My Fiancé Replaced Me with His Business Rival's Mistress

The morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of Father's cigar study as I knocked on the mahogany door. The scent of expensive tobacco wafted out when he opened it, his expression softening at the sight of me.

"Scarlett," he said, gesturing me inside. "I was wondering when you'd come."

I smoothed down my silk blouse and took a seat in one of the leather chairs facing his desk. "The gossip is getting worse."

Father nodded, lighting a cigar with practiced ease. "The vultures are circling. 'Johnston Heiress Jilted' isn't a headline I enjoy seeing."

"Neither do I." I straightened my posture, channeling the composure I'd been practicing since Corbin's betrayal. "That's why I've made a decision."

His eyebrows rose slightly as he settled back into his chair. "Oh?"

"I want to enter an arranged marriage. Immediately." The words hung in the air between us, crisp and decisive.

Father studied me through a cloud of smoke. "You're certain this is what you want?"

"It's what I need." I adjusted my pearl necklace, a habit that had become more frequent since that disastrous night. "The media won't stop speculating about Corbin and Brielle unless I give them something else to talk about."

"An arranged marriage would certainly shift the narrative," Father agreed, his tone carefully neutral. "What did you have in mind?"

"Complete autonomy in selection. No emotional attachments. Just a strategic alliance that benefits both parties." I met his gaze steadily. "I won't be humiliated twice."

Something flickered in Father's eyes—approval, perhaps, or satisfaction. "Very well. I'll have Samson prepare a selection of suitable candidates."

"Thank you." I rose to leave, then paused at the door. "And Father? I'd like this done quickly."

---

The family library had always been my sanctuary, but today it felt different. The leather-bound books that lined the walls seemed to watch as Samson spread a stack of dossiers across the antique table.

"These represent our most eligible bachelors," he explained, his tone businesslike. "All from families with appropriate standing and financial stability."

I ran my fingers over the edges of the folders. Each contained a man's life reduced to statistics—net worth, family connections, education, and philanthropic endeavors. Not a single word about personality or compatibility.

"Is this really how we determine a lifetime partner?" I asked, more to myself than to Samson.

He gave me a look that was almost sympathetic. "It's how it's always been done."

I nodded, closing my eyes briefly. When I opened them again, I pointed to the middle of the stack. "Pull those out."

Samson complied, spreading five folders across the table. I noticed his eyes tracking my movements carefully as I circled the table twice, considering each option.

"Scarlett," he began, his voice unusually gentle, "are you sure about this? There's no rush—"

"I'm sure." I stopped abruptly behind him, my hand hovering over one particular folder. Something about its position—slightly off-center from the others—caught my attention.

Without opening it, I lifted it from the table. "This one."

Samson's expression shifted subtly as he read the name on the cover. "Thatcher Grant?"

The name hit me like a physical blow. "Thatcher Grant? As in Corbin's business rival?"

"The very same." Samson's voice remained carefully neutral, but I caught a flicker of something in his eyes—satisfaction?

I flipped open the folder, scanning the contents with growing disbelief. Thatcher Grant—notorious playboy, ruthless businessman, and Corbin's fiercest competitor. The man who had publicly humiliated Corbin at last year's charity gala.

"This is... unexpected," I managed, my mind racing with implications.

---

The garden had always been my refuge, the place where I retreated with a book when the world became too much. Today, I was halfway through Jane Austen's "Persuasion" when a shadow fell across the page.

"You can't be serious." Corbin's voice was tight with barely controlled fury.

I didn't look up. "I'm very serious."

"This is insane, Scarlett." He paced the gravel path beside my chaise lounge. "Thatcher Grant? Of all people?"

I finally raised my eyes to meet his. "What concern is it of yours?"

"It's a publicity stunt!" He stopped pacing, his hands clenched at his sides. "He's using you to get back at me!"

"And you used me to get what you wanted," I replied coolly. "The difference is, I'm getting something out of this arrangement too."

Corbin stepped closer, his eyes pleading. "Call it off. Please. You know what he is—a heartless womanizer who collects conquests like trophies."

I marked my place in the book with deliberate care before standing to face him. "You forfeited any right to care about my romantic life the moment you chose Brielle."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." I cut him off, my voice like ice. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a wedding to plan."

As he stormed away, I caught a glimpse of something in his expression I'd never seen before—raw, unfiltered jealousy. And strangely, it made me wonder what else I didn't know about Corbin Black.