He Brought His Mistress, I Brought My Lawyers Chapter 01

He Brought His Mistress, I Brought My Lawyers Chapter 01

Three days before my wedding, I received a shared album.

The sender was Sloane Pike, the widow of my fiancé’s best friend.

Inside were photos of my fiancé, Ethan, half-naked in our Newport wedding suite.

Sloane was asleep beside him.

My first reaction wasn’t to cry. It wasn’t to demand an explanation.

It was to call my grandfather.

“Notify the lawyers. Withdraw our marriage license application and halt the prenup.”

“And freeze all joint assets tied to the wedding.”

When Ethan called, his voice was thick with indulgent patience.

He thought I was throwing a tantrum.

He even brought Sloane—that “emotionally fragile” woman—to our wedding tasting, introducing her to everyone as family who needed looking after.

He didn’t know.

This wasn’t a tantrum.

This was a liquidation.

And he was the bad debt about to be written off.

…

I opened my iPad. A new folder sat on the desktop.

Inside were photos from the wedding tasting two days ago and the anonymous email I’d received three hours earlier: a link to a shared album titled “A Surprise for Avery.”

A surprise.

I opened it and forced myself not to look away.

Every photo was sharp enough to sting. Ethan, lying half-naked on the bed, his familiar lines blurred and suggestive in the suite’s dim lighting. Sloane, pressed against him like a viper. On the chest of her silk robe, two words were embroidered in glaring gold thread:

“Mrs. Ward.”

Her future last name.

My future last name.

I’d first realized Ethan was taking her side two days ago, at the tasting.

That dinner was supposed to be my formal introduction of Ethan to the Caldwell family trust committee—the final, unspoken approval before our marriage. But Ethan brought Sloane.

Throughout the meal, he cared for her with a meticulous attention that set my teeth on edge. He instinctively blocked the champagne someone offered her, tested the temperature of the chef’s recommended dishes with his own fork before sliding them her way, and when Sloane complained the air-conditioning was too cold, he took off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders without a second thought.

The tenderness that had once been mine and mine alone was now being poured, without restraint, over another woman.

Around the table, the committee members exchanged subtle glances. My friends fell into an awkward silence. I could feel the blood draining from my face, but I held my smile, maintaining the dignity expected of a Caldwell heiress.

“Sloane’s husband—my best friend—his death anniversary is coming up,” Ethan whispered in my ear afterward. “She’s been a wreck. I have to keep an eye on her. Avery, you have to understand.”

At the time, I’d believed him.

I’d even felt a pang of shame for my own jealousy.

Until three hours ago, when I received this “surprise.”

In that moment, the world shattered. Shock, humiliation, rage—a bitter tide rose, drowning me. I stumbled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face again and again, forcing myself to calm down.

I could not lose control.

Absolutely not.

After drying my face, I walked out of the bedroom just in time to see Ethan entering the Newport estate—a Caldwell property—with his arm wrapped around Sloane.

I stood at the top of the second-floor landing. I didn’t hide. I didn’t move.

Our eyes met. A flicker of concern crossed Ethan’s face before he casually dropped his arm from Sloane’s waist. He took a few steps toward me, reaching out as if to cup my face, the way he always did.

“Avery, what are you doing up so late?”

I tilted my head, avoiding his touch. My gaze slid past him to the woman standing behind him, wearing my spare robe.

Sloane met my eyes with a provocative smirk, a victor’s smile playing on her lips.

“Avery, let me explain.” Ethan immediately stepped between us. “Sloane had a breakdown. I had no choice but to bring her here for the night so I could look after her. You know how she is, all alone… Don’t get the wrong idea.”

“Look after her?” My voice was as still as a frozen lake. “Of course. After all, she’ll be ‘Mrs. Ward’ soon. She should be well taken care of.”

Ethan’s brow tightened, impatience lacing his tone. “Avery, don’t be unreasonable. You know I love you.”

I didn’t answer. I just turned and walked toward the kitchen.

I had a video conference for the charitable foundation in half an hour. I needed a glass of water to stay awake.

Work couldn’t be delayed by something so filthy.

The moment I turned with the glass in hand, I saw Sloane leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, waiting for me.

“Avery, did you like the photos I sent?” she asked, her voice thick with unconcealed gloating. “Was the bridal suite bed soft enough?”

I calmly took a sip of water. The warm liquid did nothing to thaw my frozen heart. I looked up at her as if she were a clown performing on a stage.

“The lighting was poor and the composition was tacky. Next time you want to provoke someone, at least use professional equipment. Get the subject in focus.”

Sloane’s expression faltered.

This wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. She thought I would collapse, scream, become hysterical—not stand here critiquing her “masterpiece” with the detached eye of an art critic.

“You—!” My indifference finally broke her. She swung her hand, knocking the glass from my grasp.

With a sharp crack, scalding water splashed across the back of my hand, leaving an immediate, angry red mark. I only flinched slightly before setting the now-empty glass back on the counter.

“Boston’s top socialite, the Caldwell heiress, and you can’t even hold on to a man,” Sloane sneered, her tone vicious. “You think Ethan loves you? He loves the Caldwell name. Me? I don’t have to do a thing. I just have to cry a little, and he’ll do anything for me.”

Smack.

The slap echoed through the kitchen.

I’d backhanded her so hard my palm went numb. I rubbed my wrist, my voice colder than the sea wind outside.

“Sloane, being a widow doesn’t give you a license to be a bitch. Don’t cheapen the title.”

Sloane clutched her rapidly swelling cheek, shock turning to something cruel in her eyes.

Suddenly, as if making a decision, she spun around, grabbed a silver letter opener from the counter, and slashed it across her own arm without a flicker of hesitation.

“Ah!”

A line of blood welled up, followed by a piercing scream.

At almost the same instant, the kitchen door was thrown open.

Ethan rushed in. He saw the blood on Sloane’s arm, then my hand, still in midair. His face contorted with fury and disbelief.

“What the hell are you doing?!”