The Unwanted Mistress Becomes The Rival's Queen

The moment Damien shoved me into a waiter's tray to catch his brother's widow, I knew I had lost.

For eight years, I was his sanctuary. But Vivian was carrying the "Family Heir," and that made her a saint.

He didn't just catch her; he moved her into the Master Suite—the room he had promised to me—while I was relegated to the guest wing like a servant.

When Vivian whispered the truth to me with a smirk—that her late husband was sterile and she had drugged Damien to fake the timeline—I rushed to tell him.

"She's lying about the baby, Damien! Aaron was sterile!"

But he didn't believe me.

"Enough of your jealousy, Estelle," he roared, shielding her. "You will respect the mother of my legacy."

To prove my submission, he forced me to take her wedding dress shopping.

When a heavy iron rack tipped over in the boutique, Damien moved with inhuman speed.

He dove to protect Vivian, wrapping her in a safe cocoon.

He left me standing there.

The metal crashed down, crushing my ribs and pinning me to the floor.

As I gasped for air, tasting blood, I watched him carry her out without looking back once.

I woke up in the hospital to the sound of him comforting her in the next room.

He hadn't even asked if I survived.

That night, I didn't cry.

I ripped the IV from my arm, shredded every photo of us in the penthouse, and boarded a plane to a neutral territory where the Don's power meant nothing.

By the time he found the engagement ring I left in the trash, I was already gone.

Chapter 1

The moment Damien shoved me aside to catch Vivian before she hit the marble floor, I knew the bullet I had been dodging for eight years had finally found its mark.

He didn't just catch her.

He cradled her as if she were made of spun glass and the rest of the world was made of hammers.

Damien Jones was the Don of the Outfit, a man who could silence a witness with a single phone call and bury a rival faction before breakfast. Yet here he was, his hands trembling as he held his brother's widow.

"Get the car!" he roared, his voice cracking the polished silence of the gala.

Dozens of armed soldiers materialized from the shadows, surrounding us, but Damien didn't look at me.

He didn't check to see if his shove had knocked me into the passing waiter's tray, or if the champagne was currently soaking into the emerald silk dress he had bought me just yesterday.

"Damien," I whispered, reaching out.

"Not now, Estelle," he snapped, his eyes wild and fixed on Vivian's hands, which were clutching her stomach. "It's the heir. If she loses Aaron's child, the legacy dies."

Then, he turned his back on me.

He carried her out of the ballroom, flanked by men with earpieces and guns bulging under their tuxedos, leaving me standing in a puddle of spilled alcohol and humiliation.

A soldier named Luca stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the exit.

"The Don ordered me to take you back to the Villa, Miss Estelle," Luca said, his eyes fixed awkwardly on the floor. "He said he will explain later."

"Explain what?" I asked, my voice hollow. "That the ghost of his dead brother matters more than the living woman standing right here?"

Luca didn't answer. He couldn't.

I walked out of the hotel, but I didn't get into the armored SUV waiting to take me back to my cage.

"Take me to 42nd and Grand," I told the driver as I slid into a waiting taxi instead.

"The Don said the Villa," the bodyguard argued, stepping toward the cab.

"The Don is busy saving the Queen," I said, my voice cold and sharp, like the ice in the drink I'd just dropped. "Drive."

He drove.

We stopped in front of a nondescript travel agency that smelled like stale coffee and desperation.

It was a front.

Everyone in the underworld knew this was where you went when you needed to disappear without leaving a digital footprint.

I walked inside, my expensive heels clicking loudly on the cheap linoleum.

The clerk looked up, saw the diamond tennis bracelet on my wrist, and immediately straightened his posture.

"I need a visa and a clean identity for Aquinox," I said.

Aquinox was neutral territory. No families, no blood feuds, no Damien Jones.

"That takes time," the clerk muttered, his gaze greedy as he eyed the bracelet.

"How much time?"

"Seven days for the premium package. Untraceable."

Seven days.

I unclasped the bracelet—a birthday gift from Damien worth more than this entire building—and slid it across the counter.

"Start the clock," I said.

When I returned to the Villa, the house was tomb-quiet.

It was a fortress of marble and gold, a place where I had spent eight years hiding in the penthouse while Damien ruled the city.

I walked into the living room and saw the boxes.

Three rooms filled with Hermes bags, Cartier jewelry, and designer dresses.

They were bribes.

Every time Damien had to take Vivian to a public event to "maintain the family image," he came home with a velvet box for me.

I looked at the mountain of luxury and felt nothing but nausea rising in my throat.

I started grabbing photos from the mantle—pictures of us in the Maldives, in Paris, in this very room—and fed them into the shredder by his desk.

The machine whirred, eating our memories in loud, grinding strips.

Through the window, I saw the headlights of the convoy returning.

I watched from the shadows as soldiers unloaded crates of medical equipment.

Then I saw them.

Damien helped Vivian out of the car.

She was walking fine now, leaning into him, her hand resting possessively on his chest.

He wasn't pulling away.

He led her up the front steps, past the guest wing, and straight toward the Master Suite.

That was my room.

That was the room he had promised me the day Aaron died, the room he said we would share once the "transition period" was over.

I opened my door and stepped into the hallway just as they reached the top of the stairs.

Damien froze when he saw me.

Guilt flashed in his dark eyes, but he didn't let go of Vivian.

"She needs the medical bed," Damien said, his voice rough. "It's for the baby, Estelle. It's just for a few days."

Vivian looked at me over his shoulder.

Her face was pale, but her lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"I'm so exhausted, Damien," she whispered, leaning her full weight against him.

"I've got you," he murmured.

Then, without looking back at me, he kicked the door to the Master Suite open.

He walked her inside—into the sanctuary he had sworn was ours—and shut the heavy oak door in my face.