Marrying His Mistress At Our Altar

My hands trembled as I stared at the screen. Ten years of work had led to this moment—the European investors' faces arranged in a grid before me, their expressions shifting from skepticism to cautious interest as I presented the final numbers.

"So to summarize, gentlemen," I said, my voice steadier than my racing heart, "this partnership represents not just a $10 million investment, but access to markets that would otherwise take years to penetrate individually."

Silence stretched across the ocean. I could hear my own breathing, too loud in the conference room. Then François, the most resistant of the group, leaned forward.

"Ms. Chen, your analysis is... impeccable. I believe we have ourselves a deal."

The tension in my shoulders released as agreements echoed through the speakers. I caught my reflection in the darkened screen of my tablet—exhaustion lined my face, but there was pride there too. Pride I'd earned after months of sleepless nights and sacrificed weekends.

As the call ended, my colleagues flooded into the conference room, their excitement a stark contrast to my quiet relief. Sarah from Marketing squeezed my arm.

"Victoria, you're a miracle worker! Nobody thought you'd get all five signatures today."

Champaign appeared from somewhere—impromptu but genuine. Crystal flutes clinked as toasts were made to "Victoria's persistence" and "the biggest deal of the quarter." I searched the crowd for the one face that mattered most.

Ethan stood near the glass wall of the atrium, his attention fixed on his phone. When he finally looked up, his acknowledgment was nothing more than a curt nod before his gaze dropped back to the screen. My smile faltered, but I maintained it for the others.

Ten years. Ten years of these moments—my triumphs met with his indifference, as if my successes were merely expected functions, like a well-oiled machine performing its designated task.

---

Later that evening, I uncorked a bottle of cabernet in our Manhattan apartment. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city lights like stars fallen to earth, but the view had long lost its magic. I poured two glasses, though I knew Ethan might not touch his.

"The European deal is officially closed," I said as he loosened his tie, settling into the leather sofa. "All five investors signed."

"Good," he replied, not looking up from his phone. "Johnson was concerned about the German contingent."

I took a long sip, letting the wine warm my throat. "I addressed their concerns about market saturation. Once I showed them the projections for—"

"I need to talk to you about something," he interrupted.

My words died in my throat. This was his pattern—cutting through my professional accomplishments to assert what really mattered: his agenda.

"I've been thinking," he continued, finally setting down his phone. "It's time we got married."

The wine glass nearly slipped from my fingers. "What?"

"We should get our marriage license tomorrow. I have a gap between my morning meeting and the board presentation."

I stared at him, searching for signs of a joke or