Marrying My Ex's Rival For Sweet Revenge

Estela Stanton POV:

I stood at the door of the home I was supposed to share with my fiancé, Jaimen Blackburn, a hockey player for the New Jersey Devils.

The glow of my phone had never felt so harsh against my eyes.

On the screen, Jaimen had a blonde woman pinned beneath him on the charcoal-gray sofa I had picked out for our future home.

Her dress had ridden up her thighs, one of his hands gripping her waist while the other braced against the cushions beside her head. The leather beneath his fingers was pulled tight, marked by fresh scratches from where they had clawed at it in the heat of the moment.

Her head was tipped back against the armrest, his face buried against her neck, their bodies pressed so close there was no mistaking what the photo had captured.

And right above them hung my art.

The abstract canvas I'd hung just last week was visible over Jaimen's shoulder. Beneath it, on the sofa I'd chosen for our future home, they were tangled together.

That detail alone proved the photo was real.

A chill ran through me, but no tears came. Three years. Three years of swallowing the anger every time his family looked down on me, of enduring my adoptive parents and their obsession with money and status, all for this.

I entered the door code. The lock clicked open, and I stepped inside.

As I passed through the living room, the first thing I saw was the mess they had left behind. Clothes were scattered across the floor, a throw blanket had been dragged half off the sofa, and a woman's bra lay openly in the center of the coffee table, impossible to miss.

Then I heard it. A muffled giggle came from the bedroom, followed by the rustle of sheets.

I drew in a slow breath and walked toward the sound.

I kicked the half-open bedroom door.

It slammed against the wall with a crack that made the two figures on the bed jump apart as if electrocuted.

The blonde—Tessa Hayes, a model I'd seen in gossip magazines—shrieked and fumbled for a sheet to cover herself.

Jaimen's face went white when he saw me. Pure, unadulterated panic flashed in his eyes. "Estela, baby, just let me explain..."

A short, bitter laugh escaped me. I pointed straight at Jaimen, still sitting on the bed. "Explain this."

Then I pointed toward the open door. "Or maybe explain the bra sitting on our coffee table."

Finally, I held up my phone, the photo still glowing on the screen.

"Or explain this."

Jaimen stared at me, then scrambled to his feet, hurriedly pulling on his clothes to cover himself.

"Estela, I..." He swallowed. "It was a mistake. I swear. I love you. It didn't mean anything."turning my back and walking into the living room. Tessa scrambled for her clothes, scurrying out of the apartment like a rat.

Jaimen followed, grabbing for my arm. I ripped it away. "Don't touch me."

I pulled the engagement ring from my finger. The diamond had once been my ticket out of the Hicks family that raised me. Now it was nothing but a shackle.

I walked right up to him, grabbed the front of his shirt, and shoved the ring deep into his pocket.

"We're done, Jaimen."

Just then, his teammates came through the front door I'd left open, still loud and laughing from the game. They spilled into the living room and froze when they saw Jaimen and me standing opposite each other. The laughter died instantly as their eyes moved between us, taking in the scattered clothes, the open bedroom door, and the tension in the room.

Jaimen's face flushed under their stunned stares. What had started behind closed doors was now unfolding in front of everyone.

I looked at him, my voice ringing out clear and steady. "Jaimen Blackburn was screwing another woman in our bed. He and I are over."

A collective gasp went through the crowd. Whispers erupted.

Jaimen's shame curdled into anger. "Estela, stop making a scene!" he hissed, as if this was just some temper tantrum.

That was the last straw.

I raised my heeled boot and drove it hard into his shin.

A choked grunt of pain escaped him, and he stumbled, collapsing to one knee.

The room fell dead silent. Everyone stared, shocked by my unprecedented violence.

I looked down at him, a wave of pure, liberating satisfaction washing over me. "You owed me that."

Then I turned and walked out.

The elevator doors closed, and my body finally started to tremble. I didn't go home. The Hicks' house wasn't my home. I had nowhere to go.

My phone buzzed. The same anonymous number.

A new message: "Well done. Need help?"

My finger hovered over the screen. I didn't reply. Who the hell was this mysterious ally?

The elevator doors opened. I stepped into the cold New York air, still shaken and with no idea where to go.

I hailed a cab, giving the driver the address of the one place Jaimen wouldn't think to look for me—my small, not-yet-opened office space.

Leaning back against the seat, I watched the city lights blur past. The thrill of revenge was fading, replaced by the cold, hard reality of my situation.

I needed money. I needed a plan. I needed to escape the twin swamps of the Blackburns and the Hicks for good.

My phone buzzed again. I expected the anonymous number, but it was my "mother," Felecia Ford.

I declined the call and blocked her number without a second thought. I could already hear what she would say: she'd blame me for ruining the "perfect match" and demand to know how I could embarrass the Hicks family like this.

I stared out at the passing lights, then made up my mind.

I would face Judith myself and make sure everyone knew exactly why this engagement had ended.