My Groom’s Mistress Announced Her Pregnancy at His Family Party

The silk gown felt foreign against my skin as I sat alone in our Beverly Hills mansion, the TV blaring the Golden Globe Awards ceremony I should have been attending. The dress—a midnight blue Valentino that cost more than my first car—was supposed to be my victory attire. Seven years of building Grayson's career from nothing, and tonight was supposed to be our crowning achievement.

I smoothed my hands over the fabric, wondering if the alterations would have been worth it. The dress had been tailored to perfection, just like Grayson's career. Just like our life together. At least, that's what I'd thought.

"Faye?" Harrison's voice crackled through my phone. "Where are you? The ceremony's starting."

"I'm watching from home," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. "Grayson needed space to prepare."

Space. What a diplomatic way to say he'd disappeared three days ago with no explanation beyond a cryptic text about "needing time." The industry buzzed with rumors, but I'd managed them all. That's what I did—I managed things. People. Careers. Chaos.

The camera panned across the audience, and I searched for Grayson's familiar face. Empty seat. My stomach tightened.

"And the Golden Globe for Best Actor goes to..." The presenter paused dramatically. "Grayson Weaver for 'Midnight Confession'!"

The audience erupted in applause. I stood up, my heart racing despite knowing he wouldn't be there. Where was he?

"Unfortunately, Mr. Weaver couldn't be here tonight," the presenter continued, her smile faltering slightly. "I'll accept this on his behalf."

Twitter exploded instantly. My phone buzzed with notifications.

@EntertainmentWeek: Where is Grayson Weaver? #GoldenGlobes

@DeadlineHollywood: No-show winner Grayson Weaver—biggest mystery of the night?

@TMZ: We're on it. #GoldenGlobes #GraysonWeaver

I called Grayson's number again. Straight to voicemail. Again.

"Grayson, it's me. Again. The world wants to know where you are. Call me back."

I hung up, my fingers trembling slightly. Seven years of building his career, and he couldn't even bother to tell me where he was on the biggest night of our lives.

My laptop chimed with a Google Alert. Another notification. Then another.

"TMZ Exclusive: Grayson Weaver's Secret Romance!"

My blood turned to ice as I clicked the link. The page loaded slowly, each millisecond stretching into eternity.

There he was—my fiancé, my creation, my everything—kissing a woman outside Nobu Malibu. The timestamp showed it was taken during the ceremony.

I grabbed my iPad, zooming in on the image. The woman's face came into focus. Amelia Rogers. His first love. The one his family had deemed beneath him years ago.

But it wasn't her face that made my blood freeze. It was her hand.

"The ring," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

The vintage diamond ring—the one I'd taken off two days ago to get resized—sparkled on her finger as she clung to my fiancé. The ring I'd saved for, chosen, cherished. The ring that symbolized everything we'd built together.

Seven years. Seven years of shared dreams, shared struggles, shared everything.

And there it was, on her finger.