After My Lover Replaced Me with His Greedy Mistress

The elevator doors chimed, sliding open to reveal the pulse of Manhattan—a bass-heavy thrum that vibrated right through the soles of my thrifted heels. The rooftop of the Skylark was a kaleidoscope of diamonds, champagne flutes, and the kind of aggressive ambition that smelled like expensive cologne and ozone. Tonight was the *Nexus* IPO launch. Tonight, eight years of instant noodles, double shifts at the diner, and scrubbing grout off bathroom tiles were supposed to turn into gold.

I smoothed the front of my black dress. It was vintage—code for used—but I’d tailored it myself until it hugged my frame like armor. My hands trembled, just a little. Not from the cold, but from the adrenaline of knowing that Ian had done it. *We* had done it.

"Excuse me, miss," a server muttered, maneuvering a tray of hors d'oeuvres around me as if I were a piece of misplaced furniture.

I didn't mind. I was used to being invisible. It was the only way I could pull the strings I needed to pull without my father finding out.

I scanned the VIP section, the blue mood lighting turning the guests into aquatic ghosts. I was looking for Ian. I needed to see his face when he realized the Ashford contract was signed and resting in my tote bag. That piece of paper was worth five million dollars, a safety net I’d woven by calling in a favor I swore I never would.

I found him near the glass railing, silhouetted against the Empire State Building. But he wasn't looking at the view.

My breath hitched, lodging somewhere in my throat like a shard of glass.

Ian was pressed into the corner, his hand tangled in the blonde waves of a woman’s hair. Lilliana. His executive assistant. The girl I’d hired because she seemed "eager to learn."

I stopped, the noise of the party fading into a high-pitched ringing in my ears. He was kissing her the way a starving man eats. Desperate. Possessive. He pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, and I saw his lips move. I didn't need to hear the words; I knew the shape of them. He was promising her the world. The same world he’d promised me when we were sharing a twin mattress in Queens.

My stomach twisted, a sharp, acidic burn flaring up—my ulcer, right on cue.

*Move,* I told myself. *Scream. Throw a drink.*

But I stood frozen, watching the man I’d built from the ground up tear down my future with a smile on his face.

Suddenly, the music cut. A spotlight swept across the deck, blindingly bright, landing squarely on Ian. He didn’t flinch. He just straightened his tie, unentangled himself from Lilliana with a smooth, practiced motion, and stepped toward the microphone stand. He beckoned her to follow him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Ian’s voice boomed, smooth as velvet, amplified across the rooftop. The crowd hushed. He looked every inch the tech mogul now—the bespoke suit I’d paid for with