Page 1 — The Mistress In My Seat, Wearing My Jewelry
The venue was absurd: a private ballroom with velvet drapes, high crystal chandeliers, and a stage lit like a miniature awards show.
It screamed money. Corporate money.
My money.
I arrived alone because Mark “needed to network.” He’d told me, “Meet me inside. Don’t cling.”
I walked in wearing the maid uniform under a long coat, head lowered, expression neutral.
The room smelled like champagne and cologne and ambition.
And then I saw her.
Jessica sat at the head table—the place of honor—like she owned it. Her posture was effortless. Her laugh was loud. Her hand rested possessively on Mark’s forearm while he told some story to the executives around them.
And around her neck…
I felt something inside my chest tighten into a hard, silent knot.
My necklace.
The one my grandmother gave me. A rare blue diamond pendant in a setting commissioned decades ago, impossible to mistake. It didn’t just have value. It had history.
Mark had told me it was “at the jeweler getting repaired.”
I stood in the shadow of a decorative pillar and watched my husband’s mistress wear my legacy like a trophy.
Mark finally noticed me.
He waved me over with two fingers—like summoning staff.
“There you are,” he said loudly, so others could hear. “Put the coat away. You’re on service tonight.”
A few people laughed. Not because it was funny—because it was safe to laugh when the man being cruel had status.
Jessica’s eyes slid over me with the boredom of someone inspecting furniture.
Mark leaned close, whispering through a smile. “Don’t be dramatic. You’ll ruin everything.”
I opened my coat.
The uniform was visible.
The laughter spiked higher.
Mark looked pleased with himself. “See? Great. Now grab a tray.”
I did.
I served drinks. Quietly. Smoothly.
Because I wasn’t trying to win the room.
I was waiting for the room to meet the real owner.
Keep reading—because ten minutes later, Mark’s boss walked in… and the temperature in that ballroom dropped like someone opened a freezer door.
