My Billionaire Fiancé Sent His Best Friend to Ruin Me

I heard my fiancé ask his best friend to seduce me, so he could spend the weekend with his little mistress in peace.

If the scandal ever broke, he could blame me.

Through the half-open study door, Rhys asked if he was sure.

Damian laughed and said I loved him too much to suspect a thing.

That was the moment I decided to make his plan succeed beyond his wildest dreams.

---

"Think about it, Rhys." Ice clinked in Damian's glass. "Saturday, I'm married. After that, Selene gets complicated. This weekend is my last clean window."

"So take her somewhere. Why drag Nora into it?"

"Because Nora checks on me. She calls. She shows up." A sigh, like I was a parking ticket. "If she's busy with you, she won't notice I'm gone. And if anyone ever catches me with Selene, I've got leverage. My bride, in bed with my best man. Who'd blame me?"

Rhys went quiet. I pressed my back to the wall, the brass doorknob cold against my hip.

"Damian. She spent two years at your father's bedside after the stroke. She learned to feed him through a tube. She sat up nights when the nurses quit. You didn't."

"And I'm grateful. I'm giving her my name."

"That's not the same thing."

"You've wanted her since college. Don't pretend you're doing me a favor." Glass met desk. "Tonight. Penthouse. I'll tell her I'm working."

I walked out before either of them saw me. My hands didn't shake until I reached the car.

---

The text came at eight.

Damian: Working all night, sweetheart. Rhys just flew in from London. Take care of him for me? Love you.

Love you. He never typed that.

I checked the Hamptons house security app. The gate had opened at 7:42. Two passengers. A woman with dark hair pulled her suitcase up the steps like she owned them.

Selene.

I closed the app and opened my closet.

The black silk dress was the one Damian called too much. Thin straps. No back. It slid down my body like cool water. I left my hair down and my bra in the drawer.

Then I went to Damian's cabinet and took the bottle he'd been saving for our tenth anniversary. Macallan, 1962.

Rhys arrived at nine. He stopped dead in the doorway.

"Nora."

"Rhys Calloway. Back from London and already staring." I held up two glasses. "Come in. Damian left me to babysit you."

"He—yeah. He mentioned." His eyes dropped to the bottle. "Is that the '62?"

"It is."

"He'll kill you."

"Then he should come home and stop me."

He sat at the far end of the dining table. Six feet of walnut between us. He kept his jacket on, like armor.

I poured. Two fingers for him. Three for me.

"Can I ask you something?" I traced the rim of my glass. "As his oldest friend."

"Sure."

"Does he regret it? The wedding?"

Rhys swallowed. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because he's never home. Because he smells like someone else's perfume." I tilted my head. "Because I'm scared, Rhys. Brides get scared."

He looked at me for a long moment. I watched him choose.

"He's just under pressure. The merger. His dad. It's a lot." He forced a smile. "He's crazy about you, Nora."

There it was. The last thread of respect I had for him, snapped clean.

I laughed. Soft, almost fond.

"You're a good friend to him."

"I try."

I stood, took the bottle, and walked the length of the table. His eyes followed the slit of the dress up my thigh. When I refilled his glass, I leaned close enough that the strap slid off my shoulder.

I didn't fix it.

"Nora." His voice came out rough. "You should probably—"

"Probably what?"

He didn't answer. His gaze had fallen to my chest, where the silk clung to my nipples, hard from the cold air.

"Fuck," he whispered.

"Is that a no?"

His hand found my waist. Then the other strap was gone, and the silk pooled at my hips, and Rhys Calloway buried his face between my breasts like a starving man.

"Jesus, Nora. Fuck. Do you know how long I've thought about these?"

His mouth closed over my left nipple and sucked hard. Heat shot straight down between my legs. He rolled the other one between his fingers, then switched, tongue flicking, teeth scraping. He pulled back only to kiss lower, sucking a dark bruise onto the curve of my breast. Then another, just under my collarbone.

"Rhys—those will show—"

"Good." He marked the soft skin under my breast. "Fuck, good."

Now for the part I'd rehearsed in the car.

I let my voice crack. Let tears sting my eyes. "Rhys, we shouldn't—Damian—oh God, Damian—"

My fingers dug into his hair and dragged his mouth back to my nipple.

He froze. He looked at my hands, at what they were doing, then back at my wet face. Something dark lit behind his eyes.

"Say his name again."

"Damian," I sobbed, and spread my thighs around his hips.

He groaned like I'd struck him. "Fuck. You're crying for him and you're soaked for me. Aren't you, Nora?"

He shoved the silk up to my waist and pushed two fingers inside me. I was wet. Embarrassingly, shamefully wet.

"Look at that. Look at you." He curled his fingers until my hips jerked. "He's never made you this wet, has he?"

"Rhys—" A real gasp. Not part of the act.

"Tell me you want it."

"I want it," I breathed. "Fuck me, Rhys."

He lifted me onto the dining table. The Macallan tipped and rolled. Neither of us caught it. He tore his belt open, and his cock sprang free, thick and flushed, and he dragged the head through my slit once, twice, before he pushed in.

"Fuck, Nora. Fuck." He bottomed out and stayed there, shaking. "His fiancée. On his table."

"Damian," I whimpered, right in his ear.

He snapped. He fucked me hard, the table legs scraping the floor, my bare back sliding across walnut slick with spilled scotch. Every time I said Damian's name, he went harder, deeper, his hand fisted in my hair.

"Say it again. Say it while I'm fucking you."

"Damian—"

"Wrong name when you come, Nora. You hear me? Mine."

When I came, I said his. Rhys. He followed seconds later, buried deep, groaning against my marked-up breast.

---

He fell asleep in the guest room an hour later. His phone sat face-up on the nightstand.

The screen lit.

Damian: How's it going?

I turned the phone face-down.

Then I sat on the edge of the bed, drew in a long, slow breath, and began to cry.