My Fiancé's Countdown Mistress

I peeled off my latex gloves with a satisfying snap and tossed them into the biohazard bin. Thirty-six hours on my feet, four cardiac arrests, one multi-car pileup, and a toddler who'd swallowed his mother's wedding ring. Just another marathon shift at San Francisco General. "You're still standing. Impressive," Dr. Ramirez said, passing me in the hallway. I managed a tired smile. "Barely." But exhaustion couldn't touch the flutter of excitement in my chest. I pulled out my phone and texted Marcus: *Still on for City Hall at 2? Can't wait to make this official!

Chapters

Chapter 3

I sat on the edge of our bed, staring at the photo until my eyes burned. Marcus and Victoria at Auberge du Soleil—the restaurant he'd promised to take me to for months. The ruby ring glinted accusingly in the candlelight. My fingers trembled as I tried to trace the message, desperate to confirm what I already knew.

The number was untraceable—a disposable, used once and discarded. Like me.

I didn't sleep. How could I? When Marcus finally slipped into bed at 3:47 AM, I kept my breathing steady, my back to him. He smelled of expensive wine and a perfume that wasn't mine. He didn't touch me.

"I know you're awake," he whispered.

I said nothing.

"The meeting ran late. Dave wouldn't stop talking about server capacity."

Another lie. I counted it like a nurse counts a patient's pulse—mechanical, detached. The darkness swallowed my silence.

Morning came with cruel brightness. I went through my routine like a ghost in my own life—shower, coffee, scrubs. Marcus was already gone, a hastily scrawled note on the counter: *Early meeting. Love you.*

The words mocked me.

At the hospital, I moved through my shifts on autopilot. Broken arm in bed three. Chest pain in five. Allergic reaction in eight. My hands worked while my mind replayed that photo—their heads bent close, sharing secrets I wasn't meant to know.

During a rare quiet moment, I borrowed Sarah's laptop to check my email. Marcus and I shared our Apple account—a decision made in the easy trust of our early relationship. A notification popped up: a screenshot from his MacBook had synced to the cloud.

I shouldn't have opened it. But then, he shouldn't have been at Auberge du Soleil last night.

It was a group chat. Marcus's tech friends—the same ones who'd be groomsmen at our wedding in twenty-nine days.

*Dave: Saw you with Victoria last night. Old flames die hard?*

*Marcus: Just catching up.*

*Alex: "Catching up" at Auberge? Sure, bro. Does the good doctor know?*

*Dave: Natalie's just the safe choice. We all know Victoria's the real deal. She GETS our world.*

*Marcus: Shut up.*

*Alex: He's not denying it though...*

The messages blurred as tears filled my eyes. I quickly closed the window, feeling like I'd been punched. Not just Marcus—his entire circle saw me as the consolation prize. The boring doctor he settled for when Victoria left.

"Earth to Natalie." Sarah's voice cut through my thoughts. She placed a salad in front of me in the break room. "You haven't touched your food. What's going on?"

I blinked, realizing I'd been staring at nothing. "Just tired."

"Bullshit." Sarah dropped into the chair across from me. "I've seen you after forty-eight-hour shifts. This is different."

I could tell her. Should tell her. The words pressed against my teeth—*Marcus is cheating on me with his ex. They're having a countdown romance until our wedding. His friends are laughing at me behind my back.*

But saying it would make it real.

"Wedding stress," I lied, forcing a smile. "Centerpieces and seating charts."

Sarah's eyes narrowed. She knew me too well. "Nat, if something's wrong—"

"I'm handling it," I interrupted, stabbing at my salad. "I'm going to talk to Marcus tonight."

Would I? The thought of confronting him made my chest tight. What if he chose her? What if the last five years had been nothing but a placeholder relationship until Victoria returned?

"Promise me," Sarah pressed, her hand covering mine. "Whatever it is, don't let it fester."

"I promise," I said, knowing even as the words left my mouth that it was another lie to add to the growing collection.

My phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number.

*He always said you were his second choice. I'm just helping him remember his first.*

Attached was a new photo—Marcus kissing Victoria's neck in what looked like a hotel elevator, her triumphant eyes staring directly into the camera.

The countdown had just begun, and I was already losing.

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For four years, Ember traced the bullet scar on Chace's chest, believing it proved his unwavering protection. Their anniversary gala was supposed to be the night he finally proposed, a symbol of their future. Instead, she stood frozen, watching him slide his mother's sapphire onto Karyn Warren's finger—the daughter of a rival family. His voice, amplified by the silent ballroom, declared, "Karyn is for power. Ember is for pleasure. Don't confuse the assets." Her heart incinerated. Publicly humiliated, she was ordered to remain his mistress, threatened with her dead mother's grave. Chace, confident her father's debts trapped her, forced her from their shared penthouse. He then used a fake "Help. Sick." text to lure Ember to a club, only to humiliate her further, calling her "loyal like a dog." Karyn ordered a soldier to "touch" Ember while Chace watched, indifferent. With no other choice, Ember drank a punishment cup containing wine she was severely allergic to. She collapsed, suffocating on the club floor, as Chace and Karyn watched, annoyed. Waking in a sterile hospital room, her throat raw, she faced Chace's cold relief and Karyn's dismissive cruelty. The betrayal was absolute, the injustice sickening. But moments before, in her despair, Ember had invoked a Blood Oath. She texted Keith Mosley, the ruthless Don, accepting his price for her father's debt: marriage. She would become his, and she was ready to pay.

Mafia Modern Romance

9.6

After His Mistress Poisoned My Mother, He Still Chose Her

9.6

I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the red dress that had once been too loose in the bust and too tight in the hips. Now it fit perfectly—the alterations a testament to how bodies change over a decade. The neckline still plunged just enough to reveal the necklace Cillian had given me on our first anniversary, a delicate silver chain with a charm shaped like a house. Our home. Ten years of building a life together, and tonight, I wanted to celebrate that. The maître d' at Le Bernardin remembered my name as I approached, which felt like a small victory. 'Mrs. Davis, right this way.' He led me to a corner table bathed in soft amber light, the kind that makes everyone look like they're in love. I'd made the reservation myself three weeks ago, chosen the wine—a Burgundy from the year we met—and even thought about what to order. I'd rehearsed nothing, wanted nothing except one evening that belonged entirely to us.

Billionaire Modern Romance

9.2

From Mafia Pawn To The Don's Queen

9.2

It wasn't a gun, but the pen in my hand was going to end my life just the same. Liam, the man I was supposed to marry in a month, pointed to the tablet on his desk. It showed a live feed of my mother’s hospital room. "Sign the confession, Ava," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Take the fall for the embezzlement. Or the funding for her ventilator stops in ten seconds." My heart hammered against my ribs. The crimes weren't mine. They belonged to Chloe, his mistress. But Liam Valenti, the Underboss of New York, was sacrificing me to save her. "She's fragile," he said casually, adjusting his silk cuffs. "She can't handle prison. You're strong. You'll survive." With tears blurring my vision, I signed the document. I signed away my career as a lawyer and my freedom to save my mother. Liam snatched the paper like a prize. He didn't offer comfort. He just smirked. "Good girl. The wedding is still on, of course. You'll look beautiful in the ankle monitor." He walked out to celebrate with his mistress, thinking he had won. Thinking he owned me. But he forgot one crucial detail. I wasn't just his fiancée. I was the one who laundered his money. I knew where every body was buried—literally and financially. The moment the door clicked shut, I stopped crying. I pulled out a burner phone and opened an encrypted app. I wasn't going to jail. I was going to war. I typed three words to the one man Liam feared most. "Execute Protocol Zero."

Mafia Modern Romance

9.2

His Cruel Joke, My Broken Heart

9.2

I did everything for Damian, my childhood best friend. His promise-"Get in shape, Lena, and I'll take you to prom"-was the only thing that mattered. I starved myself and ran until I collapsed, all for the future he dangled in front of me. But on his birthday, clutching the cake I' d baked, I overheard the truth. The promise was a cruel joke. To him and his real girlfriend, Gigi, I was just a "fat pig" whose desperate attempts to impress him were "hilarious to watch." They didn't stop there. They framed me for bullying, and Damian publicly denied ever caring for me. He then got my Stanford scholarship revoked with a malicious report and stood by as Gigi plastered my most private love letters all over school. I became a pariah, a "delusional, conniving bitch." The boy I had loved my whole life, the one who was supposed to be my protector, had orchestrated my complete and utter destruction for a laugh. Yet he still expected me to follow him to college. So when he called on move-in day, buzzing with excitement for our shared future, I let him ramble on about our plans. Then, I calmly cut through his fantasy. "I'm not here, Damian."

Modern Romance Young Adult

8.2

His Perfect Prescription, My Royal Betrayal

8.2

For three years, I was his "little bird," an amnesiac he rescued and cherished. He was Dawson Nash, a handsome tech billionaire, my savior, my anchor, my entire world. Then I overheard him talking to his therapist. "10,000 encounters, Dawson. You chose well. She's clean, naive, and pliable. A perfect prescription." I was just a tool, a "cure" to keep him pure for his true obsession: Arleen, his mother's best friend. Every gentle touch, every patient lesson, every whispered "I love you"-all a calculated lie. He called me disposable, a placeholder until he could have his goddess. He humiliated me, abandoned me in a storm, and left me for dead after a car accident. When I saved Arleen from drowning, he accused me of trying to kill her and had me locked in a chapel to "reflect." But as the super blue blood moon rose, I saw my chance. Not for revenge, but for escape. I threw myself into the ancient well on his family's estate, not to die, but to go home. Because I wasn't just a naive girl with amnesia. I was a princess from a lost kingdom, and the well was my gateway back.

Billionaire Modern Mystery

9.7

The Billionaire's Neglected Wife Is A Genius

9.7

Ellyn woke to a news alert of her husband, billionaire Hardy Burnett, picking up his "mystery blonde" ex at a private terminal. Just hours earlier, he had been raw and consuming in their shared bed, but by morning, he was a cold stranger tossing a birth control pill at her. He reminded her with mechanical indifference that their marriage was a mere contract, and the Burnett family tolerated no accidental risks. The mystery woman was Izabella Macdonald, the one who got away. While Ellyn spent her mornings dabbing heavy concealer over the purple bruises Hardy left on her neck, the rest of the world was celebrating the return of the "rightful" Mrs. Burnett. To Hardy, Ellyn was a liability; to his family, she was a placeholder with a bankrupt bloodline. The humiliation peaked at a high-society gala when Hardy walked in with Izabella on his arm, leaving Ellyn to navigate the vultures alone. His mother mocked her as "cheap polyester," and socialites whispered about the penthouse Hardy was secretly buying for his mistress. Even as Hardy's jealousy flared when he saw Ellyn with his brother, his loyalty remained divided, his heart seemingly anchored to the woman in the white silk dress. The breaking point came in the pouring rain outside the venue. Hardy ordered Ellyn into the backseat of the car like common cargo so that Izabella could take the passenger seat-the seat of the partner. He expected Ellyn to sit in the shadows and watch his ex-girlfriend play wife in the front, treating her presence as a domestic inconvenience he could simply command. I stared at the man who owned my nights but despised my existence. The heavy thud of the pill I swallowed every morning felt like a lead weight, a bitter reminder that I was nothing more than a paid commodity in his eyes. He thought he knew everything about his destitute, dependent wife, from the temperature I needed the room to the way I took my tea. But Hardy didn't know about the encrypted ledgers or the offshore accounts. He didn't know that the "destitute" woman he relegated to the backseat was the secret mastermind behind Skim, the global fashion empire currently worth more than his latest merger. "I'm not getting in," I said, my voice eerily calm against the thunder. I slammed the door, turned my back on his roar of fury, and walked into the dark. It was time to stop being a ghost in his house and start being the woman who could buy his entire world.

Billionaire Modern Romance

My Fiancé's Countdown Mistress

Chapter 3

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