My Fiancé Slept With My Best Friend

The presentation was over. Julian had paraded my stolen work in front of the board, soaking up their applause like a sponge. Now, while the executives mingled in the lobby downstairs, I stood frozen in his private suite.

I pressed my spine against the cold mahogany of the partition cabinet. My shadow merged with the narrow gap between the wood and the wall.

"You promised me the penthouse, Julian."

Chloe's voice sliced through the quiet office, sharp and demanding.

"The InterContinental. Tonight. Don't think you can cheap out on me after the stunt you pulled in the boardroom."

"I never cheap out on you, Chloe," Julian murmured.

Footsteps shifted on the carpet. A soft thud echoed as someone leaned against the heavy desk.

"Prove it," she challenged. "I secured the votes from the European delegates. I earned that suite. And I earned my spot as Lead Director."

"You'll get the title."

Julian's tone dropped, thick with a sickeningly sweet flattery.

"You've been brilliant. Absolutely indispensable."

"And Clara?" Chloe pressed. "She's still hovering around. I want her gone. She looks at me like she knows."

"Let her look," Julian scoffed.

Through the narrow slit between the cabinet hinges, I watched his hands slide down her emerald-green suit jacket. His palms settled firmly on her waist, pulling her flush against his chest.

"Next week, she’s out," he promised.

His mouth hovered inches from hers.

"I’ll restructure the core team. Her position will be eliminated. She won't even see it coming."

"You better mean it," Chloe whispered.

She reached up, tracing his jawline with a manicured fingernail.

"I don't share power. And I certainly don't share my man with a glorified secretary."

"You don't share anything," Julian chuckled.

He pressed a kiss to her neck.

"Just give me a few days to finalize the paperwork. She’ll be out of the firm and out of my house."

I clamped my teeth down on my bottom lip. Hard.

The pressure built until a sharp copper tang flooded my tongue. I swallowed the blood, forcing my chest to remain still.

"Tonight," Chloe reminded him.

She stepped back, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt.

"Room 902. Bring the new contract."

"I'll bring the contract, and the champagne," Julian said. "Now, come on. The executive committee is waiting for the follow-up review. We need to look busy."

The heavy glass door clicked shut.

I waited ten seconds. Twenty.

When only the low hum of the air conditioning remained, I stepped out from behind the cabinet. I wiped a drop of blood from my chin with the back of my hand.

"Out of the firm," I whispered to the empty room. "Out of the house."

I marched straight to the abstract oil painting hanging on the far wall. I shoved the heavy frame aside, exposing the steel face of Julian's private wall safe.

He thought he was so clever, hiding it behind terrible corporate art. But he was arrogant. He never bothered to wipe my biometric access after we set it up three years ago.

I pressed my right thumb against the dark glass sensor.

A tiny green light flashed.

The internal locks disengaged with a heavy *clunk*.

I yanked the heavy steel door open.

"Show me the money, Julian," I muttered.

I bypassed the velvet watch boxes and stacks of useless corporate bonds. I needed the offshore accounts. I needed the wire transfers he used to pay for the InterContinental suites and the designer jewelry.

My hands scoured the top shelf, finding nothing but old passports and tax returns.

I dropped to my knees, reaching into the very bottom of the dark steel box. My fingers brushed against thick, rough paper.

A heavy manila envelope lay flat against the cold metal floor.

I pulled it out. The flap wasn't sealed.

I tipped the envelope upside down over the carpet.

A stack of documents slid out, spilling across the floor. I grabbed the top pages. Bank statements. The Cayman Islands. Millions of dollars neatly tucked away in an LLC registered to Julian's mother.

"Got you," I breathed.

But as I shifted the papers to take a photo, another document caught my eye. It was printed on heavy, watermarked paper. The header bore the logo of a premier international insurance conglomerate.

I pulled it loose from the pile.

The bold black letters at the top made my stomach drop.

*Comprehensive Accidental Death & Dismemberment Policy.*

I scanned the lines, my eyes darting across the legal jargon.

*Insured Party: Clara Hayes.*

*Coverage Amount: $15,000,000.*

*Primary Beneficiary: Julian Vance.*

My hands started to shake. The paper rattled violently in my grip.

Fifteen million dollars.

I looked at the date of issuance. It was signed three weeks ago. The exact same week Julian insisted I take up solo rock climbing at that new indoor gym. The same week he suggested we book a winter trip to the Swiss Alps.

I pulled my phone out and dialed my private investigator.

"Pick up, Sam," I urged.

"Clara? Did you get the bank statements?" Sam Miller's voice crackled through the speaker.

"I got something worse."

"Define worse."

"A life insurance policy. Accidental death."

"How much?"

"Fifteen million."

Silence hung on the line for a heavy second.

"Christ, Clara. Who is the beneficiary?"

"Julian."

"Get out of that office right now."

"He's planning an accident, Sam."

"Don't go home. Go straight to the precinct."

"No." I stared at the signature line on the final page. "If I go to the cops, he denies it. He says it's standard estate planning."

"Clara, listen to me—"

"Look at the broker's signature on the policy," I interrupted, reading the name aloud. "Marcus Thorne. Chloe's brother."

"They planned this together," Sam realized.

"The hotel rooms, the stolen proposal, the affair," I said, my voice turning to ice. "It was all just a distraction. The real goal was a massive payout to fund his new life."

"I'm coming to get you."

"Stay where you are. I need you to run a background check on Marcus Thorne immediately."

"Clara, you are in danger."

"I know."

I hung up the phone.

The screen immediately lit up with a new text message.

Julian.

*“Hey honey. The meeting is running long. I booked that weekend cabin getaway for us. Just you and me in the mountains. We leave Friday night.”*

I stared at the glowing text.

Friday night. Three days from now.

He wasn't just planning to divorce me. He was going to kill me.