My Ex Forced Me To Design His Mistress's Wedding Dress

The morning sun filtered through the windows of Ethan's Manhattan penthouse as I stood in the doorway, clutching my wedding dress design to my chest. Five years of love, sacrifice, and dreams were etched into those sketches—every curve, every delicate lace detail crafted with him in mind. I had risen at dawn, too excited to sleep, wanting to surprise him with the final design.

The surprise, it turned out, was entirely mine.

"Ethan?" My voice came out as a whisper, though I desperately wished I hadn't made a sound at all.

There they were, tangled in his Egyptian cotton sheets—Ethan and Vanessa. My boyfriend and my best friend. Her long blonde hair spilled across his chest, and when she turned to look at me, I saw something I'd never noticed before: triumph in her eyes, and beneath it, a cruel satisfaction.

"Olivia!" Ethan scrambled to sit up, the sheet falling to his waist. "This isn't—I mean, it just happened. You weren't supposed to—"

The pages slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the hardwood floor like wounded birds. My wedding dress design—the physical manifestation of every hope I'd ever had—splayed at my feet, as broken as my heart.

"How long?" I managed to ask, my voice surprisingly steady despite the earthquake inside me.

Vanessa smirked, draping herself possessively over Ethan's shoulder. "Does it matter, hon? He was never really yours to begin with."

Five years. Five years of "love tests" where I'd cut ties with male friends because Ethan said it made him uncomfortable. Five years of putting his career networking events above my own design deadlines. Five years of believing that love meant sacrifice, just as my immigrant parents had taught me.

I turned and walked out without another word, leaving behind the sketches, the lies, and the life I thought I'd been building.

Hours later, I found myself at The Velvet Lounge in SoHo, a place far too upscale for my current emotional state. I'd wandered the streets until my feet ached, unable to go home to the apartment filled with memories of Ethan's visits and Vanessa's girls' nights. The champagne in my glass—my third, or maybe fourth—blurred at the edges as tears threatened again.

"Tissues are more effective than cocktail napkins for this particular situation."

I looked up to find a man extending a pristine handkerchief. Even through my champagne haze, I recognized him immediately. Alexander James, CEO of James Industries and fixture of New York's business elite. His face regularly graced the business section of the Times, always with that same inscrutable expression—neither smiling nor frowning, just observing the world with cool detachment.

"Thank you," I murmured, accepting the handkerchief. It was monogrammed, of course. AJ in elegant script.

"Olivia Chen, isn't it? The designer from the Parsons showcase last fall." His voice was deep, measured, revealing nothing.

I blinked in surprise. "You remember that?"

"I make it my business to remember talent." He signaled the bartender, who immediately brought him what looked like whiskey, neat. "May I?" he gestured to the empty stool beside me.

I nodded, too numb to be properly starstruck.

"I couldn't help overhearing some industry gossip earlier today," he said after taking a measured sip. "Apparently, Ethan Reed is telling quite the tale about your... emotional state following your breakup."

My stomach clenched. "Breakup? I just caught him with my best friend this morning. He's already spinning a story?"

Alexander's expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes—recognition, perhaps. "Men like Reed are predictable. They rewrite history before the ink is dry on the original."

"What exactly is he saying?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"That you've become unstable. That your career pressures combined with your... emotional nature... led to the relationship's demise." He studied me over the rim of his glass. "He's laying groundwork."

"For what?"

"To ensure that when you tell the truth, no one believes you." Alexander set his glass down with precision. "Ms. Chen, I find myself in need of a wife."

The champagne must have affected me more than I thought. "Excuse me?"

"A temporary arrangement. Six months, perhaps a year. I require a certain image for an upcoming business expansion, and you need protection from Reed's narrative. A marriage of convenience, nothing more."

I stared at him, certain this was some bizarre alcohol-induced hallucination.

"Consider it," he said, sliding a business card across the bar. "Reed has connections in this industry that could damage your career before it truly begins. I can offer a shield against that."

As if on cue, my phone lit up with a notification. Someone had tagged me in a post. With trembling fingers, I opened it to find a fashion blog speculating about my "emotional breakdown" following my split with Ethan Reed, citing "sources close to the designer."

I looked up at Alexander, whose eyes held something I couldn't quite identify—not pity, but perhaps understanding.

"How soon would we need to decide?" I heard myself ask, the weight of Ethan's betrayal and the speed of his character assassination making the impossible suddenly seem like the only logical option.