My Husband Forced Me to Welcome His Mistress

The spotlight felt warm against my skin as I approached the stage. The gala had reached its crescendo—the moment when Beckett would announce Ivory's official integration into Ferguson Industries. My heels clicked against the polished marble steps, each step measured and deliberate.

I could feel Ivory's eyes boring into me from where she stood near the bar. She'd been drinking heavily since her humiliation with Gracie, her pale blue dress now rumpled, her makeup slightly smudged. The perfect picture of desperation.

"Mariah," the event coordinator whispered as I reached the stage entrance. "Mr. Ferguson asked me to tell you to keep your remarks brief. Just introduce him and Mrs. Oliver."

I smiled serenely. "Of course."

The microphone stood center stage, bathed in golden light. I took my place behind it, surveying the crowd of New York's elite. Camera flashes punctuated the hushed silence.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I began, my voice clear and steady. "It's my honor to welcome you to this special evening."

I felt rather than saw Ivory moving toward the stage, her heels clicking rapidly against the floor. In my previous life, I'd been blindsided by her "accident" during this very speech—a stumble that had sent me crashing down the steps, breaking my wrist and humiliating me before the entire board.

Not this time.

"As we prepare to celebrate the future of Ferguson Industries," I continued, "I'd like to invite my husband, Beckett Ferguson, to the stage."

I stepped slightly to the right, extending my hand toward the wings where Beckett waited. Ivory emerged from the shadows, her timing perfect—too perfect. She moved directly into my path, her foot extended just enough to hook my ankle.

The crowd gasped.

I pivoted gracefully, my red Valentino gown swirling around me like a flame. Ivory's eyes widened in shock as her plan backfired spectacularly. She stumbled forward, arms flailing, and crashed face-first onto the stage.

The silence was deafening.

Then came the sound of tearing fabric as her dress ripped along the seam, exposing her underwear to the horrified audience.

"Oh my God!" someone whispered loudly.

"Is she drunk?" another voice hissed.

I stood perfectly still, my expression one of practiced concern. "Are you alright, Ivory?"

She scrambled to her feet, clutching the torn fabric to her thighs, mascara streaking down her cheeks. The room erupted in whispers—not about me, but about Beckett's mistress.

---

"Disaster!" Beckett slammed his fist against the penthouse wall as we entered. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

I removed my earrings carefully, placing them in their velvet box. "I've done nothing, Beckett. Ivory had too much to drink."

"Don't play innocent with me." He grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging into my skin. "The board members were whispering about offshore accounts. About the SEC."

I met his gaze steadily. "Perhaps they're concerned about your health. You seemed rather... flushed tonight."

His grip tightened. "What did you tell them?"

"Nothing they couldn't discover themselves." I pulled my arm free. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to pack."

"Pack?" He looked confused.

"For Seattle," I reminded him calmly. "You mentioned we're leaving tomorrow to pick up Arlo."

His eyes narrowed. "We're not going to Seattle."

"Then why did you tell Ivory—"

"Because I changed my mind!" he shouted, adjusting his cufflinks furiously. "We're going now. Tonight."

He pulled out his phone, jabbing at the screen. "I've already called the jet. We leave in two hours."

"Beckett, it's midnight—"

"Exactly my point." His smile was cold. "The press will be waiting at the airport. A united family front is exactly what we need after tonight's disaster."

I crossed my arms. "And if I refuse?"

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Then Jackson can say goodbye to his inheritance. Permanently."

The threat hung between us like a blade. In my previous life, this would have broken me. Now, it merely confirmed what I already knew about the man I'd married.

"Fine," I said simply. "I'll get ready."

As I turned toward the bedroom, I caught sight of Jackson watching from the hallway, his face pale with worry.

"Mom?" he called softly.

I gave him a reassuring smile. "It's alright, sweetheart. Just a business trip."

But as I packed my suitcase, my mind raced with plans. Seattle wasn't just about picking up Arlo. It was where Beckett's carefully constructed world would begin to crumble—and where mine would rise from the ashes.