My Cheating Boyfriend Got His Mistress Pregnant

Friday afternoon, Ambrose picks me up in his town car. The driver knows better than to ask questions when we pull up to the private entrance of Bergdorf's.

"You don't have to do this," I say.

Ambrose opens the door, offers his hand. "I know."

The seventh floor is closed to the public. A woman in black greets us, her smile professional but warm. "Ms. Hart. We've been expecting you."

She leads us through racks of silk and satin, past mannequins draped in fabric that costs more than most people's rent. Ambrose follows, hands in his pockets, watching me with that expression I can't quite read.

"This one." The consultant pulls a midnight blue gown from a private collection. The fabric catches the light, shifting between navy and black depending on the angle. Simple. Elegant. Devastating.

I disappear into the fitting room. The gown slides over my skin like water, the bodice fitting perfectly, the skirt falling in clean lines to the floor. When I step out, Ambrose goes still.

"Nell." His voice is rough.

The consultant adjusts the hem, pins the waist. "It's like it was made for you."

Ambrose crosses to me, stops close enough that I can smell his cologne. "You've been hiding."

"I had to."

"I know." His fingers brush my wrist. "But I've hated watching you dim yourself. Watching you pretend to be less than you are."

The consultant clears her throat. "I'll give you a moment."

We're alone. The fitting room feels smaller suddenly, the air charged.

"Ambrose—"

"I should have said something years ago." He's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room. "At Harvard. Before Zayne. Before all of this."

My heart hammers. "Why didn't you?"

"Because I was afraid." His hand finds mine. "Afraid you'd think I wanted you for the wrong reasons. Afraid I'd lose you completely if I pushed."

"And now?"

"Now I'm more afraid of staying silent." He leans closer, his breath warm against my temple. "Tomorrow night, when you step into that ballroom, everyone's going to see what I've always seen."

His lips hover near mine. One movement, and the distance would disappear.

The consultant's heels click in the hallway.

Ambrose steps back. The moment breaks.

I pull out my Black Card—matte titanium, no limit, the Hart family crest embossed in the corner. The consultant's eyes widen slightly, but she's too professional to comment.

"We'll take it," I say.

Saturday evening, the Plaza ballroom glitters like a jewelry box. I arrive through the service entrance, as planned. Marcus meets me in the back hallway, his expression approving.

"Ready?"

"Almost."

Through the doorway, I can see them. Zayne in a rented tux, Salma in champagne silk that probably cost him another chunk of someone else's money. They pose for photos, his hand on her waist, her hand on her stomach. The photographers eat it up.

"Look at them," someone near the entrance says. "Couple of the night."

Salma's laugh carries across the room. She scans the crowd, eyes landing on the general admission tables. "I don't see Nellie anywhere. Poor thing probably couldn't afford a dress."

The women around her titter.

I smooth my gown. Check my reflection one last time.

"Now," I tell Marcus.

I step into the ballroom.

The transformation is complete. Hair swept up, makeup subtle but flawless, the midnight blue gown moving like liquid shadow. I'm not the woman they know from the office. I'm someone else entirely.

Someone they should have recognized all along.

I move through the crowd. Heads turn, but no one places me. Not yet.

Salma sees me first. Her eyes narrow, tracking my movement across the floor. She leans toward Zayne, whispers something. His head turns.

I watch recognition flicker across his face. Confusion. Then something darker.

Salma's expression shifts from curiosity to calculation. She grabs a glass of red wine from a passing waiter, starts toward me.

We meet near the center of the ballroom.

"Nellie." Her smile is sharp. "I almost didn't recognize you. That dress is—"

She stumbles. The wine arcs through the air, splashes across the hem of my gown. Dark red against midnight blue.

"Oh my God!" Salma's hand flies to her mouth. "I'm so sorry! Your dress!"

The crowd turns. Whispers ripple outward.

"It's just—" Salma's voice carries, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I feel terrible. I know rentals have those damage fees. How much do you think it'll cost?"

She's playing to the audience. Waiting for me to crumble.

I look down at the stain. Look up at her.

And smile.

"Don't worry about it," I say. "It's just a dress."

The lights dim. A spotlight hits the stage.

Marcus Chen steps up to the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention."

I turn toward the stage.

Salma's still talking, but I'm not listening anymore.

Because it's time.