Chosen Her? Face My Fiery Wrath

My fiancé, Connor, and I had a one-year pact. I'd work undercover as a junior developer in the company we co-founded, while he, the CEO, built our empire.

The pact ended the day he ordered me to apologize to the woman who was systematically destroying my life.

It happened during his most important investor pitch. He was on video call when he demanded I publicly humiliate myself for his "special guest," Jaden. This was after she'd already scalded my hand with hot coffee and faced zero consequences.

He chose her. In front of everyone, he chose a manipulative bully over our company's integrity, our employees' dignity, and me, his fiancée.

His eyes on the screen demanded my submission.

"Apologize to Jaden. Now."

I took a step forward, held up my burned hand for the camera, and made a call of my own.

"Dad," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "It's time to dissolve the partnership."

Chapter 1

Blake POV:

The one-year pact with my fiancé was simple: I'd work undercover at our company, and he'd build our empire. The pact ended the day he, our CEO, ordered me-a junior developer-to apologize to the woman who was systematically destroying my life, all while he was pitching to our most important investors.

That was the end. But the beginning of the end started on a Tuesday, my first day as a junior developer at Bishop Innovations.

I stood in the sleek, minimalist lobby, my worn backpack a stark contrast to the polished chrome and glass. I was waiting for HR to fetch me, just another anonymous new hire in the company I' d co-founded. The idea had been mine, a pact born from a genuine, if naive, desire to understand our corporate culture from the ground up.

"A year," I'd told Connor, my fiancé, the public face and CEO of our creation. "Let me be a ghost for one year. I want to know what our employees really think, what their days are really like. We can't build a healthy company from an ivory tower."

He' d laughed, kissed me, and agreed. "Anything for my brilliant, undercover co-founder."

The memory felt warm, a lifetime ago, even though it was only a few months.

A flurry of motion shattered the lobby's quiet Zen. The glass doors swung open with a dramatic whoosh, and a woman stormed in. She was a whirlwind of designer labels and palpable entitlement. Oversized sunglasses covered half her face, and her heels clicked an angry staccato on the marble floor.

She marched straight to the reception desk, slapping a platinum credit card down on the counter with a sharp crack that made the receptionist jump.

"A black Americano," she demanded, her voice dripping with disdain as if she couldn't believe she had to utter such a mundane request. "And tell Connor I'm here."

The receptionist, a young woman with wide, nervous eyes, stammered, "Ma'am, this is a corporate office, not a coffee shop. Mr. Bishop is in a meeting..."