When My Fiancé Sacrificed Our Baby to Save His Mistress

The champagne flutes caught the light like tiny prisms, scattering gold across the marble floors of the Alexander Corp ballroom. I adjusted the neckline of my rented Valentino—three hundred dollars for the night, money I didn't have—and scanned the crowd for my target.

Adam Alexander stood near the far windows, a silhouette of controlled power against the Manhattan skyline. Fifty-two, unmarried, worth more than some small countries. I'd memorized every detail about him over the past six months: his morning routine, his favorite restaurants, the gallery where he'd purchased a Rothko last spring. Tonight was supposed to be my opening move.

I started toward him, rehearsing my carefully crafted introduction about post-war abstract expressionism. Three steps in, someone's elbow caught a passing waiter's tray. Champagne cascaded down my dress in a cold, humiliating rush.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry—" The waiter's face went white.

"It's fine." I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. The dress was ruined. Three hundred dollars down the drain, along with my entrance.

I retreated toward the service corridor, heels clicking against marble, my cheeks burning. The hallway was blessedly empty, dim and cool. I pressed my back against the wall, trying to calculate how quickly I could disappear without drawing more attention.

That's when I heard the voices.

"—question your judgment, Duke. The board won't approve someone so reckless."

"My uncle built this company. I'm his heir."

"Adam built it because he's disciplined. You're a liability."

I froze. The voices came from a half-open door ten feet away, light spilling across the corridor floor. Duke Alexander. Adam's nephew, the golden boy with a reputation for expensive cars and cheaper women. Not part of my plan at all.

"I'll prove myself," Duke said, and something in his voice made my chest tighten. Desperation, maybe. Or fear.

I should have left. Should have walked away and found another entrance, another angle. Instead, I leaned closer, straining to hear.

The door swung open.

Duke Alexander stood in the doorway, all sharp cheekbones and darker-than-they-should-be eyes. His tuxedo probably cost more than my entire year's rent. He looked at me, then at my champagne-soaked dress, and something flickered across his face. Amusement, maybe.

"Eavesdropping?" His voice was smooth, practiced. "Or just lost?"

"Neither. I was—" I straightened, channeling every ounce of borrowed confidence. "Looking for the powder room."

"In the service corridor?" He stepped closer. Behind him, the board member had vanished. "You're the art consultant. Scarlett Robinson, Yale class of 2018."

My pulse kicked up. "That's right."

"Interesting." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a painting he couldn't quite authenticate. "Tell me, did you study under Professor Whitmore or Professor Chen?"

The floor dropped out from under me. There was no Professor Whitmore at Yale. I'd made him up, a small detail in a fabricated transcript, never thinking anyone would check. Chen was real, but I'd never met him.

"Whitmore," I said, because backing down now would be worse.

Duke's smile sharpened. "Funny. Whitmore retired in 2015. Moved to Vermont, I believe."

The champagne on my dress felt ice-cold. My fingers found the locket beneath the fabric—Mom's locket, the only real thing I owned—and I pressed it hard enough to hurt.

"I misspoke," I said. "It was Chen."

"Was it?" He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something expensive and woody. "Or is your entire resume as fictional as Professor Whitmore?"

I should have run. Should have pushed past him and disappeared into the New York night. Instead, I lifted my chin and met his eyes.

"What do you want?"

His smile widened, and for the first time, I saw something dangerous beneath the polished surface. "You heard that conversation. You know what I need."

"A miracle?"

"A partner." He touched his watch—platinum, probably a gift—and I filed the gesture away. "Someone smart enough to play the game. Someone who can charm those conservative bastards on the board into believing I'm not the reckless heir they think I am."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I make a phone call. Security, police, take your pick. Fraud is a serious crime, Scarlett. Or is that even your real name?"

The corridor felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. I thought of my studio apartment in Queens, the student loans that would follow me to my grave, the years I'd spent learning to walk and talk and dress like I belonged in rooms like this.

"What exactly are you proposing?"

Duke's hand shot out, catching my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make his point. "You work for me. You be exactly what you've been pretending to be—sophisticated, connected, perfect. You help me secure my position, and I don't destroy you."

I looked down at his hand on my wrist, then back up at his face. In the dim light, he looked almost vulnerable. Almost.

"Fine," I said.

His grip loosened, became almost gentle. "Smart girl."

I wasn't smart. I was trapped. But as I walked back toward the ballroom, my ruined dress clinging to my skin, I told myself this was just another role. Another performance.

I didn't know yet that I was wrong.