My Fiancé Stole My Research to Give His Mistress Fame

I stood outside Cassian's office, my hand poised to knock on the mahogany door. The wedding planner's portfolio was tucked under my arm, filled with seating charts and floral arrangements for our ceremony—just one month away. Ten years of devotion had led to this moment. Ten years of molding myself into the woman I thought he wanted.

The door was slightly ajar. Strange. Cassian hated interruptions.

"Mr. Edwards, I've finished reviewing the quarterly reports," came a woman's voice from inside. Jolie Ramos. My academic rival. My stomach tightened.

"Leave them on my desk," Cassian replied, his voice carrying that familiar cold authority that had once made me feel safe but now sent ice through my veins.

I pushed the door open just enough to peer inside, telling myself I was being paranoid. What I saw froze the blood in my arteries.

Cassian had Jolie pressed against his desk, his hands tangled in her dark hair. Their bodies were fused together in an embrace so intimate it couldn't be mistaken for anything professional. His lips moved against her neck as she arched into him.

"I can't believe we're still doing this," Jolie whispered, her voice husky with desire. "What about Sylvie?"

The mention of my name snapped something inside me. I should have burst in, demanded explanations. Instead, I found myself silently backing away, hiding behind the door's edge.

"Sylvie," Cassian said, and something in his tone made me press my ear closer to the crack. "She's... convenient."

"Convenient?" Jolie laughed softly.

"After what she did—saving my life—how could I not propose? It was the only decent thing to do."

The world tilted beneath my feet. I gripped the doorframe to steady myself.

"You don't love her," Jolie stated rather than asked.

"Love?" Cassian's laugh was hollow. "You know better than anyone that love isn't part of my vocabulary."

I bit my lip until I tasted blood, forcing back a sob that threatened to expose my presence.

---

The next morning, I arrived at the research institute early, hoping to lose myself in work rather than dwell on yesterday's discovery. My hands trembled as I unlocked my lab door.

"Dr. Gray!" Elena Martinez, our department head, approached with an odd expression. "Have you seen the latest journal publication?"

She thrust her tablet into my hands. On the screen was Jolie's face beside an article titled "Groundbreaking Environmental Impact Assessment—Methodologies and Findings."

My methodologies. My findings. My data.

"This can't be," I whispered, scanning the abstract. Every word, every conclusion was mine—work I'd spent three years perfecting.

"Elena, this is my research. All of it."

The faculty meeting that afternoon became a circus. I stood before the entire department, my voice shaking with rage as I exposed Jolie's theft.

"These are Dr. Gray's exact findings," I concluded, looking directly at Jolie. "Published under your name without attribution."

Jolie's expression remained perfectly composed. "That's absurd. These methodologies were developed independently."

Before I could respond, Cassian strode into the room. As a major donor to our institute, he carried weight that silenced everyone.

"I've reviewed both Dr. Ramos's work and Dr. Gray's preliminary data," he announced, his eyes deliberately avoiding mine. "I'm afraid Dr. Gray's research contains significant flaws that would make publication questionable."

The room fell silent. My career, my reputation—he was dismantling them with a single sentence.

"Cassian," I said quietly, using his first name in front of everyone—a desperate mistake.

His eyes finally met mine, cold and distant. "Dr. Gray, perhaps you should focus on more... achievable projects."

---

Back in my lab, I stared at my computer screen. The research database contained years of my work—all my original data, my intellectual property. With trembling fingers, I selected all files and pressed delete.

"Yes," I whispered as the confirmation dialog appeared. "Permanently delete."

The screen flashed as thousands of data points vanished forever. No one would use my work again—not Jolie, not Cassian, no one.

I pulled out my phone and typed a text to Cassian: "Wedding canceled. Don't contact me."

Then I called Elena. "I want that transfer to Arizona. Today if possible."

"Arizona?" she asked, surprised. "The desert facility?"

"Yes," I said firmly. "As far from here as possible."

Two hours later, I packed a single suitcase and looked back at my apartment—the life I'd built around Cassian. The awards on my mantel. The photos of us at galas and charity events. None of it mattered anymore.

As I stepped into the taxi bound for the airport, my phone buzzed with Cassian's response: "Sylvie, please—we need to talk."

I turned off my phone and looked toward the horizon. Somewhere beyond those skyscrapers lay the Arizona desert—and maybe, just maybe, a chance to find myself again.