My Fiancé Replaced Me with His Business Rival's Mistress

The maître d' at Le Ciel led me to a secluded corner table where Thatcher Grant already waited, his tall frame draped in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. I'd expected to find him surrounded by champagne bottles and female admirers, but he sat alone, studying the wine list with unusual concentration.

"Scarlett," he rose as I approached, his voice carrying that familiar drawl that had graced countless tabloid headlines. "You look ravishing."

I took the seat across from him, smoothing my black cocktail dress. "Mr. Grant. Thank you for meeting me."

"Thatcher, please." His eyes—a startling shade of blue I hadn't fully appreciated from afar—studied me with unexpected intensity. "We're about to be married, after all."

The waiter appeared, and I expected Thatcher to order something ostentatious. Instead, he surprised me. "We'll start with the 2015 Château Margaux Blanc, followed by the seared scallops with champagne butter, and the venison with blackberry reduction."

My favorite dishes. Exactly.

"How did you—" I began, then stopped myself.

His lips curved into something that wasn't quite his usual predatory smile. "Know your favorites? I've been paying attention, Scarlett. For longer than you might think."

The wine arrived, and as he swirled the golden liquid in his glass, his expression shifted. The playboy facade slipped away, revealing something more serious underneath.

"This arrangement," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I want to be clear about what it means."

"Ground rules," I agreed, my tone businesslike despite the sudden flutter in my chest. "No emotional entanglements. Mutual benefit. Public appearances as necessary."

"Correct." He leaned forward slightly. "But I want you to know something. When I protect something—or someone—I do it completely."

The intensity in his gaze made me look away. "That won't be necessary."

"Trust me," he murmured, "it will be."

---

The following afternoon, Samson slipped into a nondescript coffee shop in Midtown, his movements casual but purposeful. I watched from across the street as he chose a corner table, his back to the wall—always the strategist.

Detective Sarah Chen arrived precisely on time, her plainclothes blending seamlessly with the lunch crowd. She slid into the seat opposite my brother, her expression professional but alert.

"Mr. Johnston," she greeted him, accepting the coffee he offered.

"Detective Chen." Samson's voice was low, measured. "Thank you for meeting discreetly."

She nodded once. "You mentioned a sensitive matter involving your family?"

"Yes." Samson reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small evidence bag containing a strand of honey-blonde hair. "I need you to run DNA on this sample."

Chen examined the bag. "Where did you obtain this?"

"From a hairbrush." His expression remained neutral. "The owner is currently residing in our family's penthouse."

"And the subject's name?"

"Brielle Carlson." Samson leaned forward slightly. "She claims to be pregnant with my brother's child, but there are inconsistencies in her story."

Chen's eyebrow arched slightly. "What kind of inconsistencies?"

"The medical paperwork she showed us looks... off." Samson's fingers tapped once on the table. "European hospital letterhead, but the format is wrong. And there are other details that don't add up."

"I'll need to check her background," Chen said, tucking the sample into her case. "European records can be tricky."

"Whatever it takes." Samson's voice hardened almost imperceptibly. "My sister's happiness depends on it."

---

The engagement gala transformed the Grant family's Fifth Avenue mansion into a glittering showcase of wealth and power. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors as New York's elite mingled beneath priceless art.

I stood beside Thatcher at the entrance, greeting guests with practiced smiles. His hand rested at the small of my back—possessive, protective.

"You look stunning," he whispered, his lips close to my ear. "Everyone's watching you."

"Let them watch," I replied coolly, though my heart raced at his proximity.

Across the room, Grandpa Alfred Grant clinked his glass with Father's, drawing everyone's attention.

"To new beginnings," Alfred announced, his voice carrying across the hushed room. "And to the union of two great families."

Father nodded, his expression satisfied. "To Scarlett and Thatcher."

Something in their exchanged glance—a knowing look between old friends—made me wonder what I was missing.

As the orchestra began to play, Thatcher turned to me. "Shall we?"

Before I could respond, he guided me onto the dance floor, one hand at my waist, the other clasping mine with surprising gentleness.

"You're safe with me," he murmured as we moved together, his breath warm against my skin. "No one will dare speak ill of you while you're under my protection."

The possessiveness in his tone should have alarmed me. Instead, it sent a shiver down my spine—not of fear, but of something dangerously close to desire.

"What are you doing, Thatcher?" I whispered, searching his face.

His eyes darkened as he pulled me closer. "Exactly what I've always wanted to do."

As we turned beneath the chandeliers, I caught sight of Corbin at the edge of the ballroom, watching us with naked anguish in his eyes. And for the first time since he'd returned from London, I found I didn't care at all.