My Husband Planned to Replace Me with His Mistress

The scent of lemongrass usually soothed me. Today, it made me gag.

I shifted the weight of my belly, my lower back throbbing in time with the soft, ambient chimes filling the lobby of *Serenity Bump*. Eight months pregnant, and I felt less like the heiress to the Evans Corporation and more like a capsized vessel. All I wanted was the prenatal massage Lucian had promised would help with the swelling in my ankles.

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Wells," the receptionist said, her gaze fixed on her computer screen. Her manicured nails clicked a nervous staccato against the keyboard. "Your account is empty."

I blinked, leaning against the polished mahogany counter. "Empty? I prepaid for the Platinum package in January. Check again."

"I have checked, ma'am." She finally looked up, and the pity in her eyes sent a cold prickle down my spine. "The credits were transferred yesterday. Authorization came from Mr. Wells’s personal assistant."

"Transferred?" My voice was calm, a practiced mask I’d inherited from my father, but my pulse hammered against my ribs. "To whom?"

The girl swallowed hard. "To... Mrs. Wells."

The air left the room. "I am Mrs. Wells."

"The system shows the credits were moved to a new profile under that name. For the VIP suite." She gestured vaguely down the hall, her face flushing crimson. "I assumed... perhaps a clerical error? I can call the manager."

"Don't bother," I said, the words tasting like ash.

I turned away from the desk. My body felt heavy, cumbersome, but my mind was sharpening into a terrifying clarity. I didn't head for the exit. I walked toward the VIP suite.

The corridor was dim, lined with flickering LED candles. At the end of the hall, the frosted glass door of the private studio stood slightly ajar. I could hear the low rumble of a man's voice. A voice I knew better than my own.

Lucian.

I stopped, pressing a hand to the wall to steady myself. Through the narrow gap between the door and the frame, the scene unfolded with the brutal precision of a car crash.

Lucian was kneeling on a yoga mat, his suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up. His hands—hands that had held mine at the gala last week—were kneading the lower back of a woman with chestnut hair. Amelie Foster. She was arched into his touch, her own belly rounding beneath a tight tank top. Five months along, maybe six.

"Better?" Lucian asked, his voice dripping with a tenderness he hadn't shown me in months.

"Much," Amelie purred, reaching back to thread her fingers through his hair. "He's kicking again, Lucian. Feel."

Lucian shifted, placing a large hand over her stomach. The look on his face—reverence, pride—shattered my heart into unrecognizable dust.

"Strong," he murmured. "My son. The future king."

The world tilted. My daughter kicked hard against my ribs, a painful reminder of the "useless" girl I was carrying. The girl Lucian had dismissed as a disappointment before she even took her first breath.

Nausea surged, violent and acidic. I wanted to scream, to barge in and tear them apart, but the instinct for self-preservation clamped a hand over my mouth. If I walked in there now, I would be the hysterical, hormonal wife. I would be the victim.

My hand trembled as I fished my phone from my purse. I held my breath, aligning the camera lens with the gap in the door.

*Click.*

I didn't check the photo. I turned and walked away, forcing my swollen feet to move silently over the plush carpet, leaving the scent of lemongrass and betrayal behind me.

***

The drive to the Hamptons usually took two hours. I made it in ninety minutes, white-knuckling the steering wheel of my Mercedes until my joints ached. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just drove, the image of Lucian’s hand on Amelie’s stomach burned into my retinas.

When I pulled up to the iron gates of my father’s estate, the sun was beginning to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the lawn. Joseph Evans was on the patio, reviewing documents with a glass of scotch in hand. He stood immediately as I stumbled out of the car.

"Tiffany?" His voice was sharp with alarm. He saw my face—pale, drawn, eyes wide with shock—and dropped his glass. It shattered on the stone. "What happened? Is it the baby?"

I shook my head, unable to speak. I unlocked my phone and thrust it into his hands.

My father looked at the screen. His eyes narrowed, the warmth vanishing, replaced by the cold, ruthless calculation that had built an empire. He swiped to zoom in, his jaw tightening until a muscle feathered in his cheek.

"Lucian," he said, the name sounding like a curse.

"He transferred my account," I whispered, the dam finally breaking. "He calls it his son. His 'future king.' He's using my money to service her, Dad. He's using me."

Joseph looked up, his gaze locking onto mine. "He signed his own death warrant."

He reached for his phone, dialing a number without looking. "Get security to the main house. And get me Marcus Rivera. Now."

I wiped my face with the back of my hand. The tears were stopping. The grief was calcifying into something harder, something useful. I touched the ultrasound photo in my pocket—my daughter, the girl they thought wasn't enough.

"Dad," I said, my voice steadying. "I don't just want a divorce."

Joseph paused, phone to his ear, looking at me with a fierce, terrifying pride.

"I want to destroy him," I said. "I want the Wells name to be nothing but ash when I'm done."