Fiancé Chooses His Mistress

The soft chime of the boutique door echoed behind me as I stepped into the sanctuary of luxury that was Maison Laurent. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over displays of exquisite fabrics, each piece more breathtaking than the last. The familiar scent of expensive leather and subtle perfume wrapped around me like a comfortable embrace.

I glanced at my phone—Reid was running twenty minutes late from his business meeting, but I didn't mind. Shopping at Maison Laurent was never a chore, especially when I had time to truly appreciate the artistry before me.

"Miss Ford, how wonderful to see you again," Miranda Chen approached with her characteristic warm smile, her sleek black hair pulled into a perfect chignon. As the boutique's senior sales associate, Miranda had helped me select pieces for countless events over the years. "Are you looking for anything special today?"

"Just browsing while I wait for Reid," I replied, running my fingers along a silk blouse that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary. "We have dinner reservations at eight."

That's when I saw it.

Hanging alone in the center display, bathed in its own spotlight, was the most stunning dress I'd ever laid eyes on. The deep emerald silk seemed to shimmer with an inner light, and the cut—oh, the cut was absolute perfection. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, with hand-sewn beadwork that caught the light like scattered diamonds.

"Miranda," I breathed, unable to look away from the dress. "That piece—is it new?"

Miranda's eyes lit up as she followed my gaze. "Ah, you have exquisite taste, Miss Ford. That's a one-of-a-kind piece from our spring collection. The designer spent six months on the beadwork alone. Each crystal was hand-placed, and the silk was specially dyed to achieve that exact shade of emerald."

I moved closer, mesmerized by the intricate details. The dress wasn't just clothing—it was art. The way the fabric would drape, the way those crystals would catch candlelight at dinner... I could already imagine how it would feel against my skin.

"The neckline is absolutely divine," I murmured, studying the elegant sweep of the design. "And this beadwork—I've never seen anything quite like it. The pattern almost looks like flowing water."

"Exactly what the designer intended," Miranda said proudly. "She wanted to capture the essence of moonlight on a lake. The technique is actually based on nineteenth-century French couture methods, but with a modern twist."

I was completely absorbed in examining the dress when a sharp voice cut through our conversation like a blade.

"Excuse me, but I saw this dress first."

I turned, startled by the aggressive tone. A woman with platinum blonde hair and sharp features stood behind me, her arms crossed and her expression hostile. She was beautiful in a calculated way, but there was something predatory in her green eyes that made me instinctively step back.

"I'm sorry?" I said, genuinely confused. "I was just admiring the craftsmanship."

"I was here earlier looking at it," the woman insisted, pushing past me to stand directly in front of the dress. "I told the staff I'd be back for it. This is mine."

Miranda's professional smile faltered slightly. "I'm sorry, miss, but I don't recall any previous conversation about this piece. And Miss Ford is one of our most valued clients—"

"I don't care who she is," the blonde snapped, her voice rising. "I want this dress, and I want it now."

The boutique fell silent. Other customers turned to stare, and I felt heat rise in my cheeks. I'd never been spoken to so rudely in my life, especially not in a place where my family name commanded respect.

"There seems to be some misunderstanding," I said carefully, trying to maintain my composure. "Perhaps we could—"

"There's no misunderstanding," the woman interrupted, her eyes flashing dangerously. "You rich bitches think you can just waltz in and take whatever you want. Well, not today."

Before I could react, before Miranda could intervene, the woman grabbed a pair of fabric scissors from the nearby alterations station. The silver blades caught the light as she raised them high.

"If I can't have it," she snarled, "then no one can."

The scissors sliced through the emerald silk with a sickening whisper. Once, twice, three times—jagged cuts that destroyed months of painstaking work in seconds. Crystals scattered across the marble floor like fallen stars.

"Stop!" Miranda cried, rushing forward. "You can't—"

The sharp crack of the woman's palm against Miranda's cheek echoed through the boutique. Miranda stumbled backward, her hand pressed to her reddening face, tears of shock and pain welling in her eyes.

I stood frozen, my heart pounding as I stared at the destroyed masterpiece and Miranda's stricken face. The beautiful dress—that work of art—lay in ruins, and this stranger had just assaulted an innocent employee.

Who was this woman? And what kind of person could destroy something so beautiful with such casual cruelty?