My Fiancé Chose His Pregnant Mistress Over Our Dynasty

The autumn breeze swept across Columbia's campus, rustling the golden leaves that carpeted the pathways. I pulled my cashmere coat tighter around me as I approached the campus café, seeking refuge from both the chill and my thoughts. Three days had passed since discovering the ultrasound photo in Alexander's briefcase, and I still hadn't confronted him about it. Part of me wanted proof—irrefutable evidence that would justify the complete severance I was contemplating.

The café buzzed with the familiar energy of students cramming for midterms, the air rich with the scent of espresso and cinnamon. I ordered my usual black coffee, needing its bitter strength to fortify me for the board meeting later that afternoon.

"Make that two," came a voice from behind me. "And add a blueberry scone."

I turned to find James Richardson standing there, his glasses slightly askew and a worn copy of "Corporate Ethics in Modern America" tucked under his arm. We'd shared several business classes together, though we'd rarely spoken outside academic discussions.

"Victoria," he nodded, his expression warm but cautious. "Mind if I join you? There's something I think you should know."

Something in his tone made me agree. We found a quiet corner table away from the bustling counter, and I watched him carefully as he seemed to struggle with how to begin.

"I'm not one to involve myself in others' affairs," he started, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "But yesterday, I overheard something that concerned me."

He glanced around before continuing, his voice lowered. "Isabella Hayes was here, at this very table actually. She was on the phone—not exactly being discreet."

My fingers tightened around my coffee cup. "Isabella," I repeated, keeping my voice neutral despite the name tasting like poison on my tongue.

"She was berating someone—Alexander, I presume—about forgetting what she called their 'due-date celebration.'" James watched my reaction carefully. "She was threatening to 'show up where she wasn't wanted' if he continued to ignore her."

The coffee turned to acid in my stomach. Due-date celebration. So it was true. The ultrasound wasn't some mistake or misunderstanding.

"She seemed...unstable," James continued. "Switching between tears and threats within seconds. She mentioned your engagement party specifically."

I maintained my composure, though inside, pieces were shifting, plans forming. "Thank you for telling me this, James."

"I almost didn't," he admitted. "I started drafting an email to you last night, but it felt presumptuous. Who am I to interfere in..." he gestured vaguely, "all of this?"

"Someone with integrity, apparently," I replied, studying him with new interest. Unlike the social climbers and sycophants who typically surrounded me, James seemed genuinely uncomfortable with the role of messenger.

"I should go," he said, gathering his book. "I have Professor Harrington's lecture in ten minutes."

"James," I called as he stood. "Why did you tell me?"

He paused, considering. "Because everyone deserves to make decisions based on truth, not lies. Even billionaire heiresses."

With that, he left, leaving me with confirmation of what I'd suspected but hoped wasn't true.

---

That evening, I sat at my desk in the penthouse, reviewing the final guest list for tomorrow's engagement party. Alexander was at "an emergency meeting"—another lie in a growing collection. The Plaza Hotel's elegant cream stationery was spread before me, each name representing a carefully calculated alliance or potential business opportunity.

I sipped my evening coffee—black, no sugar—a ritual that normally centered me. Tonight, it did nothing to calm the storm brewing inside.

My eyes fell on Alexander's handwritten notes on the guest list. There, at the bottom, was Isabella's name—aggressively crossed out multiple times, the pen having torn through the paper in places. Next to it, in his hasty scrawl: "ABSOLUTELY NOT."

I ran my finger over the indentations his pen had left, feeling the desperation in each stroke. He was panicking, trying to keep his two worlds from colliding.

My phone lit up with a text from Eleanor, my assistant: "All arrangements confirmed for tomorrow. The Plaza awaits your final inspection at 10 AM."

I set down my coffee cup with a decisive click against the saucer. Tomorrow would indeed be a celebration—though perhaps not the one everyone was expecting.

As I closed the guest list, I couldn't help but wonder if Isabella would honor Alexander's frantic crossing-out of her name. Somehow, I doubted it. The stage was set for a confrontation that would change everything.