My Fiancé Bought His Mistress My Wedding Dress

The cocktail party was in a penthouse on the Upper East Side. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Manhattan glittering below like scattered diamonds. A bartender in black tie mixing drinks no one actually drank—just held, like props.

Christian's hand rested on my lower back as we stepped off the elevator. Light. Possessive. The gesture of a man showing off something he owned.

"You're going to love these people," he said. "Just be yourself."

I smiled. "Always."

The first person to greet us was a woman named Vanessa. Blonde. Severine dress. She air-kissed Christian on both cheeks and then turned to me with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Sloane," she said. "How lovely. Christian's told us so much about you."

"All good things, I hope."

"Of course." Her gaze dropped to my dress. Simple black sheath. No logos. No flash. "That's such a sweet dress. Very... understated."

I took a glass of champagne from a passing tray. "Thank you."

Christian steered me deeper into the room. More introductions. More polished smiles. Marcus Webb—tall, loud, the kind of man who thought volume was the same as charisma—clapped Christian on the shoulder and looked me up and down.

"So you're the famous Sloane," he said. "Christian keeps you well hidden."

"I'm not much for crowds," I said.

"Clearly." He laughed. "What do you do again? Something with... design?"

"Something like that."

"Freelance?" Vanessa asked. Her tone was light. Curious. The way you'd ask a child what they wanted to be when they grew up.

"Occasionally."

"How interesting," she said. "It must be so freeing not to have a traditional career path."

I sipped my champagne. "It has its advantages."

Christian's phone buzzed. He glanced at it and his expression shifted—just for a second. Brighter. Anticipatory.

"She's here," he said to Marcus.

Marcus grinned. "Finally."

I didn't ask who.

The elevator doors opened again. Jazlyn Bailey stepped out.

Red Valentino gown. Plunging neckline. Hair swept up in a way that had taken someone two hours and five hundred dollars. She moved through the room like she was on a runway. Every head turned.

Christian moved toward her without thinking. I watched his hand lift—automatic, practiced—and land on the small of her back. The same place it had been on mine five minutes ago.

She kissed his cheek. Lingered half a second too long. He said something I couldn't hear and she laughed—bright, loud, the kind of laugh designed to carry.

I stayed where I was.

Vanessa appeared at my elbow. "They make such a striking couple, don't they?"

I turned to her. "Do they?"

"Oh, you know what I mean." She waved a hand. "The way they coordinate. It's like they're always on the same wavelength."

I looked back at Christian and Jazlyn. His suit jacket. Her gown. The same shade of deep burgundy. The same designer.

Coordinated.

Three weeks in advance, probably. Maybe more.

Marcus drifted over, drink in hand. He looked at me and then at Christian and Jazlyn across the room. "Hey, Sloane," he said. Loud enough for the people around us to hear. "Where'd you find that dress? Sample sale?"

A few people laughed. Polite. Restrained. The kind of laughter that said they agreed but had better manners.

I smiled. "Something like that."

Christian glanced over. Caught Marcus's eye. Grinned.

He didn't say anything.

Didn't correct him.

Just grinned.

I finished my champagne. Set the glass on a passing tray. Smoothed my dress.

"Excuse me," I said. "I need to freshen up."

No one stopped me.

I found the bathroom. Locked the door. Stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself.

Simple black dress. My mother's pearls at my wrist. No logos. No flash.

I pulled out my phone.

The notification was already waiting.

**Bank Alert: Joint Account Transfer — $847,000.00**

I stared at the number.

Five years.

Every paycheck. Every bonus. Split down the middle. Saved together. For our future.

Gone.

I opened the transaction details.

**Recipient: Spencer Group Milan Atelier**

**Purchase Description: Custom Bridal Couture — Bailey, J.**

I pulled up the internal system. Found the order.

Design code: SS-2847.

My code.

My design.

The gown I'd sketched six months ago. Ivory silk. Hand-embroidered lace. Forty hours of beadwork. I'd sent it to Milan under my pseudonym and forgotten about it.

Christian had bought it.

For her.

With our money.

The price listed was $1.2 million.

I'd instructed the team to price it at $400,000.

Someone had listened when I said to inflate anything with Bailey's name on it.

I closed my eyes.

Breathe.

Count.

Twenty-three pearls.

I opened my eyes. Unlocked my phone. Sent a message to my accountant: **Freeze joint account. Transfer my half to primary. Immediately.**

The reply came in seconds: **Done.**

I put my phone away. Checked my reflection one last time. Reapplied my lipstick.

When I walked back into the party, Christian was still with Jazlyn. His hand still on her back. Her head tilted toward his. Intimate. Easy.

I walked past them. Stopped at the bar. Ordered another drink.

Marcus appeared beside me. "You okay?"

"Perfect," I said.

He looked uncomfortable. "Look, I was just joking earlier—"

"I know."

"No hard feelings?"

I turned to him. Smiled. "None at all."

He relaxed. "Good. You're a good sport."

"I try."

I took my drink. Walked to the windows. Looked out at the city.

Behind me, Jazlyn's laugh rang out again.

I sipped my champagne.

And I made a list.