When My Fiancé Forced Me to Beg His Mistress

Victor Hale came back at 9:47 p.m.

I knew the time because I'd been watching the clock above the bar the way you watch something when you're trying not to think about what it means. He had two security officers with him this time. They stood a half-step behind him, not threatening, just present. A reminder.

He sat down across from me without being invited. That was new.

'Ms. Owens.' He set a folded document on the table and smoothed it once with his palm. 'I want to be straightforward with you. Our gala bylaws require full settlement of any winning bid within the event window.' He paused. 'Failure to comply within the hour activates what the host committee calls the penalty protocol.'

'The penalty protocol,' I repeated.

'It's written into the event fine print. The host committee—' He stopped. Cleared his throat. 'The host committee amended those bylaws approximately three months ago. The protocol involves a series of public forfeitures, escalating with time.'

Three months ago. I filed that away without moving a muscle in my face.

'I see,' I said.

His eyes were uncomfortable. He was a man doing a job he didn't like tonight, and some part of him knew it. 'I'm sorry, Ms. Owens. I don't have discretion here.'

I nodded once. He gathered his document and left. The two security officers took up positions near the edge of my table. Not close. Just visible.

I unfolded my hands. Folded them again.

Three months ago, Emmett had joined the host committee. Three months ago, he had amended the bylaws. He had been building this for ninety days while sleeping in the same bed as me, drinking coffee across the same table, saying my name the same way he always said it.

I touched my watch and said nothing.

---

Dalia arrived ten minutes later.

She carried two champagne flutes, one in each hand, moving through the room with the ease of a woman who had decided every space belonged to her. She set one glass in front of me and kept the other for herself. Then she sat—uninvited, unhurried—in the chair Victor Hale had just vacated.

Around us, heads turned. Just slightly. Just enough.

She leaned forward a few inches, her voice dropping into something that sounded, from a distance, like concern.

'Sweetheart.' She tilted her head. 'This must be absolutely mortifying.'

I looked at her. I didn't say anything.

'Two hundred million.' She exhaled softly, like the number pained her. 'I can't even imagine.' She let her eyes move across the room and back to me. 'I'm sure there's someone who'd help you. If you knew the right way to ask.'

The implication sat between us, clean and deliberate. She let it breathe for a full three seconds—long enough for the nearby tables to catch the shape of it without the words.

Then she stood, picked up her champagne flute, and walked back to Emmett's side without looking at me again.

Emmett was watching from across the room. When Dalia reached him, he put his hand on the small of her back and said something that made her laugh. It was a light, social laugh, perfectly calibrated for the room.

I looked down at the champagne flute she'd left in front of me.

I didn't touch it.

---

Victor Hale returned at 10:04.

He didn't sit this time. He stood at the edge of the table and spoke quietly, his eyes somewhere near my shoulder.

'The protocol has begun, Ms. Owens. One glass of wine per ten minutes until payment is settled or—' He stopped. 'Until the committee determines next steps.'

A server appeared at his elbow. A fresh glass of red wine, deep and dark, set in front of me on a small tray.

I looked at the glass.

I thought about standing up. I thought about walking out. I thought about every door that had closed tonight, every face that had looked past me, the seven a.m. phone calls Emmett had made while I was asleep.

I thought about my father.

The wire transfer would take time. I needed time. Every minute I stayed upright and present was a minute the room couldn't write its own ending to this story.

I picked up the glass.

I drank it in three slow, even swallows. I set it back on the tray without a sound. I looked at Victor Hale with an expression that gave him nothing.

His jaw tightened slightly. He nodded once and stepped back.

The wine was good. Expensive. It tasted like something Emmett would have chosen, which meant he had chosen it.

I didn't know that yet. I only knew it tasted expensive, and that my hands were steady, and that somewhere in this room two people were waiting for me to fall apart.

I touched my watch.

I was still thinking about my father.