My Fiancé Moved His Mistress In

I found them in the library, my parents, huddled together on the leather sofa like conspirators. The room smelled of old books and my mother's perfume—a scent that once meant safety but now turned my stomach.

"I need to talk to you," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "What Hudson is doing—it's not right."

My father didn't look up from his tablet. "Roselyn, we're aware of the situation."

"Are you?" I stepped closer, desperation clawing at my throat. "He brought his mistress into our home. He assaulted me. He's trying to throw me out of my own bedroom."

My mother finally looked up, but her eyes slid past me to adjust a curtain. "Hudson is under a lot of pressure with the merger approaching. We all need to be understanding."

"Understanding?" The word tasted bitter. "He's having an affair. He's embezzling company funds to pay for her lifestyle. And you're telling me to be understanding?"

My father sighed, setting down his tablet with the careful precision of someone trying to avoid a mess. "You're being dramatic, Roselyn. This will blow over."

"Dramatic?" My voice cracked. "I'm your daughter. Don't you care at all?"

The silence stretched between us like a chasm. My mother smoothed her skirt, a nervous habit I'd seen a thousand times. "Perhaps it would be best if you stayed at the St. Regis for a few days. Just until Hudson calms down."

I stared at her, this woman who had given birth to me but couldn't look me in the eye. "You want me to leave? To go to a hotel?"

"It's just temporary," my father interjected, his tone businesslike. "We can't risk any... unpleasantness before the merger. The board is already nervous about Hudson's leadership."

Something inside me hardened. "So that's it? The merger is more important than your own daughter?"

"Don't be childish," my mother snapped, her mask slipping for just a moment. "This isn't about you. It's about the family."

I backed away, suddenly seeing them clearly for the first time. "There is no family. There's just a company."

---

The rain started as I pulled away from the curb, fat drops splattering against the windshield of my Aston Martin. Within minutes, it became a deluge, turning Manhattan's lights into watercolor smears.

I drove east toward the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. The city blurred around me—the only home I'd ever known now felt alien, hostile.

My laptop sat beside me on the passenger seat, along with a box of files I'd been compiling for months. Financial records. Board meeting minutes. Emails Hudson thought he'd deleted. All the evidence of his incompetence and corruption.

The tunnel swallowed me whole, and for a moment I was in complete darkness. When I emerged on the other side, the rain had intensified. Wind whipped across Long Island Expressway, making the car tremble.

"Three hours," I whispered to myself, gripping the wheel tighter. "Three hours until I reach Montauk."

The Hamptons in a storm. Grandfather's castle by the sea. The thought should have terrified me—Foster Jenkins had always been more myth than man in my life—but instead, it filled me with grim determination.

I pushed the speedometer higher, hydroplaning through puddles that sent spray arcing into the darkness. Each mile marker was a small victory, each exit I passed a step closer to salvation.

"Why?" I asked aloud, though no one could hear me. "Why do they choose him?"

The windshield wipers couldn't keep up with the downpour. I leaned forward, squinting through the glass. My headlights cut weak paths through the storm, illuminating only the next few feet of road.

"Just a little further," I whispered, though my voice trembled. "Just a little further."

---

The gates of Foster's estate loomed out of the darkness like something from another world. I punched in the security code—my birthday, ironically—and waited as they swung open with mechanical precision.

The driveway curved through manicured gardens now thrashed by wind and rain. I parked haphazardly near the front entrance and ran through the downpour to the massive oak door.

I didn't bother with the bell. My fist pounded against the wood, each blow echoing through the storm.

"Grandfather!" I shouted, not caring who heard. "Grandfather, wake up!"

Light spilled from windows as I circled to the side entrance. I knew his routine—he'd be in his study, even at 3 AM. The spare key was still hidden under the stone frog.

The house was silent except for the ticking of a million clocks. I found him in his leather chair, reading glasses perched on his nose, a glass of scotch untouched beside him.

"Foster," I said, using his first name deliberately. "We need to talk."

His eyes—the same steel gray as mine—flicked up from his book. No surprise. No warmth. Just cold assessment.

"Roselyn," he acknowledged, setting the book aside. "You're drenched."

I dropped my laptop and files on his mahogany desk, water pooling beneath them. "Hudson is destroying everything you built."

I pulled out the financial records first—evidence of funds diverted to offshore accounts, all in Skyla's name. Then the merger documents—Hudson's annotations showed a startling lack of understanding.

"He's been stealing," I said, my voice shaking with fury rather than fear now. "He's been lying. And no one will stop him because they're all too afraid of what it might mean for their precious merger."

Foster didn't speak. He simply reached for the first file, his gnarled fingers steady as he opened it.

I watched his face as he read, page after page, his expression hardening like concrete setting in the rain.