His Mistress Stole My Paintings and My Life

The darkness inside the crate tasted like sawdust and stale anxiety. My knees were pulled tight against my chest, the rough velvet lining scratching at my bare arms. Every breath was a negotiation with my claustrophobia, a rising tide of panic that I forced down by clutching the sketchbook to my heart.

I traced the wire binding with a trembling finger. Inside was a charcoal portrait of Ares—a labor of love that had taken me three weeks of sleepless nights to perfect. It was his birthday. My sweet, broken Ares, who still limped when it rained, who smiled so gratefully when I covered our rent with double shifts at the diner. Lyla had sworn this surprise would lift his spirits.

"Just wait for the signal," Lyla had whispered, her eyes dancing with a mischief I mistook for support. "He thinks he’s coming home to an empty apartment. When you pop out, it’ll be the best moment of his life."

So I waited. My legs went numb. The air grew thin.

Then, the sound of a door opening. I tensed, ready to spring the latch, a smile already hurting my cheeks. But there was no weary sigh, no shuffling of his worn-out sneakers against the cheap linoleum.

Instead, I heard the sharp click of hard-soled Italian leather on marble. Then, the distinct, melodic chime of crystal meeting crystal.

"To the end of the experiment," a voice boomed.

My blood ran cold. It was Ares’s voice—the timber was unmistakable—but the cadence was wrong. Gone was the soft, hesitant stutter he used when asking if we could afford takeout. This voice was rich, commanding, and dripping with an aristocratic drawl I had never heard before.

"Two years, gentlemen," Ares continued, his voice smooth as oil. "Two years of eating instant noodles and pretending to be fascinated by a waitress’s dreams of artistic grandeur. You all owe me five grand. She never cracked. Not once."

A chorus of raucous, masculine laughter erupted, shaking the walls of the crate.

"I don't believe it," another man said, sounding bored. "You mean to tell me she actually paid for your 'physical therapy'?"

"Every cent," Ares laughed, a dark, jagged sound. "I told her the state insurance wouldn’t cover the specialists. The look on her face... pathetic devotion. Like a dog waiting for a scrap."

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and confusing. This had to be a joke. A performance. My Ares was humble. He was kind. He wasn't this monster bragging about exploiting my poverty.

"And the best part?" Ares’s voice moved closer to the crate. "She thinks I’m a barista. She has no idea she’s been sleeping with the heir to the Fernandez Empire. I wanted to see if a peasant could love a man without his wallet. Turns out, they love you even more when they think you're as wretched as they are."

The latch on the crate clicked.

Light flooded in, blinding and violent. I blinked, shielding my eyes, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. As my vision cleared, the cramped studio apartment I expected to see was gone. In its place was a sprawling penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline, the city lights glittering like indifferent diamonds.

And there was Lyla.

She wasn't wearing the borrowed cardigan she’d had on an hour ago. She stood draped in a shimmering silver couture gown, a glass of champagne in her manicured hand. She wasn't smiling at me. She was smirking.

"Happy Birthday, darling," Lyla purred, leaning into Ares. She rested a possessive hand on his chest—chest encased in a bespoke suit that probably cost more than my mother’s medical bills for a year.

I scrambled out of the box, my legs failing me, stumbling onto the plush Persian rug. The sketchbook fell from my hands, landing open on the floor. The charcoal eyes of the man I loved stared up at the stranger towering over me.

"Ares?" My voice was a broken whisper. "Lyla? What is this?"

Ares looked down at me. His eyes, usually warm and crinkling at the corners, were dead sharks. He kicked the sketchbook away with the toe of his shoe.

"It’s the curtain call, Selene," he said, his expression bored. "You were a fascinating case study. But frankly, the poverty act is exhausting. And your cooking is atrocious."

"I... I paid your rent," I stammered, the reality fracturing my mind. "I worked triple shifts. I thought you were hurt."

"I was hurt," he said, examining his fingernails. "Years ago. I healed. You were just... convenient maintenance."

The room full of men in tuxedos chuckled. I felt naked in my waitress uniform, smelling of grease and cheap detergent.

"Why?" The word ripped out of my throat.

"Because I could," he replied simply. He reached for a bottle of wine on the nearby mahogany table—a 1982 Pinot Noir. I knew the label from the magazines I couldn't afford.

He uncorked it, tilting the bottle.

"You want to leave, Selene? You’ll need cab fare. I know you spent your last twenty dollars on the materials for that hideous drawing."

Before I could move, he tipped the bottle. The dark red liquid cascaded down, splashing over my uniform, soaking into my hair, and pooling on the pristine white carpet around my knees. It felt cold, like blood.

"Clean it up," Ares ordered, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet command. He pointed to the stain spreading around me. "On your knees. Scrub the floor, and I might give you enough cash to get back to whatever hole you crawled out of."

Lyla laughed, a high, tinkling sound that shattered the last remnant of my heart. "Go on, Selene," she taunted, sipping her champagne. "You’re good at cleaning up messes. It’s what you were born for."