My Boyfriend Helped His Mistress Destroy My Startup

The email arrived at 2:47 AM, the notification lighting up my dark bedroom like a flare.

I'd been awake anyway, staring at the ceiling while Indy snored softly on my couch. Sleep felt like a luxury I couldn't afford, not when my company was bleeding out in real-time.

The sender: Elliott Gray. Subject line: "A Path Forward."

My thumb hovered over the screen. Every instinct screamed not to open it, but I did anyway.

*Dear Reya,*

*I understand you're going through a difficult time. Despite our professional disagreements, I want to help you avoid criminal prosecution. I'm prepared to offer $50,000 for Lumina's intellectual property and patent rights. This will allow you to pay back your investors and move forward with your life.*

*The offer expires in 48 hours. After that, I'm afraid federal investigators will become involved, and your options will be significantly more limited.*

*I've attached the settlement agreement. Sign it, step down from Lumina, and this all goes away.*

*Regards,*

*Elliott*

I opened the attachment with shaking hands. The contract was twelve pages of legal jargon that boiled down to three things: surrender my IP, resign from my own company, and sign an NDA so comprehensive I'd never be able to tell anyone what really happened.

Fifty thousand dollars. For three years of work. For an algorithm worth millions.

It wasn't a settlement. It was a execution disguised as mercy.

I was still staring at the screen when someone pounded on my door.

The sound was violent, rhythmless—fists hammering wood like they wanted to break through. Indy bolted upright on the couch, her hand reaching for her phone.

"Reya!" Scott's voice, slurred and furious. "Open the goddamn door!"

Another round of pounding. The door frame shuddered.

"Don't," Indy whispered, but I was already moving.

I looked through the peephole. Scott stood in the hallway, his shirt untucked, his hair wild. His eyes were red-rimmed, unfocused. Drunk or high or both.

I opened the door but kept the chain lock engaged. "Scott, it's three in the morning—"

"You need to sign the papers." He shoved against the door. The chain held, barely. "Elliott sent you the offer. Sign it."

The smell of whiskey rolled off him in waves. "You're drunk. Go home."

"I can't go home!" His voice cracked, desperate and mean. "I took out loans, Reya. Against my cut of the settlement. Fifty grand in loans because Elliott said this was a sure thing, and now she's saying you're being difficult, that you might not sign—"

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. "You took out loans? Before I even saw the offer?"

"Don't act so fucking superior." He slammed his palm against the door again. "You're broke. You're nobody. You should be grateful we're not pressing charges."

Indy appeared behind me, phone in hand, 911 already dialed. "Scott, leave or I'm calling the cops."

He ignored her, his eyes locked on mine through the gap. "Three years I wasted on you. Three years pretending your little startup was going somewhere, listening to you talk about changing the world." His laugh was ugly, bitter. "You're a fraud, Reya. A broke nobody playing dress-up as an entrepreneur. Sign the fucking papers so I can get what I'm owed."

Something inside me crystallized, cold and sharp.

"Get out," I said quietly.

He lunged forward, his fingers hooking around the edge of the door, trying to force it open. The chain groaned. Indy hit the call button.

I threw my weight against the door. Scott stumbled back, cursing, and I slammed it shut, flipping the deadbolt with trembling hands.

His fists hammered the wood twice more, then stopped. Footsteps retreated down the hallway. A distant elevator chime.

Silence.

Indy lowered her phone, her face pale. "Reya—"

"I'm fine." But my hands wouldn't stop shaking.

I walked to my bedroom closet and pulled down the box from the top shelf. Inside, beneath old tax returns and college transcripts, was a framed photo I hadn't looked at in three years.

Me at sixteen, standing beside my father on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. His hand rested on my shoulder, pride evident in his slight smile. Behind us, traders moved like schools of fish, and the electronic tickers spelled out fortunes in red and green.

I'd buried this photo the day I started Lumina. Buried it because I wanted to prove I could succeed without the Reed name, without the weight of Wall Street royalty smoothing my path.

But Elliott hadn't played fair. Scott hadn't played fair. They'd brought knives to what I thought was a fair fight.

I was done fighting with one hand tied behind my back.

I found my phone and scrolled to a contact I hadn't called in months. My thumb hovered over the name.

John Reed. Dad.

Indy stood in the doorway, watching me. "Reya? What are you doing?"

I hit call.

It rang once. Twice. Then his voice, alert despite the hour: "Reya?"

"Dad." My voice was steady now, cold. "I'm done doing this the hard way. Bring the car."