My Fiancé Replaced Me with His Business Rival's Mistress

The champagne flute nearly slipped from my fingers as I watched Brielle navigate through the crowd at the gala. Her honey-blonde hair cascaded over bare shoulders, her emerald dress strategically designed to accentuate her supposed pregnancy. She moved with calculated fragility, one hand perpetually resting on her still-flat stomach.

"Scarlett," Victoria whispered beside me, her voice tight with barely contained disgust. "Don't let her ruin your night."

I smoothed down my custom Valentino gown—a masterpiece of ivory silk and delicate crystal beadwork. "She's not worth it."

But Brielle had other ideas.

As I turned to greet the Astors, I felt a presence behind me. Then came the stumble, the gasp, and the cold splash of red wine cascading down my back.

"Oh my God!" Brielle's voice dripped with false horror. "I'm so sorry! The baby—I felt a kick and lost my balance!"

The room fell silent. I could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on me as the crimson stain spread across the priceless silk. My jaw tightened, but before I could respond, Corbin was at Brielle's side, his hands steadying her with practiced tenderness.

"Are you okay?" he asked her, not me.

"She's fine," came a cold voice from behind me. "Unlike Scarlett's dress."

Thatcher materialized beside me, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket with fluid grace. He draped it gently around my shoulders, his fingers lingering at my neck in a gesture that was both protective and possessive.

"Ms. Carlson," he said, his voice carrying just enough for nearby guests to hear. "Perhaps you should be more careful about your... balance issues."

Brielle's eyes widened with feigned innocence. "It was an accident! I'm pregnant, you know."

"Yes, we know." Thatcher's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You've mentioned it repeatedly. Though I wonder if your clumsiness might be affecting your judgment in other areas as well."

The implication hung in the air like smoke. Corbin's face flushed with embarrassment as he glanced between us.

"I think we should get Scarlett cleaned up," he suggested weakly.

"No need." Thatcher's arm tightened around my waist. "I've already arranged for a replacement dress. My staff will bring it shortly."

Brielle's face contorted with suppressed fury as she watched Thatcher lead me away. "I said I was sorry," she called after us, her voice trembling with manufactured distress.

Thatcher paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Of course you did. Just like you're sorry about so many other things."

---

"The east wing will be closed during the ceremony," Thatcher explained as we walked through his estate the following afternoon. "But I thought we might hold the reception in the conservatory."

I nodded, still processing the events of the previous night. The way he'd shielded me from Brielle's attack had left me unsettled—not because I resented his protection, but because I'd found myself leaning into it.

"And this," he continued, gesturing to an ornate door at the end of a long hallway, "is where we'll sign the papers."

As he spoke, I noticed another door further down the corridor—closed, but unlike the others, it had no visible handle. A small brass plaque read simply "Private."

"What's in there?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or concern. "Just old family records. Nothing interesting."

He moved to guide me toward the meeting room, but I found myself drawn to that mysterious door. As I passed the console table beside it, my steps faltered.

There, nestled between a pair of silver candlesticks, lay a book I recognized instantly—a rare first edition of "The Secret Garden" with a distinctive green leather binding and gilt edges.

"I—" My voice caught. "That book..."

Thatcher followed my gaze, his expression unreadable. "Yes?"

"It's... it's identical to one I lost when I was sixteen." My fingers reached out instinctively. "The same edition, the same binding."

"Small world," he said smoothly, taking my elbow. "Now, about those papers..."

As he led me away, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something significant about that book—something that connected us in ways I couldn't yet understand.

---

"The documents are forgeries," Detective Chen stated flatly, spreading photographs across Samson's desk. "The London clinic doesn't exist—it's a front for producing fake medical records for escorts and models."

Samson leaned forward, examining the evidence with narrowed eyes. "Can you prove it?"

"Beyond doubt." Chen tapped one photo showing a disgraced doctor's mugshot. "This man was arrested three years ago for selling fraudulent medical credentials. Yet his signature appears on Brielle's ultrasound report."

Marcus Webb whistled low. "So the pregnancy is fake."

"Almost certainly," Chen replied. "Though we won't know for sure until we run DNA tests on the hair sample."

Samson's fingers steepled beneath his chin as he considered the implications. "We need to time this perfectly."

"What do you have in mind?" Marcus asked.

"A wedding day revelation." Samson's voice held cold satisfaction. "When everyone is gathered to witness Corbin's betrayal of Scarlett, we'll expose Brielle's lies instead."

"And how do you propose to do that?" Chen inquired.

Samson smiled thinly. "With help from an unexpected ally."

As if summoned by his words, his phone chimed with a message from Thatcher Grant: "Everything in place. Ready to proceed at your signal."

Samson showed the screen to Marcus and Chen. "It seems my sister's fiancé is more invested in this than we realized."