Marrying His Rival: The Heiress's Sweet Revenge

Ava Carlisle POV:

The knife slid through the crust of the baguette with a satisfying crunch. I hummed along to the song playing softly from my phone.

Tonight was a celebration.

Julian Sterling, my boy friend, had done it again. As the star forward for the New York Mavericks, he'd scored the winning goal in the final seconds of the game.

I opened the wine fridge, my eyes scanning the collection. I pulled out a bottle of Romanée-Conti, its dark glass cool against my fingertips. This was our tradition. A major win meant Kobe beef and the best wine I could get my hands on.

A soft smile touched my lips as I remembered. To fund his first elite training camp, I'd sold the jewelry my grandmother left me. I, Ava Carlisle, sole heir to the Carlisle Holdings fortune, had hidden my name and opened a small bakery in Brooklyn to support him through the lean years. He thought it was my quaint little hobby. He had no idea it was all a test. A seven-year test of love.

I pulled out my phone, opening the banking app. It was time to move some money from our joint investment account—the one I'd seeded with millions as our "family fund"—to cover a few upcoming expenses.

I typed in the password.

The screen loaded.

My smile froze.

Account Balance: $1.37.

A cold fist clenched in my stomach. I hit the refresh button. Once. Twice. Three times.

$1.37.

A wave of dizziness washed over me. I gripped the cold marble countertop to steady myself. It had to be a system error. It had to be. Or maybe Julian had moved the money into a new investment and forgotten to tell me.

My fingers felt like ice as I tried to call him. The phone rang and rang, then went straight to voicemail. A knot of dread tightened in my chest.

My gaze swept across the living room and landed on his laptop, left open on the coffee table. The screen was still on.

I walked over, my bare feet silent on the polished floor. My intention was to log into the online banking portal, to see the transaction history. To find a logical explanation.

But that's not what I saw.

A chat window was open, a messaging app I'd never seen before.

The contact name at the top read "My little wildcat S."

My breath caught in my throat.

The last message, sent thirty minutes ago, glowed on the screen: "Baby, the money came through. You're amazing! Cody and I will be waiting for you at home, my hero."

My fingers, cold and numb, moved the cursor and clicked on the profile picture. A woman with strawberry blonde hair and a full face of makeup smiled sweetly at the camera.

I started to scroll up, my body trembling. The pet names and explicit messages were a blur. Each word was a physical blow.

"Ava the fool has no idea."

"I'll marry you as soon as I handle her."

"She's just a stepping stone."

Then I saw it. A screenshot of a bank transfer confirmation. The recipient was Scarlett Hicks. The amount was the exact sum missing from my account. The memo line read: "For my favorite girl and my son."

Son?

My mind went blank. I couldn't process the word.

I kept scrolling, my movements jerky, until I found a link to a social media profile. I clicked it.

The account was private, but Julian's laptop was logged in. The profile belonged to the woman, Scarlett.

The pinned post was a picture of her nestled in Julian's arms, her stomach slightly rounded. The caption: "Waiting for our little prince to arrive." The date was from four years ago.

I kept scrolling.

Photo after photo of their "family." Julian holding a little boy with blond hair, a boy whose eyes were a perfect copy of his.

The latest picture showed the boy, Cody, playing in a room I knew intimately.

It was the nursery. The one I had designed, piece by piece, dreaming of the day it would hold my child with Julian.

In the background of the photo, hanging on the wall, was a painting I'd given Julian as a graduation gift from college.

I stared at their happy, smiling faces—a perfect family of three. Then I looked down at my own hands, dusted with flour from the bread I was making for his celebration dinner.

The absurdity of it all, the sheer, crushing weight of the lie, churned in my stomach.

A violent wave of nausea sent me running to the bathroom. I retched over the toilet, but nothing came up. Only dry, heaving sobs that tore from my throat, hot tears streaming down my face.

I pushed myself up, my hands braced against the wall. In the mirror, a woman with a chalk-white face and bloodshot eyes stared back.

Slowly, I spoke to my reflection, each word a shard of glass. "Aveline Carlisle, you are a complete and utter fool."

I walked back into the living room. I didn't close the laptop. I didn't touch the half-prepared dinner on the counter.

I picked up my phone and deleted every text, every call, every photo of him.

Then, with a strange sense of calm, I walked back to the kitchen and took the bottle of Romanée-Conti from the counter.

I didn't bother with a glass.

I tilted the bottle to my lips and took a long, hard swallow. The expensive wine burned my throat, but it brought a shocking clarity to my shattered mind.

Julian .

You will pay for this.

The sound of a key turning in the lock echoed from the front door. He was back.

I didn't move. I leaned against the kitchen doorway, the heavy bottle in my hand, and watched the entrance.

The door swung open. Julian walked in, a tired but satisfied smile on his face. He hadn't seen me yet.

"Honey, I'm home!" he called out. "Guess what surprise I have for you tonight?"