The Unwanted Mistress Becomes The Rival's Queen

The moment Damien shoved me into a waiter's tray to catch his brother's widow, I knew I had lost.

For eight years, I was his sanctuary. But Vivian was carrying the "Family Heir," and that made her a saint.

He didn't just catch her; he moved her into the Master Suite—the room he had promised to me—while I was relegated to the guest wing like a servant.

When Vivian whispered the truth to me with a smirk—that her late husband was sterile and she had drugged Damien to fake the timeline—I rushed to tell him.

"She's lying about the baby, Damien! Aaron was sterile!"

But he didn't believe me.

"Enough of your jealousy, Estelle," he roared, shielding her. "You will respect the mother of my legacy."

To prove my submission, he forced me to take her wedding dress shopping.

When a heavy iron rack tipped over in the boutique, Damien moved with inhuman speed.

He dove to protect Vivian, wrapping her in a safe cocoon.

He left me standing there.

The metal crashed down, crushing my ribs and pinning me to the floor.

As I gasped for air, tasting blood, I watched him carry her out without looking back once.

I woke up in the hospital to the sound of him comforting her in the next room.

He hadn't even asked if I survived.

That night, I didn't cry.

I ripped the IV from my arm, shredded every photo of us in the penthouse, and boarded a plane to a neutral territory where the Don's power meant nothing.

By the time he found the engagement ring I left in the trash, I was already gone.

Chapter 1

The moment Damien shoved me aside to catch Vivian before she hit the marble floor, I knew the bullet I had been dodging for eight years had finally found its mark.

He didn't just catch her.

He cradled her as if she were made of spun glass and the rest of the world was made of hammers.

Damien Jones was the Don of the Outfit, a man who could silence a witness with a single phone call and bury a rival faction before breakfast. Yet here he was, his hands trembling as he held his brother's widow.

"Get the car!" he roared, his voice cracking the polished silence of the gala.

Dozens of armed soldiers materialized from the shadows, surrounding us, but Damien didn't look at me.

He didn't check to see if his shove had knocked me into the passing waiter's tray, or if the champagne was currently soaking into the emerald silk dress he had bought me just yesterday.

"Damien," I whispered, reaching out.

"Not now, Estelle," he snapped, his eyes wild and fixed on Vivian's hands, which were clutching her stomach. "It's the heir. If she loses Aaron's child, the legacy dies."

Then, he turned his back on me.

He carried her out of the ballroom, flanked by men with earpieces and guns bulging under their tuxedos, leaving me standing