My CEO Fiancé Let His Mistress Hunt Me

I walked into Emmett’s home office that evening. My ribs throbbed with every breath. Two of them were cracked, but I kept my back straight. The makeup hid most of the yellowing bruises on my jaw, but my split lip was impossible to disguise.

Emmett sat behind his mahogany desk. His Scotch glass was half full.

"Scarlett," he said, glancing up from his tablet. "You look tired. Did you take some aspirin?"

"We need to talk, Emmett," I said. My voice was quiet and flat. "I can’t stay here anymore. I won’t live in a situation where I’m physically attacked on the street while you plan a lavish wedding with the woman who paid for it."

His face darkened. He set his glass down with a sharp clink. "Don't start this again, Scarlett. Angelique didn't hire those men. You're overreacting. You always blow things out of proportion."

"I tracked the bank transfers," I said.

He shoved his chair back and stood up. "She would never go that far! You don't know her like I do." He walked around the desk and stopped right in front of me. "I need you, Scarlett. You know that. Why are you making everything so difficult right now?"

I didn't answer. I turned toward the heavy wooden doors.

Before I took two steps, his hand shot out. His fingers clamped hard around my wrists. He yanked me backward.

The sudden pull sent a hot, blinding spike of pain through my ribs. His grip was tight enough to bruise.

"You aren't walking out on me," he hissed. His eyes were wide and angry. "I won't let you leave."

I went completely still. I didn't struggle. I didn't pull away.

Slowly, I let my muscles go limp. I lowered my chin, blinked fast, and let a single tear roll down my cheek.

"Emmett," I whispered. I let my head rest gently against his shoulder. "It hurts. Please."

His fingers loosened at once. The anger in his eyes turned into sudden guilt. He pulled me into his arms, wrapping his hands around my back.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled into my hair. "I'm sorry, babe. I just can't lose you. Don't talk about leaving again. Promise me."

"I just need some time," I said softly into his chest. "Just give me a little time to breathe."

"Take all the time you need," he murmured, kissing the top of my head. "Just stay."

He let me go. I walked out of the building into the cool Manhattan night. I drove back to the penthouse with two cracked ribs and my hands completely steady on the wheel. The timeline was set.

Over the next two weeks, I moved with absolute precision.

I liquidated the last batch of my secretly accumulated stock options. The funds cleared in seventy-two hours. I wired every dollar into a consolidated offshore account that I could access the moment I landed in London.

Next, I packed my life away. I didn't use big suitcases that might raise suspicion in the lobby. Instead, I sent my personal belongings in three separate, unmarked consignments to a private storage facility in Southwark, London. Just my vital records, my warm coats, and the small items that belonged only to me.

On my laptop, I drafted a quick email to Howard Enterprises Human Resources.

*Due to an unexpected family matter requiring immediate relocation, I am resigning from my position effective today.*

It was short, polite, and completely professional. I clicked send, logged out, and erased the company server credentials from my laptop.

Every single evening, I returned to the penthouse. I put on a pleasant smile. I cooked dinner, poured Emmett his Scotch, and sat beside him while he complained about board meetings. He kissed my cheek every night and said he was glad I had come around.

He noticed nothing. A man who only stares at his own reflection never sees the room emptying around him.

During the final three nights, I built the box.

I bought the materials in cash from small medical surplus stores across Queens and northern New Jersey. Sterile cotton pads, clinical gauze, thick medical-grade plastic, and synthetic biological fluids mixed with genuine blood meal from a butcher supply.

The consistency had to be exact. It couldn't look like theatrical paint. It needed the dark, thick heaviness of a genuine physical trauma.

I worked late in the guest bathroom, locking the door behind me. I lined the small wooden box with pale linen. I soaked the fabric until it was stained with dark crimson. In the center, I arranged the thick, clotted matter, wrapping parts of it in torn, bloody gauze.

It looked raw. It looked sickening. It was undeniable.

I carried the box to the vanity mirror and switched on the bright bulbs.

I looked at the contents under the harsh white light for two full minutes. My heart didn't beat any faster. My hands were dry and steady. It looked horrifyingly real.

A man like Emmett, blinded by ego and buried in guilt, wouldn't inspect it with a microscope. The sight alone would shatter him.

I closed the lid with a soft click.

I wrapped the box in heavy cream paper, folding the edges with crisp, sharp corners. I tied a clean satin ribbon around it, exactly the way I used to wrap Emmett's birthday gifts.

Right under the bow, I slid the small envelope containing the farewell letter.

Everything was in place.