My Fiancé Took His Pregnant Mistress to the Maldives

The report sat on my laptop screen, cursor blinking at the end of the final paragraph. Twenty-three pages. Six weeks of work. The methodology was elegant—trace analysis of textile degradation in accelerant-exposed environments, cross-referenced with spectroscopic data. It was the kind of work that would make Dalton look brilliant.

Because it was brilliant. I'd made sure of that for six years.

I scrolled back to page seven. The section on fiber analysis. I found the data table I was looking for—the one showing degradation rates at different temperature thresholds. The numbers were precise. Defensible. Correct.

I changed three of them.

Not by much. Just enough. The kind of error that would look like a typo to someone who didn't understand the underlying chemistry. The kind of error that would make the entire conclusion collapse under scrutiny from anyone who did.

I moved to page twelve. The statistical analysis section. I inverted two variables in the regression model. Again—subtle. Invisible to Dalton, who had never actually run a regression in his life. Glaring to any qualified expert who bothered to check the math.

Page seventeen. I altered a citation. Changed the year. Made it reference a study that didn't exist.

My hands were steady. My breathing was even. I felt nothing except the cool, precise satisfaction of a job done correctly.

When I finished, I read through the entire report one more time. To anyone who didn't know what they were looking at, it would seem flawless. Dalton would read it the way he always read my work—skimming for the conclusion, trusting that the foundation was sound because it always had been.

He would submit it under his name. He would stand on that stage in Washington, D.C., in front of the entire forensic science community, and he would present work that would eliminate him in the first round.

I attached the file to an email. The subject line was the same as always: *Final draft—ready for submission.*

No message in the body. There never was.

I hit send.

Then I closed my laptop and stared at the brick wall outside my window.

I waited for guilt. For hesitation. For some small voice to whisper that what I'd just done was wrong.

Nothing came.

I'd given him six years of my mind. He'd taken it without asking and called it collaboration. He'd built a career on my work and shoved me into a wall when I stopped being useful.

This wasn't revenge. This was just returning him to the level of competence he'd always actually possessed.

I stood up and made more coffee.

My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen. A message from Craig.

*Got it. Looks good.*

Not thank you. Not I appreciate this. Just confirmation that he'd received the weapon I'd handed him and mistaken it for a gift.

I deleted the message and set my phone face-down on the counter.

The coffee was too hot. I drank it anyway.

---

Across Manhattan, in a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, Eithan Ruiz set down his phone and looked at the man seated across from him.

Robert Keene was sixty-two, gray-haired, and had spent thirty years running the kind of investigations that never made the news because they didn't need to. His firm didn't chase headlines. They built cases that couldn't be dismantled.

"She left him," Eithan said.

Keene nodded slowly. "When?"

"Four days ago."

Keene pulled a leather portfolio from his briefcase and opened it on the desk. "What do you need?"

Eithan leaned back in his chair. His voice was calm, precise. "Everything. I want Jade Hughes's original research files authenticated against every paper Dalton West has published. Metadata, timestamps, file creation dates. I want it airtight."

"Understood."

"I want the full timeline of Dalton West's relationship with Peyton Allen. When it started. How long it's been going on. I want proof."

Keene made a note.

"And I want a complete investigation into Frank West's accident." Eithan's jaw tightened. "The car crash on the Long Island Expressway two years ago. I want phone records. Text messages. Anything that shows what happened in the hours before he died."

Keene looked up. "You think the brother's involved?"

"I think Frank West discovered something," Eithan said quietly. "And I think it killed him."

Keene closed the portfolio. "This is going to take time. And resources."

"You have both." Eithan slid a folder across the desk. "Retainer. And a list of forensic data specialists who can authenticate the research files. I've already cleared them."

Keene picked up the folder and flipped it open. His eyebrows rose slightly. "This is more than a retainer. This is a war chest."

"I'm not building a scandal," Eithan said. "I'm building a case. When I present it, I don't want a single crack. I don't want a technicality. I don't want Dalton West to have anywhere to hide."

Keene studied him for a long moment. "This is personal."

"Yes."

"The woman. Jade Hughes. You know her."

Eithan's expression didn't change. "I was engaged to her once. She chose someone else."

"And now?"

"Now," Eithan said, "she's chosen herself. And I'm going to make sure the world sees what she's capable of."

Keene nodded and stood. "I'll have a preliminary report in two weeks."

"Good." Eithan rose and walked him to the door. "Robert."

Keene turned.

"This stays quiet until I say otherwise. No leaks. No press. When this goes public, it goes public on my terms."

"Understood."

After Keene left, Eithan returned to the window. The park stretched out below, green and vast. Somewhere in this city, Jade was alone in a studio apartment, rebuilding herself from nothing.

He'd waited six years. He could wait two more months.

But when the National Championship arrived, Dalton West was going to learn what it felt like to stand on a stage with nothing real to hold him up.

And Jade was going to learn that she'd never been alone at all.