imagined. Bank statements showing monthly transfers of my streaming revenue—money that should have been reinvested in my business or saved for our future—being siphoned into accounts I didn't recognize. Text messages with Rachel, mocking my weight, planning their rendezvous around my streaming schedule.

One message from three months ago made me physically ill:

"She's so focused on those food videos she doesn't even notice the money missing. God, it's almost too easy."

Rachel's reply: "That's our girl. Always thinking with her stomach instead of her brain."

I closed the laptop just as the shower stopped. When Marcus emerged, towel around his waist, I smiled at him—the same trusting smile I'd given him for years.

"Everything okay, babe?" he asked, noticing something in my expression.

"Perfect," I replied, the cold hardness in my chest now a glacier, massive and unmovable. "Just thinking about tomorrow's stream."

As he kissed my forehead, I made a silent vow: They would pay for underestimating me. But first, I needed a plan.

Continue to next part

I stepped onto the rooftop garden, the Manhattan skyline glowing amber in the sunset behind me. My emerald dress caught the fading light, making it shimmer with each step I took toward Ethan. The weight of anticipation hung in the air, mingling with the heady scent of thousands of roses that transformed the space into something from a fairy tale. Ethan stood waiting by a heart-shaped arrangement of flickering candles, his fingers nervously adjusting his tie. Our eyes met across the crowd of New York's elite who had gathered to witness what everyone assumed would be the social event of the season. The string quartet softened their melody—my favorite Debussy piece—as I approached. "You look breathtaking," Ethan whispered, taking my hand. His palm was damp with sweat. I'd spent two years molding him into this moment, teaching him the right words to say, the right moves to make. Tonight was the culmination of my careful investment.

Billionaire Modern Romance

7.8

Captured By The Obsessive Billionaire King

7.8

Helen was finally brought back to the luxurious Gallagher estate as their long-lost blood relative. But her new family didn't welcome her; they looked at her with undisguised disgust. The matriarch mocked her stench of poverty, while her step-sister Candice treated her like a feral animal. The patriarch, Fredy—who had built his empire by betraying Helen's mother—tried to break her spirit. He blackmailed Helen into attending a high-society gala by threatening to cut off her grandmother's medical funds. At the gala, Candice squeezed into a diamond-encrusted gown, desperate to seduce the guest of honor, Damian Montgomery. Damian was the most powerful man in New York, and he was currently tearing the city apart looking for a mysterious woman named Jane. Overhearing this, a sick, greedy smile spread across Candice's face. She planned to impersonate Jane to claim Damian's wealth and completely crush Helen under her heel. "Hide in the corner tonight. Don't you dare try to speak to anyone important!" They all thought Helen was just a helpless, uncultured country girl they could easily manipulate and step on to secure their stolen legacy. What they didn't know was that Helen was the real Jane. She was the lethal shadow who had saved Damian in the woods, shattered his grip, and robbed his highly guarded vault just the night before. Helen calmly adjusted her simple black dress and stepped into the ballroom, ready to tear their stolen world apart.

Billionaire Mafia Modern

8.7

Her Body, His Signature ( A CEO's X DEAL )

8.7

My back hits the cold glass of the penthouse window, the city glittering a thousand feet below us. Sebastian’s hand is at my throat—not tight enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who I belong to. “You were talking to him,” he says, voice low, dangerous. His other hand is braced beside my head, caging me in. “You smiled.” “It was just—” “Don’t lie to me, Ocean.” His thumb brushes the hollow of my throat, and my pulse jumps so hard he feels it. “You’re mine. Every glance. Every breath. Every inch of you.” I should be furious. I should tell him I’m not his property. But then his mouth is on mine—rough, consuming, tasting like the whiskey he hasn’t let go of since the gala. I moan before I can stop myself. That’s all the permission he needs. His hand slides to my waist, fingers digging in as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish. The heat between us ignites like dry kindling. It’s dangerous. It’s too much. It’s everything. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark enough to drown in. “One year,” he murmurs. “That was the deal. But you… you’re making me want forever.” And in that moment, I know the worst truth of all— If Sebastian Velez decides to keep me, I won’t even try to run.

Billionaire Modern Romance

9.0

Revenge for Mom: Destroying His Mafia World

9.0

My fiancé, the Underboss of the DeLuca Crime Family, promised he would burn the world down for me. But when my mother was dying in the hospital, he chose a ski trip with another woman. It was that woman's dog that attacked my mother, but when I called him, shaking, he was annoyed. He was in Aspen with Isabella, and I could hear her laughing in the background. He dismissed my mother's injuries as a "minor scrape" and told me not to "make a big deal out of this." While my mother's fever spiked, he ignored my desperate pleas. Instead, my phone lit up with an Instagram post of him and Isabella smiling by a fireplace, sipping hot chocolate. My mother slipped into septic shock. That picture was a public declaration, a judgment on my mother's worth, and my own. A cold fury burned away every last bit of love I had for him. She died at 3:17 a.m. I held her hand until it was cold, then walked out of the hospital and called the one number I was never supposed to use—the number for my father. "She's dead," I said. "I'm coming to Chicago. I'm leaving this life, and I'm going to burn his world to the ground."

Action Mafia Modern

7.9

Rising From Ashes: The Matriarch's Spectacular Comeback

7.9

I woke up in a burning warehouse, twelve years after my supposed death. My body had been reset to its physical prime, the deep burn scar on my wrist completely gone. Through the smoke, my eldest son, Kennard, rushed blindly into the flames. He was screaming the name of the very woman who had orchestrated this trap—Brittnie. When I tackled him out of the way of a falling steel beam, he didn't recognize my youthful face. Instead, he pinned me to the concrete and nearly crushed my windpipe. "How much did she pay you to carve up your face to look like a dead woman?" He hissed the words at me, treating me like a sick corporate spy. For a decade, a bizarre narrative "script" had brainwashed my son, forcing him into pathetic devotion to Brittnie. She had drained his wealth, turned my daughter against him, and hollowed out our family empire. Whenever Kennard tried to resist her, the mind control punished him with agonizing migraines, driving him to smash his own hands against the wall just to cope with the pain. Hearing him quietly sobbing outside my locked door, my heart shattered. How could this invisible force torture my brilliant son and turn my family into puppets for a D-list actress? I dragged him to the hospital for a DNA test. When the results confirmed my maternity at 99.999%, the cold billionaire collapsed to the floor, weeping in my arms like a lost child. I wiped his tears and smiled ruthlessly. It was time to take back my empire and burn Brittnie's life to the ground.

Billionaire Modern

8.6

The Billionaire Who Lost His Sun

8.6

I was arranging lilies for my engagement party when the hospital called. A dog bite, they said. My fiancé, Salvatore Moretti, was supposed to be in Chicago on business. But he answered my frantic call from a ski slope in Aspen, with the sound of my best friend, Sofia, laughing in the background. He told me not to worry, that my mother’s injury was just a scratch. But when I got to the hospital, I learned it was Sofia’s unvaccinated Doberman that had attacked my diabetic mother. I texted Sal that her kidneys were failing, that they might have to amputate. His only reply: “Sofia is hysterical. She feels terrible. Calm her down for me, okay?” Hours later, Sofia posted a photo of Sal kissing her on a ski lift. The next call I got was from the doctor, telling me my mother’s heart had stopped. She died alone, while the man who swore to protect me was on a romantic vacation with the woman whose dog killed her. The rage inside me wasn't hot; it turned into a block of ice. I didn't drive back to the penthouse he gave me. I went to my mother’s empty house and made a call I hadn't made in fifteen years. To my estranged father, a man whose name was a ghost story in Salvatore’s world: Don Matteo Costello. “I’m coming home,” I told him. My vendetta wouldn’t be one of blood. It would be one of erasure. I would dismantle my life here and disappear so completely, it would be as if I had never existed.

Billionaire Modern Romance

His Mistress Wore My Louboutins

Chapter 2

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