I Made His Mistress My Maid

The Tokyo deal had been tougher than expected. Three weeks of negotiations, countless late nights, and more cups of coffee than I could count. But it was worth it. The Ishida Corporation contract would bring millions to our company, and more importantly, solidify my position as one of the top corporate strategists in the country.

I smiled as the taxi wound its way through the familiar streets of our neighborhood. Three days early. Mark would be surprised—pleasantly, I hoped. Maybe this would be the moment things shifted between us. Maybe this success would finally make his mother see me as something more than the gold-digging scholarship girl who'd married her precious son.

"Your house is just ahead, ma'am," the driver said, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.

"Thank you." I straightened my blazer, suddenly aware of how exhausted I must look after the long flight. But I couldn't wait to see Mark's face when I told him about the deal. Maybe we could celebrate tonight—just the two of us.

The driver slowed as we approached our driveway. "Looks like you have guests," he remarked.

That's when I heard it—music. Loud, thumping music with a heavy bass that vibrated through the closed windows of my town car. Not just any music, but the kind of pulsing electronic dance tracks that belonged at a club, not in our carefully curated living room with its antique furniture and Mark's mother's priceless art collection.

"There must be some mistake," I said, though the knot forming in my stomach suggested otherwise.

As we pulled closer, I could see my driveway was full—three cars I didn't recognize, all expensive models with personalized license plates. The kind of cars that screamed new money and excess. The kind of cars that belonged to people who didn't care about the neighbors' opinions.

"Ma'am?" The driver looked at me questioningly.

"Just... just wait here a moment," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

I stepped out of the car, the cool evening air doing nothing to calm the heat rising in my cheeks. Our house—the Victorian beauty Mark had insisted we buy because "it had the right pedigree"—was transformed. The windows glowed with multicolored lights that pulsed in time with the music. Laughter spilled out, high and feminine, punctuated by the occasional deeper chuckle of young men.

I moved closer, my heels clicking against the pavement. The sound was lost in the thump of the bass, but something made me slow my steps as I approached the front door. Instead, I circled around to the side, where the living room windows offered a clear view inside.

What I saw stopped me cold.

Tiffany Reed—or at least, I assumed it was her from the photos I'd seen on Mark's phone when he thought I wasn't looking—was sprawled across my white sofa, her long legs draped over the armrest. She was wearing my silk robe—the one Mark had given me for our anniversary last year—and her blonde hair was artfully tousled, as if she'd just gotten out of bed.

No, not just gotten out of bed. She was still in it.

My silk robe. My sofa. My crystal glasses in her manicured hands.

"Another round!" she called to the group of young people clustered around my coffee table. "To us! To new beginnings!"

A young man in designer jeans poured something amber from my father's scotch collection into my mother's crystal tumblers. The set she'd left me when she died, telling me they were for special occasions.

"Is that the Dalton crystal?" a young woman asked, examining her glass with the casual interest of someone who'd never had to work for anything in her life.

"The one and only," Tiffany replied, her voice carrying through the open window. "Mark says his wife never uses it. Says she's too busy with her big important career to entertain properly."

The laughter that followed felt like a knife between my ribs.

"Speaking of which," Tiffany continued, reaching for her phone, "let's get a pic for Insta. Hashtag: LivingTheDream."

She draped herself across my chaise lounge—the one Mark's mother had insisted was an antique worth more than most people's cars—and posed with her friends, all of them raising my crystal glasses in a toast.

"Make sure you get the whole room in," she instructed the young man taking the photo. "I want people to see what real luxury looks like."

I watched, frozen in place, as she tagged the location: #DaltonManor.

My home. My things. My life.

Being stolen by a girl who couldn't even spell strategy, let alone execute one.

I backed away from the window, my mind oddly clear despite the hurricane of emotions inside me. Without conscious thought, I walked back to the waiting taxi.

"Ma'am?" The driver looked concerned.

"Actually," I said, sliding back into the leather seat, "would you mind driving me down the street? Just... out of sight of the house."

He nodded, putting the car in gear.

Once we were parked discreetly at the corner, I reached for my phone with steady hands and dialed Sarah.

"Eleanor?" My assistant sounded surprised. "I thought you were still in Tokyo until Thursday."

"Change of plans," I said, watching as another car pulled into my driveway. "Clear my schedule for the next week. Family emergency."

"Is everything okay?" The concern in her voice almost made me smile. Sarah had been with me for five years, and she'd never once questioned my judgment.

"Everything is perfectly fine," I replied, my eyes fixed on the house where my husband's mistress was hosting a party in my home. "In fact, things are about to get very interesting."

As Sarah hesitated on the other end of the line, I watched Tiffany through the window as she laughed with her friends, wearing my clothes, drinking my wine, living what she thought was my life.

"Sarah," I continued, my voice dropping to a near whisper, "did you know that sometimes the best strategy isn't to fight your opponent directly?"

"No, ma'am," she replied. "I don't believe you've ever mentioned that before."

"It's something I'm learning right now," I said, watching as Tiffany reached for another glass of my father's scotch. "Sometimes you have to let them think they're winning while you're planning their downfall."

I ended the call and sat back in the leather seat, my mind already calculating my next moves. Mark thought I was still in Tokyo. Tiffany thought she was the queen of my castle. They both thought they were so clever.

They had no idea what was coming.

I smiled as I watched Tiffany pose for another selfie, my silk robe slipping off one shoulder.

"Let the games begin," I whispered to myself.