When My Fiancé Sacrificed Our Baby to Save His Mistress

The champagne flutes caught the light like tiny prisms, scattering gold across the marble floors of the Alexander Corp ballroom. I adjusted the neckline of my rented Valentino—three hundred dollars for the night, money I didn't have—and scanned the crowd for my target.

Adam Alexander stood near the far windows, a silhouette of controlled power against the Manhattan skyline. Fifty-two, unmarried, worth more than some small countries. I'd memorized every detail about him over the past six months: his morning routine, his favorite restaurants, the gallery where he'd purchased a Rothko last spring. Tonight was supposed to be my opening move.

I started toward him, rehearsing my carefully crafted introduction about post-war abstract expressionism. Three steps in, someone's elbow caught a passing waiter's tray. Champagne cascaded down my dress in a cold, humiliating rush.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry—" The waiter's face went white.

"It's fine." I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. The dress was ruined. Three hundred dollars down the drain, along with my entrance.

I retreated toward the service corridor, heels clicking against marble, my cheeks burning. The hallway was blessedly empty, dim and cool. I pressed my back against the wall, trying to calculate how quickly I could disappear without drawing more attention.

That's when I heard the voices.

"—question your judgment, Duke. The board won't approve someone so reckless."

"My uncle built this company. I'm his heir."

"Adam built it because he's disciplined. You're a liability."

I froze. The voices came from a half-open door ten feet away, light spilling across the corridor floor. Duke Alexander. Adam's nephew, the golden boy with a reputation for expensive cars and cheaper women. Not part of my plan at all.

"I'll prove myself," Duke said, and something in his voice made my chest tighten. Desperation, maybe. Or fear.

I should have left. Should have walked away and found another entrance, another angle. Instead, I leaned closer, straining to hear.

The door swung open.

Duke Alexander stood in the doorway, all sharp cheekbones and darker-than-they-should-be eyes. His tuxedo probably cost more than my entire year's rent. He looked at me, then at my champagne-soaked dress, and something flickered across his face. Amusement, maybe.

"Eavesdropping?" His voice was smooth, practiced. "Or just lost?"

"Neither. I was—" I straightened, channeling every ounce of borrowed confidence. "Looking for the powder room."

"In the service corridor?" He stepped closer. Behind him, the board member had vanished. "You're the art consultant. Scarlett Robinson, Yale class of 2018."

My pulse kicked up. "That's right."

"Interesting." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a painting he couldn't quite authenticate. "Tell me, did you study under Professor Whitmore or Professor Chen?"

The floor dropped out from under me. There was no Professor Whitmore at Yale. I'd made him up, a small detail in a fabricated transcript, never thinking anyone would check. Chen was real, but I'd never met him.

"Whitmore," I said, because backing down now would be worse.

Duke's smile