His Mistress Called Me Paid Staff, Then I Took His Company

The first thing that broke was the dry cleaning.

Cristian stood in his closet Wednesday morning, staring at empty hangers where his shirts should have been. He pulled out his phone and called downstairs. "Where are my shirts?"

The housekeeper's voice came back uncertain. "Mrs. Hawkins always handled the dry cleaning, sir. She had a standing arrangement with—"

"Fine. Figure it out." He hung up and grabbed yesterday's shirt from the hamper. It would have to do.

By Thursday, he couldn't find the Crawford briefing file.

He tore through his office at Hawkins Global, yanking open drawers, flipping through stacks on his desk. His assistant hovered in the doorway. "Sir, the meeting with Crawford Group is at ten—"

"I know when the meeting is," Cristian snapped. "Where's the file? The blue folder. Helena always—" He stopped himself. "Just find it."

She found it twenty minutes later, buried under a stack of unread reports. By then it was nine forty-five. Cristian grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator.

He arrived at Crawford Group's offices at ten-oh-seven, briefing file in hand, tie slightly crooked because no one had been there to straighten it before he left. The receptionist gave him a polite, confused smile.

"Mr. Hawkins. Can I help you?"

"The ten o'clock with Richard Crawford."

She checked her screen. "That meeting was moved to Tuesday, sir. We sent confirmation Monday afternoon."

Cristian felt something cold drop through his chest. "Moved to—" He pulled out his phone. There it was. An email flagged low priority, buried under sixty others. Helena used to read these. Helena used to tell him which ones mattered.

Helena wasn't there anymore.

He turned and walked back to the elevator without another word.

By Friday afternoon, he'd had enough.

He sat at his desk and dialed her number. It rang twice, then went to voicemail. He hung up and tried again. Same thing. The third time, he didn't bother leaving a message.

"Call Helena," he told his assistant.

She came back ten minutes later, her face carefully blank. "Her number's disconnected, sir."

"What?"

"The line says the number is no longer in service."

Cristian stared at her. Then he pulled up Helena's contact himself and hit call. The automated voice was polite and final. *The number you have dialed is no longer in service.*

She'd changed her number. She'd actually changed her number.

He tried the house line next. It rang four times before someone picked up.

"Hawkins residence."

Not Helena's voice. One of the staff.

"Put my wife on," Cristian said.

"Mrs. Hawkins is no longer residing here, sir."

"I know that. I need her new number."

"I'm afraid I don't have that information."

Cristian's hand tightened around the phone. "Then find someone who does."

There was a pause. "Sir, Mrs. Hawkins requested that her contact information not be shared. I'm very sorry."

He hung up before he said something he'd regret.

Then he called the one number he knew would still work.

Scarlett answered on the first ring. "Hey, baby." Her voice was warm, satisfied. "Miss me already?"

"I need you to handle something," Cristian said. "The board dinner next week. Helena used to—"

"I know what Helena used to do." Scarlett's tone sharpened just slightly. "And I'll do it better. Don't worry."

She moved into the penthouse that weekend.

Cristian came home Monday evening to find Helena's study completely redecorated. The soft gray walls were now cream. The desk was gone, replaced by a chaise lounge and a bar cart. Scarlett's magazines were stacked on the coffee table.

"What do you think?" Scarlett appeared in the doorway, glass of wine in hand. "I figured we didn't need a home office. You have one at Hawkins Global."

Cristian looked at the empty space where Helena's desk used to be. He'd never paid attention to what she did in here. Now it was gone, and he couldn't remember what it had looked like.

"It's fine," he said.

The board dinner was Wednesday.

Scarlett spent two days preparing, or at least that's what she said she was doing. Cristian came home Tuesday night to find her on the phone with the caterer, her voice rising. "I don't care if that's not how Mrs. Hawkins did it. I'm Mrs. Hawkins now."

She wasn't, technically. But Cristian didn't correct her.

Wednesday at seven, the board members began to arrive.

Cristian stood in the foyer, shaking hands, making small talk, waiting for the subtle hum of a well-run evening to settle over the room the way it always had. It didn't come.

In the dining room, Margaret Ellison—Zev's oldest ally on the board—found herself seated directly beside Catherine Voss, the woman who'd publicly accused Margaret's husband of insider trading three years ago. The two women stared at each other, then at the place cards, then at Scarlett.

At the far end of the table, Daniel Roth—who kept strictly kosher—was served a shellfish appetizer.

By eight-thirty, the room had gone stiff and cold. Conversations died mid-sentence. Margaret Ellison excused herself early, her smile thin and sharp. Two other board members followed within the hour.

Cristian found Scarlett in the kitchen afterward, snapping at the catering staff. "You said the seating chart was confirmed!"

"You approved it, ma'am," the event coordinator said quietly.

Scarlett turned on Cristian the moment they were alone. "Why didn't you check it?"

"That was your job," Cristian said.

"It was Helena's job," Scarlett shot back. "And now it's supposed to be mine, except no one told me half these people hate each other!"

Cristian didn't answer. He poured himself a scotch and walked to the window.

Thursday morning, three envelopes arrived.

Resignation letters. The housekeeper, the chef, and Helena's personal assistant—the woman who had worked for the Hawkins family for twelve years.

Cristian read the housekeeper's letter twice. *Due to recent changes in household management, I feel it is best for me to seek other employment.*

"Recent changes," he said aloud.

Scarlett was still asleep upstairs. The penthouse was quiet in a way it had never been before. Not peaceful. Just empty.

Cristian sat at the breakfast table, alone, and realized for the first time that he didn't know how anything in his own house worked.

He pulled out his phone. Helena's number was still saved. Still disconnected.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he set the phone down and finished his coffee in silence.