Fiancé Chooses His Mistress

"She's been running a fever all day," Reid said as we stood outside a modest apartment building across town. His voice carried that same tender concern I'd heard at the boutique, the warmth that used to be reserved for me. "I just need to check on her quickly."

I stared at the building's faded brick facade, so different from the gleaming towers of our usual world. "This is where your cousin lives?"

"Ayra doesn't have much," Reid replied, his jaw tightening defensively. "Not everyone was born with a silver spoon, Stella."

The barb hit its mark, but I followed him inside anyway. Something about this entire situation felt orchestrated, theatrical. The same instinct that had made me review the security footage was now screaming that nothing about this visit was genuine.

Reid knocked softly on apartment 3B. "Ayra? It's me."

A weak voice drifted through the door. "Reid? Oh thank God, I've been waiting for you."

The door opened to reveal Ayra in a silk nightgown—one that looked suspiciously expensive for someone who "doesn't have much." Her platinum hair was artfully tousled, and despite her claims of illness, her makeup was perfectly applied. Dark circles under her eyes looked suspiciously like eyeshadow.

"I'm so sick," she whispered, swaying dramatically against the doorframe. "I can barely stand."

Reid immediately swept her into his arms, cradling her like she was made of spun glass. "I'm here now, sweetheart. Let me take care of you."

Sweetheart. Again.

I followed them into the small apartment, my eyes taking in details that didn't match the narrative. Fresh flowers on the coffee table. Expensive wine bottles in the kitchen. A designer handbag casually thrown on the couch—one that cost more than most people's rent.

"I've been so dizzy," Ayra murmured against Reid's chest. "And my head pounds constantly. I think I might need to go to the hospital."

"Should I call an ambulance?" Reid's voice was tight with worry as he settled her on the couch, his hands stroking her hair with practiced intimacy.

I watched this performance with growing disgust. Every gesture was calculated, every weak sigh perfectly timed. Ayra's eyes fluttered closed, but I caught her watching Reid through her lashes, gauging his reaction to each dramatic moment.

"Maybe some water?" I suggested coolly. "Or perhaps we should take her temperature?"

Ayra's eyes snapped open, fixing on me with a flash of irritation before quickly becoming glassy and unfocused again. "I don't think I can keep anything down," she whispered. "Reid, could you stay with me tonight? I'm so scared to be alone when I'm this sick."

"Of course," Reid said immediately. "Whatever you need."

"Reid," I said quietly, "we have dinner reservations. And the Morrison charity gala tomorrow—"

"Cancel them," he said without looking at me. "Ayra needs me."

The dismissal in his voice was like a slap. I stood there, watching my fiancé fuss over this woman's manufactured crisis, and something cold settled in my chest. This wasn't about family obligation or medical emergency. This was about choice.

Reid was choosing her.

That's when I saw it—hanging in the bedroom doorway, visible through the partially open door. A flash of familiar navy blue silk with distinctive gold buttons.

My grandmother's vintage Chanel dress.

The one she'd worn to meet President Kennedy. The one that had been carefully preserved in my closet, wrapped in acid-free tissue paper. The one that was irreplaceable, priceless, and absolutely not something that should be casually hanging in a stranger's bedroom.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice carefully controlled. I walked toward the bedroom, my heart pounding with each step.

There it was. My grandmother's dress, wrinkled and carelessly displayed like any ordinary piece of clothing. A coffee stain marked the delicate silk near the hem.

"That's my dress," I said, my voice cutting through Reid's worried murmurs.

Ayra's eyes flew open, suddenly very alert. "What?"

"That dress in your bedroom. It belongs to me. It belonged to my grandmother."

Reid looked confused, glancing between us. "Stella, what are you talking about?"

"The navy Chanel hanging in her bedroom. It's a family heirloom. It's worth more than this entire apartment."

Ayra struggled to sit up, her illness apparently forgotten in her indignation. "Reid gave it to me. He said I could borrow anything I wanted from your closet."

The casual admission hit me like a physical blow. Reid had given her permission to raid my personal belongings. My clothes, my jewelry, my grandmother's precious memories—all of it was apparently fair game for his lover's wardrobe.

"That dress is not for borrowing," I said, my voice shaking with rage. "It's a museum-quality piece. And you've stained it."

Ayra shrugged, her mask of illness slipping completely. "It's just an old dress. I'll wash it."

"Just an old dress?" The words came out as a whisper. "That dress has been in my family for sixty years. My grandmother wore it to state dinners. It's irreplaceable."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have left it where anyone could get to it," Ayra said with a smirk.

Reid stepped between us, his face flushed with anger—but not at Ayra. At me. "Stella, you're being ridiculous. It's just clothing. Ayra was sick and needed something nice to wear to feel better."

I stared at him, this man I'd thought I loved, this man I'd rescued from bullies and elevated into my world. He was defending the woman who'd stolen my grandmother's dress, who'd treated a priceless family heirloom like a disposable fashion accessory.

"Get it back," I said quietly. "Now."

"She's too sick to change," Reid protested.

"Then she can be sick in her own clothes."

Ayra's phone buzzed on the coffee table, and she reached for it with surprising energy for someone supposedly too weak to stand. "Oh no," she said, her voice suddenly frail again. "My fever's getting worse. Reid, I think I need you to stay the whole weekend."

And just like that, she was performing again. The helpless invalid who needed Reid's constant attention, who required him to abandon his fiancée for days at a time.

I looked at Reid, waiting for him to see through this obvious manipulation. But he was already reaching for his phone, probably to cancel more of our plans.

The realization settled over me like ice water. This wasn't going to stop. Ayra would continue manufacturing crises, and Reid would continue choosing her over me. My home would remain violated, my possessions treated like community property, and my relationship would slowly dissolve under the weight of his divided loyalties.

Unless I stopped it myself.