My Maid of Honor Stole My Fiancé, So I Stole Her Billionaire Husband!

The rough hand dragged me backward. The hallway carpet muffled my frantic scrambling. A door clicked open behind me, and I was shoved inside a dark room.

The heavy wood slammed shut. The lock tumbled.

I spun around, fists raised to strike.

"Are you insane?" I hissed. "Open that door. That is my fiancé in there."

"Keep your voice down, Mia."

The tall man stepped into the dim light spilling from the entryway.

Julian. Chloe's husband.

He wore a charcoal suit, perfectly tailored, but his tie hung loose around his collar like he'd torn it off in a hurry. His jaw was tight. His dark eyes offered zero comfort.

"You," I whispered, my brain finally catching up. "You sent the text."

"I needed you to see it for yourself."

"Why didn't you just tell me? Why didn't you call me and say, *Mia, our spouses are sleeping together*—instead of luring me into a hallway like some kind of game?"

Julian ignored the question. He walked past me, his dress shoes silent on the rug, and crossed to the king-sized bed.

He slid a heavy gold band off his left ring finger.

He tossed it onto the nightstand. It hit the polished mahogany with a sharp clatter—the sound of five years of marriage landing like loose change.

"I didn't want you to just hear about it," Julian said. "I wanted you angry. Hearing about it lets you talk yourself out of believing it. Seeing it does not."

He picked up a thick manila folder from the mattress, flipped it open, and upended it.

Dozens of glossy photographs scattered across the white duvet.

"Because anger," he finished, "is useful."

I stepped closer to the bed. The images blurred together at first.

Then the edges sharpened.

David and Chloe at a corner booth in a restaurant I recognized—the one where David had told me, two weeks ago, that he'd had a "client lunch" he couldn't get out of. David and Chloe walking into a parking garage, his hand low on her back. David's hand resting high on her thigh in the front seat of his car, the same car he'd driven me to the bridal salon in just last Saturday.

"How long?" I asked. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.

"A month."

"Thirty days." The words tasted like a number, not a betrayal—not yet. "You let me keep planning a wedding for thirty days while you—"

The sentence broke apart before I could finish it, because somewhere underneath the gold band glinting on the nightstand, I had already understood the second half of what Julian wasn't saying yet: he hadn't brought me here just to show me David's affair.

He had brought me here because he needed something from me, and the ring he'd just thrown down wasn't a wedding band coming off.

It was an opening move.