My Fiancé's Downfall Claimed By The Mistress's Brother

"You have sixty seconds before my security team removes you from this building," Julian Vance said.

He did not turn his leather executive chair away from the glass. He sat facing the floor-to-ceiling windows of the top-floor suite, his gaze fixed on the sprawling city skyline below.

I pushed open the glass doors, my stained sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished marble floor. "Call them," I said, my voice bouncing off the high ceilings. "But your board of directors might want to hear what I have to say first."

Julian rotated his chair around. His dark eyes locked onto mine, cold and sharp. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that made Derek look like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.

"You trespassed through my private elevator," Julian said. "You have fifty seconds."

"I used the family emergency code printed on your card," I replied. I marched straight across the Persian rug toward him. "And trust me, this is an emergency."

"Who are you?"

"Chloe Bennett," I said. "I'm the woman whose fiancé is currently sleeping with your little sister."

I reached the his mahogany desk and slapped the black-and-gold business card down onto the wood. Beside it, I dropped a stack of glossy, eight-by-ten photographs I had printed at a twenty-four-hour pharmacy half an hour ago.

The top image showed Derek’s bare chest and Mia’s half-unbuttoned silk camisole, illuminated by the harsh flash of my phone camera inside the Porsche.

Julian did not blink. "Mia is twenty-two. She makes poor choices."

"Sleeping with an engaged man isn't just a poor choice, Mr. Vance. It's a public relations disaster," I said. I leaned my palms flat against the cool mahogany. "Your company goes public next month. How much is Vance Group stock going to drop when tabloids run headlines about the CEO's sister playing mistress to a broke startup founder?"

"Are you attempting to blackmail me?"

"I'm offering you a containment strategy," I shot back. "Derek used three years of my life savings to fund his company, and now he's using your sister to climb the social ladder. He thinks marrying a Vance will guarantee his next round of venture capital."

"He's an opportunist," Julian remarked, his tone flat.

"He's a parasite," I corrected. "And right now, Mia is paying for his meals."

Julian leaned forward and picked up the top photograph.

His eyes scanned the digital timestamp in the corner, then shifted to Mia's face in the passenger seat of the Cayenne. A slight crease appeared between his brows.

He set the picture back down and tapped the gold nib of his fountain pen twice against the mahogany surface. Tap. Tap.

"How much do you want?" he asked.

"I don't want your money," I said, my jaw clenching. "I want my car back, and I want my fiancé ruined."

"You bought him a Porsche Cayenne?"

"Every cent," I said. "Cash. I scrubbed floors and worked double shifts at a call center while he pretended to build a tech empire."

Julian studied me in silence. I braced for anger. I expected him to summon the guards, threaten me with corporate lawyers, or rip the photographs to shreds to protect his family name.

Instead, he stood up.

He was six-foot-two of solid, imposing calm. As he walked around the desk toward me, the physical pressure of his presence made my lungs tighten, but I refused to take a step back.

He stopped two feet in front of me.

"Your cheek," he said softly.

"What?"

He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a folded white cotton handkerchief, and held it out to me.

"You have a smudge on your face," he said. "And you look like you haven't slept in three days."

I stared at the clean fabric, remembering the rubbery slap of the condom Derek had flicked at me in the dark garage. Heat flared in my neck.

I took the cloth and wiped my cheekbone. "Thanks."

"You worked yourself to the bone for a man who treats you like trash," Julian said. It was not a question.

"I'm done working for him," I said, tossing the soiled handkerchief onto the his desk. "Now I want to tear down everything he thinks he's built."

"Mia told my investment board that Derek was a visionary," Julian said. "She submitted a proposal last Tuesday asking Vance Group to lead his seed funding round with five million dollars."

"Tell me you didn't sign it," I said.

"I don't sign contracts without vetting the principal," Julian replied.

He turned his back to me, walked to the phone console on his desk, and pressed a silver button.

"Elena," he said into the speaker.

"Yes, Mr. Vance?" a crisp voice answered.

"Contact the finance department. Freeze Mia's primary trust account and all secondary credit lines immediately."

"Sir? All of them?"

"Every dollar," Julian said. "And Elena? Pull the incubator file for Derek's startup. Cancel the seed funding offer."

"Right away, sir."

Julian released the button and looked at me. "Derek's company has three weeks of runway left without my capital. When Mia's accounts freeze, she won't be able to buy him a cup of coffee, let alone fund his lifestyle."

"He'll dump her the second the money stops," I said.

"No," Julian said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "He will try to secure his position before he realizes the money is gone."

He opened a top brass drawer, reached inside, and pulled out a cream-colored envelope stamped with the gold Vance family crest.

He slid it across the polished mahogany until it stopped right at my fingertips.

"What is this?" I asked.

"An invitation to the annual charity gala tomorrow evening," Julian said. "Mia will be there. She plans to introduce Derek to my board members as her new partner."

I looked down at the embossed gold crest. "You want me to cause a scene?"

"I want you to take back what belongs to you," Julian said, his voice lowering as he tapped the invitation with his index finger. "Tomorrow night, we teach them what a price looks like."