From Secret Mistress to Sterling Queen

From Secret Mistress to Sterling Queen

Gavin

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For five years, I, Scarlett King, abandoned my East Coast dynasty to be the secret mistress of tech mogul Julian Thorne, believing our intense, private connection was true love. Tonight, at a lavish charity gala, my heart pounded as Julian bid on my grandmother' s vintage Cartier watch, a public claim I secretly craved. But as the gavel fell, winning the priceless heirloom, Julian turned away from me, announcing his executive assistant, Brianna, as his fiancée and sliding my cherished family watch onto her wrist for the entire ballroom to witness. My world shattered under the weight of the roaring cheers, and Julian, with a devastating smirk, whispered only to me, "Don't look so sad, kitten. This changes nothing for us. My nights are still yours." He viewed me as a mere plaything, a dirty secret to be kept in a box, utterly betraying five years of unwavering loyalty and a twisted kind of love. Shortly after, a cold text banished me from "our" penthouse, giving me one hour before security escorted me out, my life with him reduced to an inventory for a storage unit. How could he so brutally discard five years of my life, my love, my trust, for a conventional wife and a public spectacle, acting as if my public humiliation was just a minor inconvenience to our "games"? How dared he imply I was just a disposable mistress, easily replaced and forgotten in his climb to conventional wealth? As his condescending shadow fell over me, I stood up, declared "We're done, Julian," and walked away, ready to build a new kingdom from the ashes of his betrayal.

Introduction

For five years, I, Scarlett King, abandoned my East Coast dynasty to be the secret mistress of tech mogul Julian Thorne, believing our intense, private connection was true love.

Tonight, at a lavish charity gala, my heart pounded as Julian bid on my grandmother' s vintage Cartier watch, a public claim I secretly craved.

But as the gavel fell, winning the priceless heirloom, Julian turned away from me, announcing his executive assistant, Brianna, as his fiancée and sliding my cherished family watch onto her wrist for the entire ballroom to witness.

My world shattered under the weight of the roaring cheers, and Julian, with a devastating smirk, whispered only to me, "Don't look so sad, kitten. This changes nothing for us. My nights are still yours."

He viewed me as a mere plaything, a dirty secret to be kept in a box, utterly betraying five years of unwavering loyalty and a twisted kind of love.

Shortly after, a cold text banished me from "our" penthouse, giving me one hour before security escorted me out, my life with him reduced to an inventory for a storage unit.

How could he so brutally discard five years of my life, my love, my trust, for a conventional wife and a public spectacle, acting as if my public humiliation was just a minor inconvenience to our "games"?

How dared he imply I was just a disposable mistress, easily replaced and forgotten in his climb to conventional wealth?

As his condescending shadow fell over me, I stood up, declared "We're done, Julian," and walked away, ready to build a new kingdom from the ashes of his betrayal.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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