My Husband Married His Mistress

The elevator doors slid open on the thirty-second floor, and I stepped into the familiar hallway of Grant Enterprises. My heels clicked against the marble floor, the sound echoing in the early morning quiet. Something felt off—the usual buzz of activity was missing, replaced by an unsettling stillness.

As I rounded the corner to my office, I stopped dead in my tracks. Cardboard boxes lined the wall outside my door, my personal items haphazardly thrown inside. My framed MBA diploma peeked out from one box, the glass cracked down the middle.

"Olivia?" Maya's voice came out as barely a whisper. My assistant stood by her desk, clutching a manila folder to her chest like a shield. Her eyes were red-rimmed, darting between me and the elevator as if calculating an escape route.

"What's going on?" I asked, though my stomach already knew the answer.

Maya's hands trembled as she spoke. "Mr. Grant... he came in early this morning with Mrs. Grant. They—" She swallowed hard. "They've reassigned your office and the Morrison project to her."

The Morrison project. Six months of my life poured into that acquisition deal. Late nights, weekends, my blood and sweat crystallized into a strategy that would net the company millions.

"Where is he?" The words came out sharper than intended.

"In his office, but Olivia—" Maya reached for my arm as I strode past her. "He said you're not allowed—"

I didn't hear the rest. My body moved on autopilot toward the corner office, the one with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. The one where I'd spent countless evenings reviewing contracts while Ethan worked beside me, his hand occasionally finding mine across the conference table.

Through the glass walls, I could see him at his desk, signing documents with the Mont Blanc pen I'd given him for his birthday. He looked up as I pushed open the door without knocking.

"Olivia." No surprise in his voice. Just that new coldness I'd been noticing for weeks. "I expected you earlier."

"You gave away my project?" I planted my hands on his desk, leaning forward. "Six months of work, Ethan. My work."

He set down his pen with deliberate precision. "It's a business decision. Vanessa has the social connections to close the Morrison deal more effectively."

"Social connections?" I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You mean cocktail parties and charity galas? That's what you think closes multi-million dollar acquisitions?"

"Lower your voice." His jaw tightened, that tell I knew so well. "You're creating unnecessary noise."

Noise. Six years of building this company together, and I was noise.

"I need the Morrison files," I said, straightening. "The ones from the due diligence phase. They're not in my—in the boxes."

He waved dismissively toward his desk. "Check the bottom drawer. And Olivia? Have your things cleared out by noon."

I circled around his desk, my fingers shaking as I yanked open the drawer. File folders, contracts, the usual chaos of papers. I rifled through them, searching for the blue folders I always used for—

My hand stilled. There, wedged between two manila envelopes, was a document that didn't belong. The gold seal of the State of New York caught the morning light.

Certificate of Marriage.

Ethan Grant and Vanessa Parker. Dated six months ago.

The paper trembled in my hands. Six months. Every "late meeting," every "client dinner," every night he came to my apartment afterward, smelling of her perfume that I'd convinced myself was from the restaurant.

"Olivia—" Ethan's voice seemed to come from very far away.

I turned, still holding the certificate. His face had gone pale, but he didn't move from his chair. Didn't try to explain. Didn't even have the decency to look ashamed.

The city stretched out behind him through those windows, thirty-two floors of distance between me and solid ground. I pressed my back against the glass, feeling its cool surface through my blouse. The morning sun painted golden streaks across the skyline, beautiful and indifferent to the collapse of my entire world.

Six years. I'd given him six years.

And for six months, I'd been nothing more than the other woman.