His Mistress, My Fortune

I stared at the numbers on my screen, a cold feeling settling in my stomach. The financial reports for Pinnacle Group never lied—and right now, they were telling a story I'd suspected for months but hadn't wanted to confirm.

Micro-transfers. Dozens of them, siphoning from our corporate accounts into an unmarked personal one. Small enough to fly under the radar of our financial oversight team, but large enough to add up to significant sums over time. The pattern was unmistakable.

I scrolled further, my finger freezing over the trackpad when I saw it: a single withdrawal of $50,000 from my personal investment fund. Not just any money—the fund I'd specifically set aside for Emma's birthday present and future investments.

The glass walls of my CEO office suddenly felt like a cage. Outside, New York City sprawled beneath me, oblivious to the betrayal unfolding on the 50th floor of Pinnacle Tower. To them, Nathan Sullivan was the genius behind our company's success—the handsome, charismatic face of one of the most powerful corporations in America. Only a handful of people knew the truth: that I was the one who built this empire, brick by painstaking brick, while allowing my "fiancé" to take the credit.

"This ends now," I whispered to the empty room, my voice barely audible even to myself.

I pressed the intercom. "Marcus, could you come to my office, please?"

Within minutes, Marcus Thorne appeared at my door. As head of the Grant family's security, his loyalty had been proven time and again—particularly in the last few years as he'd helped me quietly gather evidence against the Sullivans.

"You found something," he stated rather than asked, closing the door behind him.

I turned my screen toward him. "The withdrawal could only have been authorized using Nathan's executive card. The timing coincides with his weekend trip to the Hamptons—the one he claimed was for 'client meetings.'"

Marcus's expression remained impassive, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "Do you want me to accelerate our timeline?"

"Not yet," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I need absolute certainty before I move against them. For now, just verify the transaction source."

After Marcus left, I closed the financial reports and checked my watch. Despite the storm brewing inside me, I had a promise to keep.

---

The scent of fresh croissants filled Emma's bedroom as I pushed open the door, balancing a breakfast tray in one hand.

"Rise and shine, birthday girl," I called softly.

Emma stirred beneath her comforter, her dark hair—so like mine—splayed across the pillow. At eighteen, my sister still retained the innocence I'd fought so hard to protect her from losing. Unlike me, she'd been spared the weight of our family legacy, the suffocating obligation of our father's misplaced debt of honor.

"Tori?" she mumbled, using the nickname only she was allowed. "What time is it?"

"Early enough that you can enjoy your birthday breakfast before classes." I set the tray beside her and perched on the edge of the bed. "And early enough that I can remind you about our plans for this evening."

Emma sat up immediately, sleep forgotten. "The Archer collectible! It's finally release day!"

I couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. For months, she'd been counting down to the release of this limited-edition designer figure—only fifty made worldwide, and she'd been on the pre-order list for nearly a year.

"I'll pick you up at four, and we'll head straight to the boutique," I promised.

---

The Manhattan boutique gleamed under carefully positioned spotlights, its minimalist interior designed to showcase the exclusive collectibles like museum pieces. Emma practically vibrated with excitement beside me as we approached the counter where Jameson Clark, the store manager, waited with an apologetic expression that immediately set off warning bells in my head.

"Ms. Grant," he began, his professional demeanor slipping to reveal genuine regret. "I'm so terribly sorry, but the Archer figure you reserved—the last one in our inventory—was sold just moments ago."

Emma's face fell. "But... we had a reservation. For months."

"I understand, and I deeply apologize," Jameson continued, lowering his voice. "The customer used an executive card that overrode our reservation system."

Before I could respond, a throaty laugh cut through the boutique's hushed atmosphere. A woman draped in what appeared to be half a fox's worth of fur strode toward us, designer heels clicking against the marble floor. In her manicured hand, she clutched a sleek black shopping bag bearing the boutique's logo.

"Victoria Grant," she purred, her eyes gleaming with malicious triumph. "What a surprise to see you here. Shopping for toys?"

I kept my expression neutral, though I'd never seen this woman before in my life. "I believe you have something that was reserved for my sister."

The woman's red lips curved into a smile that never reached her eyes. She pulled out a platinum card—Nathan's card—and waved it between her fingers.

"Nathan said I could treat myself to anything I wanted," she announced loudly enough for nearby customers to hear. "After all, what's the point of being the real future Mrs. Sullivan of Pinnacle Group if you can't enjoy the perks?"

Beside me, Emma's sharp intake of breath was followed by the unmistakable sound of a stifled sob. I turned to see tears welling in my sister's eyes, her cheeks flushing with humiliation as other customers began to stare.

Something inside me—something cold and calculating that had been building for years—finally snapped.