My Cheating Boyfriend Got His Mistress Pregnant

Thursday afternoon, reception calls my extension. "Ms. Hart, you have a visitor. Ambrose Williams from Williams Capital."

I glance up. Across the office, Zayne's head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing.

"Send him to Conference Room B," I say.

The walk through the office feels longer than it should. Eyes track my movement. Whispers follow like a wake. Zayne stands by his desk, arms crossed, watching.

Ambrose waits by the window, silhouetted against the gray December sky. He turns when I enter, and something in his expression makes my chest tighten.

"You look tired," he says.

"I'm fine."

"Nellie." He crosses to me, close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw. "I've been hearing things. About what's happening here."

"It's nothing I can't handle."

"It's not nothing." His voice drops. "Let me talk to him."

"No."

"He's spreading lies about you. Making you—"

"I know what he's doing." I touch his arm, feel the muscle coiled tight beneath his sleeve. "And I have a plan."

The conference room door opens. Zayne leans against the frame, smile sharp as broken glass.

"Ambrose Williams." He extends his hand. "Zayne Snyder. I work with Nellie."

Ambrose doesn't move. Just looks at Zayne's hand like it's something diseased.

The silence stretches. Zayne's smile falters.

"Right." He drops his hand. "Just wanted to make sure Nellie wasn't being bothered. We're protective of our team members here."

"Are you." Ambrose's voice could cut steel.

Zayne's eyes flick between us. Calculating. "Well, I'll let you two catch up. Old friends, right Nell?"

He leaves. The door clicks shut.

Ambrose moves toward it, but I catch his wrist.

"Don't."

"He's—"

"I know." I step closer, lower my voice. "But I need you to trust me. Three more days. That's all."

He looks down at me, and something shifts in his expression. "The gala."

"The gala."

"Nellie, what are you planning?"

I smile. "Something better than a black eye in a conference room."

He studies my face, then nods slowly. "Fine. But I'm making a call."

"What kind of call?"

"The Williams Group was about to close a deal with this company. Significant investment in Zayne's department." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "We're going to need more time to review the terms."

By Friday morning, the office hums with new tension. Zayne's on his phone, voice tight, pacing by the windows. His department head emerges from her office, face grim.

I keep my head down. Keep typing.

Lunch, I take the long way to the breakroom. Past Zayne's desk, where papers are scattered like casualties. Past the conference room, where raised voices leak through the door.

Salma finds me by the vending machine.

"Rough week for some people," she says, selecting a sparkling water. Her hand rests on her stomach. Always her stomach. "But I guess that's what happens when you don't have the right connections."

I feed quarters into the machine. "I guess so."

"The gala's tomorrow." She examines her nails, French tips perfect. "Zayne and I are so excited. They're calling us Couple of the Night. Isn't that sweet?"

"Adorable."

"You're coming, right?" Her smile sharpens. "I'd hate for you to miss it."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Something flickers across her face. Uncertainty, maybe. But then Zayne appears, slides his arm around her waist, and she melts into him.

"There you are," he says. His eyes find mine over her head. Cold. Triumphant.

I grab my drink, walk away.

That evening, I meet the Board in a private room at The Plaza. Seven faces around a mahogany table, all of them familiar from childhood dinners and charity galas. All of them waiting.

"Ms. Hart." Marcus Chen, the CEO, stands. "We're ready when you are."

I take my seat at the head of the table. My mother's seat.

"Then let's begin."

We talk for two hours. Transition plans. Announcements. The reveal. Marcus walks me through the gala schedule, where I'll stand, what he'll say.

"And you're certain about the timing?" he asks.

"Certain."

He nods. "Your mother would be proud."

The words settle in my chest, heavy and warm.

I leave through the service entrance, collar up against the December wind. My phone buzzes.

Ambrose: "How did it go?"

Me: "Perfect."

Ambrose: "Nervous?"

I look up at the Plaza's lit windows, at the city spreading out in all directions. Somewhere out there, Zayne's probably with Salma, celebrating their moment. Planning their future. Counting money that was never his.

Me: "Not even a little."

Saturday morning, I wake to sunlight streaming through my windows. The dress hangs on my closet door—midnight blue, simple, elegant. The kind of dress that doesn't need to announce itself.

My phone shows three missed calls from an unknown number. A voicemail.

I play it.

"Ms. Hart, this is Bernard's Fine Jewelry and Pawn." The voice is elderly, concerned. "A gentleman brought in a piece yesterday. Nineteenth-century diamond pendant, Hart family crest. He seemed unaware of its value. We paid him five thousand, but it's worth considerably more. If it was stolen, we'd like to—"

I delete the message.

Five thousand dollars. For my great-grandmother's pendant, the one I wore every day until I left it at Zayne's apartment. The one I told him was costume jewelry because I wanted to see if he'd respect something he thought was worthless.

He didn't even wait a week.

I dress slowly. Hair, makeup, the pendant's absence a ghost at my throat. I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back.

She looks ready.

She looks dangerous.

She looks free.

The gala starts at seven. I arrive at 7:30, fashionably late, perfectly timed.

The ballroom glitters. Champagne flows. And at the center of it all, Zayne and Salma hold court, his arm around her waist, her hand on her stomach, both of them glowing with the particular shine of people who think they've won.

I take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

And I wait for my cue.