Traded For Ambition: The Mistress Strikes Back

Mia POV

I never took the ride to the airport. God, I was so stupid.

Noah had dropped me off at a safe motel in Jersey, shoving a wad of cash into my hand and telling me to run. I should have listened.

But the next morning, Ethan called.

"I have your severance check," he said, his voice smooth, reasonable. "But you need to do one last thing. A handover meeting with Harrington. He's the zoning commissioner for the new casino. He won't sign unless the original architect explains the plans."

"Mail me the check," I said, my grip tightening on the receiver.

"In person, Mia. The Hamptons. Tonight. Do this, and you're free. I promise."

I needed that money. Noah's cash would last a week. Ethan’s check meant a new life. A clean slate.

So I went.

The house in the Hamptons was a sprawling modern monstrosity of glass and steel, cold despite the summer heat. The party was in full swing by the pool, music thumping against the windows.

I found Harrington in the library.

He was a corpulent man, his skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration. He looked at me not like an architect, but like a prime cut in a butcher shop.

"Ah, Mia," he smiled, closing the door behind me with a heavy click. "Ethan said you were part of the deal."

"I'm just here to explain the load-bearing walls," I said, clutching my blueprints to my chest like a shield.

He laughed, a wet, breathless sound. He stepped closer, trapping me against the mahogany desk. "Ethan said you were... accommodating. That you knew your place."

My stomach dropped. "What?"

"He said if I signed the permit, I could have a taste."

Harrington lunged.

His hands were clammy and strong. He grabbed the strap of my dress.

"No!" I screamed, shoving him back.

Fabric tore. The sound was loud in the quiet room. My dress ripped at the shoulder, exposing skin.

Panic flared hot and white. I grabbed a heavy brass paperweight from the desk and swung it blindly.

It connected with his temple with a wet crack.

Harrington yelped and stumbled back, blood trickling down his face, shock replacing the lust in his eyes.

The door burst open.

Ethan stood there.

"What the hell are you doing?" he roared.

"He tried to rape me!" I shouted, my voice trembling as I held my torn dress together.

Ethan looked at Harrington, then at me. His expression didn't soften. It hardened.

"Jesus, Mia," Ethan said, disgusted. "You couldn't just handle him? You had to make a scene?"

The world didn't just stop spinning; it shattered.

"Handle him?" I whispered, the air leaving my lungs. "You sold me?"

"It's a permit, Mia. It's worth fifty million dollars. You've slept with me for free for years. What's the difference?"

Something inside me snapped. It wasn't a loud snap. It was quiet. It was the sound of the last thread of affection I held for him disintegrating into ash.

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

He wasn't a powerful Capo. He was a pimp in an Armani suit.

I reached into my bag. I pulled out the keycard to the penthouse, the keycard to the office, the phone he gave me.

I dropped them on the floor. Clatter. Clatter. Thud.

"You are rot," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "You are a disease."

"You walk out that door, you get nothing," Ethan warned, stepping aside. "No money. No protection. Isabella will hunt you for sport."

"Let her come," I said.

I walked past him. I didn't run this time. I walked.

I walked out of the house, past the pool where people laughed and drank, oblivious. I walked down the long driveway.

I didn't have a car. I walked to the highway, my heels clicking against the asphalt.

I stuck out my thumb.

A truck slowed to a halt, brakes hissing.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"North," I said, climbing into the cab. "Just drive North."