Mistaken Identity: The Cold CEO's Runaway Lover

If she hadn't seen the video on Eldon's phone of him sleeping with a stranger, Aubree would never have guessed that this supposedly conservative, straight-laced man was secretly a massive player.

His digital footprint was a trail of betrayal: luxury hotel bookings, high-end restaurant receipts, and late-night Uber rides crisscrossing the city.

He had just spent the last three nights dropping thousands of dollars on VIP bottle service at a high-end club, popping Ace of Spades champagne like water.

The irony was sickening.

While she had been denying herself a simple $25 dinner out, obsessively counting pennies to save for a down payment on their future home, he was out playing the high-rolling VIP, throwing cash around without a second thought.

A cold fury, sharp and clean, sliced through the November air and settled deep in her stomach. Her fingers, locked around her phone, were numb. Her knuckles were white.

She and Eldon had been together for three years. She had dimmed her own brilliance to protect his fragile ego, learned to cook and care for him, and played the role of the perfect, gentle girlfriend.

Yet, in the end, all her sacrifices still couldn't win his true heart.

She didn't hesitate. She didn't cry.

She already knew exactly which club he'd been frequenting. His credit card receipts had made sure of that.

She simply raised her arm, hailing a yellow cab with a jerky, mechanical motion.

She had fed her whole heart to a dog—well, then let the dog go eat shit!

"Where to, miss?" the driver asked, his voice muffled by the thick plexiglass.

She gave him the address of the bar, her own voice sounding foreign, brittle.

The cab lurched into traffic, and the city lights smeared into a meaningless blur.

Her chest was tight, a band of pressure constricting her lungs. Each breath was a shallow, painful effort.

The taxi screeched to a halt on a cobblestone street buzzing with neon signs and the low thrum of nightlife. Aubree threw two twenty-dollar bills onto the front seat without waiting for change.

"Keep the change," she muttered, shoving the door open. Her sweet, gentle appearance did nothing to mask the blazing fury in her eyes.

Aubree pushed violently through the inner doors of the bar. On her way here, she had played out a dozen confrontation scenarios in her head.

But when she reached the VIP lounge, all she found was the wreckage of his party: scattered rose petals, half-eaten artisan fruit platters, and empty crystal champagne flutes.

A bitter smile touched her lips.

So, he did know how to be romantic. He just didn't want to waste that romance on her.

She sent him a text asking where he was. Eldon replied almost instantly: Pulling an all-nighter at the office. Don't wait up, get some sleep.

When Aubree tried calling him right back, it didn't go through. Her second attempt went straight to voicemail. His phone was off.

In that instant, her desperate anxiety about their impending marriage simply evaporated, replaced by a cold, hollow clarity.

She snapped a photo of the wrecked VIP booth and sent it to him, followed by a barrage of angry, heartbroken texts.

But tonight was destined to be a one-woman show. Her screen remained stubbornly blank; he didn't reply to a single word.

With nowhere to vent her rage, Aubree let out a bitter laugh and marched over to the bar to face the bartender.

"Tequila," she rasped. "Neat."

The bartender nodded, grabbing a bottle and a shot glass. The clear liquid looked deceptively like water.

Aubree downed it in one gulp. The burn was instantaneous—a trail of liquid fire scorching down her throat and exploding in her stomach, bringing involuntary tears to her eyes.

"Another," she demanded, sliding the empty glass back across the counter.

The second shot went down easier.

By the third shot, the edges of the room began to blur. The sharp, tight knot of anger in her chest started to unravel, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache.

Her vision swam. The music, the neon lights, the murmuring crowd—everything melted into a single, overwhelming sensory overload.

Just as she was about to order a fourth, a man suddenly took the seat next to her.

"Hello. I'm Julian Sterling."

"..." Aubree's hand paused on her glass. She slowly turned her head to size up the man beside her.

He was clad in a Tom Ford suit that undoubtedly cost more than her monthly rent. He had sharp, chiseled features, and a Patek Philippe watch glinted on his wrist under the bar's ambient lighting.

In her mind, Aubree instantly categorized him into the same despicable breed as Eldon—the kind of man who could lie to your face with a perfect smile.

She set her glass down on the counter with a dull thud and proceeded to pour herself another drink, completely ignoring him.

Julian frowned. He had no prejudice against women drinking, but grabbing the bottle and pouring for herself upon their very first meeting? Wasn't that a bit rude?

Aubree downed the shot. Feeling the man's persistent gaze, she furrowed her brows in annoyance. "Is this how players hit on girls nowadays? Just dropping their names?"

Julian looked down at her, his gaze steady. "I am not a player. I don't have the habit of showering every woman I meet with attention. I can't be good to everyone, nor do I entertain any ambiguous relationships."

Aubree's momentum didn't falter. "If you're not a player, you're still a scumbag."

Julian gave a subtle lift of his brow. "And what exactly constitutes a scumbag in your eyes?"

"Someone who is rich, handsome, has plenty of time, acts all warm and considerate, and knows exactly how to sweet-talk you," Aubree sneered. "But at the end of the day, he just doesn't love you."

Julian was genuinely perplexed.

Weren't they supposed to be on a blind date? Was she trying to use a new flame to get over an old one?

He was only here tonight because his grandmother had insisted. It was supposed to be a blind date with Sloane Kensington, the heiress to a hotel empire—a strategic alliance.

But the woman sitting before him looked absolutely nothing like the poised, elegant socialite described in her dossier. In fact, she looked like she had just gone through a nasty breakup.

He had zero interest in being someone's rebound.

Just as he was about to stand up and leave, Aubree downed yet another shot. Suddenly, she lunged forward, grabbing him by his expensive tie. She started to laugh, but the laughter quickly dissolved into sobs. "You scumbag! I'm so beautiful, why did you have to go looking for someone else? Tell me!"