He Chose The Mistress, Losing His True Queen

Ellery POV

The sky above our private beach detonated in a violent wash of red and gold.

Fireworks.

Brendan had commandeered the entire coastline for the Fourth of July gala.

Hundreds of guests—politicians, federal judges, captains of industry, and kingpins of the underworld—mingled on the sand, crystal flutes of champagne in hand.

Brendan stood behind me, his arms caging my waist, his chin resting heavily on my shoulder.

"Look up," he commanded softly.

A massive shell launched into the dark, exploding to form two interlaced letters that seared the night sky.

B & E.

The crowd roared its approval.

"See?" His voice was thick with pride, hot against my ear. "Everyone knows who you belong to."

To the crowd, it was a romantic gesture.

To me, it was a branding.

Like cattle.

He was signaling to the other Dons that his house was in order, that his wife was secure, and his property was fenced.

I smiled for the flashing cameras.

I played the part.

But behind my sunglasses, my eyes were dissecting the crowd.

Then I saw her.

Kiya.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Mistresses were kept in the shadows, in uptown apartments and hotel suites, not paraded at family functions alongside senators.

She stood near the buffet, wearing a dress that was a shade too bright, a size too tight.

She was glaring right at me.

Slowly, deliberately, her hand drifted to her stomach.

A subtle gesture.

A threat.

Brendan didn’t see her. Or maybe he did, and he liked the risk.

He liked the idea of two women silently warring over his legacy.

"I have to take a call," Brendan said, finally releasing his grip on me. "Business."

He strode away toward the dunes, away from the light.

I counted to ten.

Then I followed him.

I didn’t need to be stealthy. I was the hostess. I was the Queen. I could go wherever I damn well pleased.

I moved through the long shadows of the beach house, the bass of the party music fading into the rhythm of the waves.

I heard them before I saw them.

They were arguing in hushed, venomous tones near the boathouse.

"You promised," Kiya hissed, her voice trembling. "You said you would leave her after the baby was born."

"I said we would see." Brendan’s voice was sharp, dismissive. "Keep your voice down."

"She is barren, Brendan!" She shrieked the whisper, the sound tearing through the salt air. "She can't give you a son. I am carrying your legacy!"

I froze.

Barren.

He had told her.

That was my deepest wound, my darkest secret. A lingering ruin from the car crash that had taken my parents.

I had whispered that truth to him in the dark, weeping in his arms, trusting him with my brokenness.

And he had handed that pain to his mistress to use as a shiv against me.

"Enough!" Brendan snapped. "You do not speak about my wife. She is the Queen. You are..."

He stopped.

He didn’t finish the sentence.

But the silence screamed it louder than words.

She was the incubator.

I was the figurehead.

Neither of us were people to him. We were just functions.

I stepped back, the sand crunching softly under my heels.

I had heard enough.

I didn’t need to confront him. I didn’t need to slap her.

That was what they expected. Drama. Emotion. Tears.

I turned and walked back to the party.

I plucked a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray.

I watched the B & E burn in the sky until it faded into drifting gray smoke.

The smoke was fitting.

Because that was all we were now. Ash and wind.

Tomorrow was Thursday.

Tomorrow, the Architect would demolish the building.

I took a sip of the wine.

It tasted like freedom.

I pulled my phone out and sent one final text to Evans.

"I'm ready."

Then I dropped the phone into a silver trash can and walked back to my husband, smiling the smile of a woman who had already left the building.