My CEO Fiancé Let His Mistress Hunt Me

The Tribeca rooftop was packed with Manhattan’s elite. We were celebrating Howard Enterprises’ quarterly profits. Crystal lights hung from the open canopy, and soft jazz drifted through the warm air. Emmett stood near the railing with a glass of Scotch. He was the golden heir to the Howard empire, tall and charismatic. Everyone in the room wanted a piece of him.

Then the elevator doors slid open, and Angelique Ferguson walked out.

She had just spent a year in London at a high-end fashion house. She wore a silk emerald slip dress and heirloom diamonds. Her eyes swept the terrace and locked onto Emmett.

Emmett froze. He set his drink on a high-top table and walked across the roof.

I stood twenty feet away, holding a flute of champagne.

They met near the terrace edge. Angelique tilted her chin, smiling. Emmett didn't hesitate. He pulled her waist against him and kissed her. It was slow, deep, and deliberate. He did it in full view of fifty business partners, board members, and reporters.

My hand stayed steady. The champagne in my glass didn't ripple. I kept a polite, pleasant smile on my face.

"Excuse me," I said softly to the two executives beside me. "I need some air."

I finished the drink in one swallow. I set the empty glass on a passing tray, walked into the elevator, and went home. I didn't say a single word to Emmett.

Back at the penthouse, the rooms were dark and quiet. I knew Emmett wouldn't be back for hours.

I kicked off my heels. I sat at my desk and pulled out my encrypted laptop.

It was time to move.

Six months ago, I had quietly set up an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. Now I logged in. First, I transferred the title of the luxury SUV Emmett had signed over to me after our last big argument. Then I liquidated the stock options from three brokerage accounts he had given me. Next, I routed a sixty-thousand-dollar insurance payout from a lost diamond necklace directly into the offshore account.

I opened my black leather operational journal. With a fine-point pen, I recorded every transaction, the exact amounts, and the timestamps.

I closed the journal, locked the laptop in the safe, and washed my face. I got into bed and fell asleep long before Emmett turned his key in the front door.

By the next week, Angelique began her campaign to erase me.

At the Howard Enterprises charity dinner, she handled the seating chart. She removed my place card from Emmett’s table. She sat right beside him and stuck me near the kitchen doors with junior associates.

During the cocktail hour, an investor asked who I was.

Angelique laughed softly and patted Emmett’s sleeve. "Oh, that's Scarlett. She’s Emmett’s little project."

Emmett chuckled and took a sip of his drink. He didn't correct her.

In Monday morning meetings, it got worse. Whenever I presented data on client acquisition, Angelique cut in. "Let's be realistic, Scarlett. Luxury brands need real pedigree. Let me take this one."

Emmett sat at the head of the boardroom table. He watched her do it and stayed silent.

That evening, I brought it up in our living room.

"She interrupted me three times today, Emmett," I said in a calm voice.

Emmett adjusted his cufflinks. He looked irritated. "Angelique doesn't mean anything by it, Scarlett. She's just direct. You're overreacting."

"You're right," I replied with a small nod. "I'm sorry."

He looked relieved and kissed my forehead.

The second he went into the shower, I opened my operational journal. I added three new lines.

Two days later, an email arrived at my private mailbox in Midtown.

I had applied to the London School of Economics under a variation of my middle name. The email confirmed my acceptance into a full-ride executive fellowship. It was my exit route, fully funded and waiting across the ocean.

I told no one.

Every morning, I woke up at five thirty. I put on tailored clothes and arrived at Howard Enterprises by eight sharp. I worked hard. I smiled at everyone in the halls. I played the devoted, submissive girlfriend without missing a beat.

On Thursday afternoon, Emmett called me into his corner office. The view of Central Park stretched out behind his mahogany desk.

"Close the door, Scarlett," he said.

I sat in the leather chair across from him. I folded my hands neatly in my lap.

"I'm doing some restructuring in marketing," Emmett said smoothly. He didn't look at me. He spun an expensive pen between his fingers. "Angelique is coming on as our new Marketing Director."

I waited.

"She needs a major account to establish her authority," he went on. "So I’m giving her the European luxury brand partnership."

A cold beat passed through my chest. I had built that partnership from nothing. I spent six months flying back and forth to Milan to win those contracts.

"It’s just a structural realignment," Emmett said, looking up with a practiced, charming smile. "You understand, don't you?"

He was daring me to complain. He expected tears or an argument.

I kept my face warm and accommodating. "Of course, Emmett. I understand completely. I'm sure Angelique will do a wonderful job."

He blinked, visibly relaxed. "Thank you, babe. You always get it."

I stood up, walked back to my own office, and closed the door. I locked it.

I walked over to my desk and gripped the polished wood. I squeezed until my knuckles turned chalk white. The air burned in my throat.

I stared at the blank white wall for exactly ninety seconds. I counted every single second in my head.

When ninety seconds passed, I let go. My hands were completely still.

I picked up my phone and dialed the London office.

"Hello," I said, my voice sweet and steady. "This is Scarlett. I'm calling to confirm my acceptance."