Marrying His Mistress At Our Altar

My hands trembled as I stared at the screen. Ten years of work had led to this moment—the European investors' faces arranged in a grid before me, their expressions shifting from skepticism to cautious interest as I presented the final numbers.

"So to summarize, gentlemen," I said, my voice steadier than my racing heart, "this partnership represents not just a $10 million investment, but access to markets that would otherwise take years to penetrate individually."

Silence stretched across the ocean. I could hear my own breathing, too loud in the conference room. Then François, the most resistant of the group, leaned forward.

"Ms. Chen, your analysis is... impeccable. I believe we have ourselves a deal."

The tension in my shoulders released as agreements echoed through the speakers. I caught my reflection in the darkened screen of my tablet—exhaustion lined my face, but there was pride there too. Pride I'd earned after months of sleepless nights and sacrificed weekends.

As the call ended, my colleagues flooded into the conference room, their excitement a stark contrast to my quiet relief. Sarah from Marketing squeezed my arm.

"Victoria, you're a miracle worker! Nobody thought you'd get all five signatures today."

Champaign appeared from somewhere—impromptu but genuine. Crystal flutes clinked as toasts were made to "Victoria's persistence" and "the biggest deal of the quarter." I searched the crowd for the one face that mattered most.

Ethan stood near the glass wall of the atrium, his attention fixed on his phone. When he finally looked up, his acknowledgment was nothing more than a curt nod before his gaze dropped back to the screen. My smile faltered, but I maintained it for the others.

Ten years. Ten years of these moments—my triumphs met with his indifference, as if my successes were merely expected functions, like a well-oiled machine performing its designated task.

---

Later that evening, I uncorked a bottle of cabernet in our Manhattan apartment. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city lights like stars fallen to earth, but the view had long lost its magic. I poured two glasses, though I knew Ethan might not touch his.

"The European deal is officially closed," I said as he loosened his tie, settling into the leather sofa. "All five investors signed."

"Good," he replied, not looking up from his phone. "Johnson was concerned about the German contingent."

I took a long sip, letting the wine warm my throat. "I addressed their concerns about market saturation. Once I showed them the projections for—"

"I need to talk to you about something," he interrupted.

My words died in my throat. This was his pattern—cutting through my professional accomplishments to assert what really mattered: his agenda.

"I've been thinking," he continued, finally setting down his phone. "It's time we got married."

The wine glass nearly slipped from my fingers. "What?"

"We should get our marriage license tomorrow. I have a gap between my morning meeting and the board presentation."

I stared at him, searching for signs of a joke or manipulation. But his expression was matter-of-fact, as if he were suggesting we pick up dry cleaning.

"After ten years, you're ready? Just like that?" My voice sounded distant, even to myself.

"It makes sense now. The company's stable, the European deal is done." He shrugged. "We can file the paperwork tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock at the county clerk's office."

Ten years of waiting, of watching younger colleagues get engaged and married while Ethan insisted the timing wasn't right. Ten years of holiday dinners with my parents, deflecting their gentle questions about when we might formalize our relationship. And now, with the casualness of scheduling a dental appointment, he was ready.

I should have questioned his sudden change of heart. I should have asked why now, after a decade of evasion. Instead, I felt a rush of vindication so powerful it drowned out my doubts.

"Nine o'clock," I repeated, a smile breaking across my face. "I'll be there."

---

I arrived at the county clerk's office at 8:45 the next morning, dressed in a cream silk blouse and my best charcoal suit. The folders in my hand contained every document we might need—birth certificates, proof of address, identification. I'd even brought the ring my grandmother had left me, though Ethan had never officially proposed.

Nine o'clock came and went. I checked my phone—no messages. By ten, I'd called him twice, both attempts going straight to voicemail. At eleven, I approached the clerk.

"My fiancé is running late," I explained, embarrassment heating my cheeks. "How long will you be open today?"

"Until four-thirty, ma'am," she replied with a sympathetic smile that suggested I wasn't the first woman to wait in vain.

By two o'clock, hunger gnawed at my stomach, but I refused to leave. What if he arrived the moment I stepped out? At three, I called his assistant, who claimed he was in meetings all day. By four, my hope had curdled into humiliation.

As the clerk announced closing time, I gathered my things, fighting back tears. Out of habit, I opened Instagram—and froze.

There on my screen was Olivia Parker, Ethan's assistant of six months, her glossy dark hair cascading over her shoulders as she beamed at the camera. Beside her stood Ethan, his arm around her waist, both of them holding a document I recognized instantly: a marriage license.

"Thank you for making me Mrs. West today," read the caption.

The timestamp: 9:17 AM.