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

"Happy third anniversary, Derek," I whispered to the empty air.

I stood in the shadows of the underground parking garage, rolling the custom leather key fob between my fingers. The black Porsche crest dug into my skin, a solid reminder of what I had accomplished.

"I know you said we couldn't afford a celebration this year," I continued, practicing my speech to a concrete pillar. "But I wanted to give you something real. Something to show you how much I believe in you."

Three days ago, I sat in a luxury dealership and wired every penny of my savings to buy the Cayenne. I paid in cash. No loans. No debt. Just massive, undeniable proof my loyalty to the man I planned to marry.

A rhythmic, metallic squeak echoed through the silent garage.

Fifty feet ahead, parked in the VIP spot Derek always used, sat the matte-black Cayenne.

It was rocking.

Three years ago, I slept four hours a night. I scrubbed diner floors until my knees bled and worked double shifts at a call center just to hand him a fifty-thousand-dollar cashier’s check. His startup capital.

But as I stepped out from behind the pillar, the truth hit me square in the chest.

I slammed my palm flat against the tinted driver's side window.

"Derek!" I screamed.

The rocking stopped instantly. A frantic, desperate rustling erupted inside the cabin.

The glass glided down with a soft mechanical hum.

Derek sat in the driver’s seat. His chest was bare, sweat shining on his collarbone. He didn't look panicked. He didn't even look guilty. He just looked severely annoyed.

"What the hell are you doing here, Chloe?" he snapped. He dragged a hand through his messy brown hair, glaring at me as if I had interrupted a business meeting.

My gaze snapped to the passenger seat.

Mia.

The wealthy, twenty-two-year-old intern from his marketing department. The same girl who spent her lunch breaks loudly critiquing my discount-rack clothes whenever I brought Derek his homemade meals. She was currently struggling to pull a silk camisole over her lace bra.

"You gave her the car?" I asked. My voice came out dangerously flat. "The car I just bought you?"

Derek let out a mocking laugh. He leaned his elbow out the window, unashamed of his half-naked state.

"I'm breaking it in," he said, smirking. "Mia appreciates luxury. You just know how to pay for it."

"Get out of the car," I demanded, stepping closer to the door.

"Or what?" Mia chimed in. She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and offered a sickeningly sweet smile. "You'll ruin your cheap shoes throwing a tantrum?"

"This is my vehicle," I said, staring directly at Derek. "I hold the title. Step out."

"Oh, please," Derek sneered. "You bought it as a gift for me. It's mine. Besides, what are you going to do with a Porsche? Drive it to your second job at the diner?"

Mia giggled, covering her mouth with a manicured hand. "She probably doesn't even know how to start it, Derek."

"I know how to report it stolen," I shot back, my voice remarkably steady. "Get out of my car, Derek. Both of you."

Derek’s amusement vanished, replaced by a dark scowl. "You wouldn't dare. My investors are in town this week. If you pull any crazy stunts and embarrass me, I'll make sure you get nothing when I break the engagement."

"You already gave me nothing," I said. "Three years together, and this is what I get? Watching you screw an intern in the car I paid for?"

"Don't call me an intern," Mia snapped, her eyes narrowing. "I have more connections in my pinky finger than you'll ever have in your entire pathetic life. Derek is upgrading. Deal with it."

Derek rolled his eyes, clearly tired of the conversation. He reached down into the center console, rummaging for a second. He pulled his hand up, pinched two fingers together, and flicked his wrist toward my face.

A wet, rubbery object slapped against my cheek.

It dropped to the pavement with a sickening splat.

A used condom.

"Back off, Chloe," Derek warned, his eyes turning cold and hard. "Don't smudge the paint. I just got this waxed."

The latex lay near the toe of my sneaker.

No tears came. An icy calm washed over my brain, freezing the panic and the heartbreak that tried to claw up my throat. He wanted to treat me like trash? Fine.

I shoved the custom Porsche key into my pocket. I pulled out my phone and unlocked the screen.

I hit record.

The camera flash strobed in the dark garage, blinding them. It illuminated Derek’s bare chest and Mia’s half-exposed breasts in unforgiving detail.

"Hey!" Derek shouted. He threw a hand over his face. "Put that away!"

"Smile for my attorney," I said. I kept the lens steady on his panicked expression.

"Are you crazy?" Mia shrieked.

She scrambled backward against the leather seat, her elbow slamming into the door handle.

"Delete that right now, Chloe!" Derek yelled. He reached out the window, swiping blindly at my phone.

I took a quick step back, keeping him in frame. "Assaulting me on camera won't help your civil case, Derek. Especially since you used my money to fund that pathetic tech startup of yours."

"It's my company!" he roared, his face turning red. "You just handed me the cash! I did the actual work!"

"We'll see what the judge thinks about that," I said, zooming in on his furious face.

Mia let out a high-pitched wail. "Derek, if this gets out, my family will kill me! Make her stop!"

"I'm trying!" Derek yelled back.

The passenger door swung open.

Mia tumbled out, clutching her designer purse to her chest. She stumbled against the concrete pillar. The expensive bag tipped upside down.

A gold compact, a tube of lipstick, and a thick, black-and-gold business card spilled onto the dusty floor.

"Mia, wait!" Derek yelled, scrambling to find his shirt in the backseat.

Mia ignored him. She gathered her makeup, missing the cardboard square that had slid near my foot. She shoved her way past the hood of the car, sprinting toward the garage exit. Her rapid footsteps echoed sharply against the concrete walls.

"Mia!" Derek punched the steering wheel. He glared at me. "You ruined everything!"

"I think you managed that on your own," I replied.

I lowered my phone and ended the recording.

The business card rested right next to the discarded condom.

I placed my sneaker over the card, pinning it to the ground. I crouched down, ignoring Derek’s continued shouting from the driver's seat, and picked it up.

Embossed gold lettering caught the dim overhead light.

Julian Vance.

CEO, Vance Group.

Below the corporate title, a private family contact number was printed in elegant script.

Mia wasn't just an intern. She was a Vance.

My thumb traced the raised letters of the name, locking onto the one man who could tear Derek's entire company to the ground.