Chapter 1

When he was eighteen, all it took was one line from Damian's mother.

"The mistress you picked is a pretty one."

And Damian cut ties with his family for three years.

The year I turned twenty-eight, Damian was riding with me on the way to a prenatal checkup.

When he got a video call from Doreen Fox, a senior executive at the company.

She had let herself into my home with a key.

Every gift Damian had ever given me,

she handed over to the pawnshop, one by one.

The Cartier wedding ring—fake.

The Chanel and LV bags—fake too.

"Miss Winfield, Damian and I are getting married. From now on, you had better be clear about your place."

Damian quietly hung up the phone.

I thought he would panic, that he would explain.

But he only silently pulled out our marriage certificate.

And tore it up.

"I'm sorry. The key was mine to give, and this marriage certificate is fake too."

"My wedding with Doreen is next week. I wanted to keep it from you, but I ended up making her angry."

I accepted it calmly.

And a flash of shock crossed his guilt-filled eyes.

He said hoarsely,

"I'll make it up to you. Down on the southern coast, we don't shortchange a mistress."

What Damian didn't know—

was that from the moment Doreen called him,

he could marry his mistress, and I would play my part as the gold digger.

Retreat to advance—it's a move I'll use now, and I won't go soft again.

·····

I turned my head to look out the window, my mind blank from the sudden upheaval.

I said nothing.

To stay calm, and to freeze Damian out on purpose.

An awkward silence settled over us.

After a moment,

he gently squeezed my pinky.

"Are you angry?"

I didn't answer.

Damian leaned in a little closer.

"Even after I marry Doreen, I'll still be good to you."

"That big river-view apartment in the downtown financial district."

"The three buildings in the tech park."

"And those four factories out in Riverton."

"They can all be put in your name—as compensation, and as security."

He was absurdly close to me.

His warm breath fell against my collarbone as he spoke,

and my heart pounded.

Not because I was moved.

Because I was furious.

These assets were what he and I had earned building the company together.

There was blood in them, coughed up over drinks poured for clients.

There were the two children I'd miscarried from exhaustion.

There were six whole years of my youth.

He was handing me my own things.

Calling it compensation, calling it security.

"Why won't you say anything?"

He turned my shoulder,

forcing me to face him.

"You got angry because I called you mistress."

Damian knew perfectly well.

The word "mistress" ground my true heart and my dignity into the dust.

At eighteen, he had nothing,

yet he fought to the bitter end for me.

At twenty-eight, he had everything,

and he chose to sacrifice me for more.

"A match arranged by the go-betweens, my parents' command—I was born to a mistress myself."

He paused, a trace of red rimming his eyes.

"It was already hard enough for my mother to accept me."

"If I do as they say about the marriage, I can fight for a share of the family fortune. I'm doing this for our child too."

The driver hit the brakes.

I fell into Damian's arms.

The car had stopped at the hospital entrance.

There was a strong woman's perfume on his chest.

But I never wear perfume.

I looked up and saw his deep, furrowed brow.

I jerked his hand away from me.

Head down.

"I hate you now."

"You hate me—so why are you blushing?"

My face was red from anger.

But to fake being heartbroken,

I forced out a few tears.

Damian panicked a little and cupped my face.

"Why are you crying?"

"Doreen and I are just going through the motions. It's a family arrangement. It hurts me too that I can't be with you."

"I won't make you a mistress forever. Once I have the family businesses in my grip, we'll really get married."

"It's only a name for it..."

Damian coaxed me in a soft, gentle voice,

carefully helping me down from the car.

But the moment my feet touched the ground,

his phone rang, and the coaxing stopped.

He jabbed hard at the screen.

He stood there wrestling with himself for a long moment, then said,

"Doreen wants bubble tea, so I have to go stand in line at that new trendy place in the West End."

"You're not far along—can you get through the rest of the checkup on your own?"

Damian was asking me.

But the hand at the small of my back had already loosened.

He said Doreen was just an act, that his real feelings were for me.

And yet Doreen's bubble tea

mattered more to him than my prenatal checkup.

"You and her really are just an act?"

"Mm."

"You won't change your heart, right?"

"Mm."

"I understand. I'll be good."

My answer came out with a sob in it.

I played the considerate, easily-soothed part.

"I'll wait for you and take good care of our child. You should be happy too, okay?"

Damian's hand, stroking my hair, went still.

He pressed his lips together.

He leaned to my ear and said with guilt,

"This was originally meant for Doreen. Really. I've wronged you."

He pressed a ring into my palm and hurried off.

The moment Damian was gone,

my tears stopped.

I held the ring and recognized it—the headline piece from last week's top luxury auction house.

So I put away the heartbroken, forced-brave little-white-flower expression.

Sad? I was faking it.

Damian knew exactly what he was doing and played dumb,

trampling my youth, my true heart, my feelings.

So I would use the last scrap of guilt he had left.

A tiny ring.

This wasn't the big outcome I wanted.

I dug up the email from three years ago, when the rival firm had tried to poach me.

And I added the contact for the person in charge.

Just then, my number was called for the checkup.