My Husband's Rival Wants Me

The gala

The invitation said black-tie, so I chose a deep navy gown. The kind that wouldn’t draw attention. Adrian barely glanced at it when I came downstairs.

“Fine,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks. “Let’s go.”

The ride to the venue was silent except for the low hum of the car and the occasional ping of his phone. He scrolled emails, thumb flicking, face lit blue by the screen. I stared out the window at the city lights blurring past. My stomach was tight. I told myself it was nerves about the crowd. About being on display. Not about the photo still sitting in my messages folder like a live wire.

The ballroom was everything the invitation promised. Crystal chandeliers dripping light, marble floors reflecting gold, waiters moving with trays of champagne like they were part of the decor. Power players everywhere. Reporters clustered near the entrance, cameras ready.

Adrian slipped his hand to the small of my back as we walked in. Firm enough for photos, loose enough to remind me it wasn’t personal.

“Smile,” he murmured. “People are watching.”

And I did.

We made the rounds. Handshakes, small talk. Adrian was smooth. Charming when he needed to be, clipped when he didn’t. I nodded, laughed at the right moments, let him introduce me as “my wife.” The word still felt foreign in my mouth.

Then Olivia walked in.

Red hair catching every light. Black dress cut low in the back, high slit showing long legs. Heads turned. She moved like she knew exactly where the spotlight was. Adrian tensed beside me. His hand dropped from my back.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Need to handle something.”

Before I could respond, he was gone.

I stood alone in the middle of the room. Cameras flashed nearby. A reporter leaned in. “Mrs. Johnson, how are you enjoying married life?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Across the ballroom, Adrian reached Olivia. They spoke low, heads close. She laughed. That same soft, intimate sound from the reception. He smiled. The way he never smiled at me.

My chest ached.

I turned away, slipping toward the restrooms. The hallway was dimmer, quieter. I needed air. A second to breathe without eyes on me.

Footsteps followed.

I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Nikolas stepped into the light. Same broad shoulders. Same dark hair falling slightly over his forehead. Same blue eyes that saw too much.

“Aria,” he said. My name in his mouth sounded warm.

I froze. “What are you doing here?”

“Business.” He glanced back toward the ballroom. “Your husband needs my… networks for the Landmark Project. Discreet logistics. Quiet money. Things regulators don’t like.”

I swallowed. “You knew I’d be here.”

“I hoped.”

He stepped closer. The hallway felt smaller.

“You left the bar that night like you could outrun what happened,” he said quietly. “You can’t.”

“I’m married.”

“You’re miserable.”

The words landed hard, and I looked away.

He moved in, slow enough I could have stepped back, but I didn’t.

“Tell me,” he said in a low voice, “would running away with me that night have been worse than this? Him leaving you standing there like you don’t exist. While he smiles at her.”

My breath hitched. “Stop.”

He didn’t. He caught my wrist gently and backed me against the wall. The cool plaster pressed through the thin fabric of my dress.

“Tell me to stop,” he said again.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

He kissed me. Nothing like the slow burn in the bar. This was teeth and need. His mouth claimed mine like he’d been starving for it. I resisted for half a second, my hands pushing at his chest, then my fingers curled into his shirt and I kissed him back just as hard. All the frustration, the loneliness, the want I’d buried since that night poured out. His hand slid to my waist, pulling me flush against him. I felt every hard inch of him. My head tilted back against the wall; he followed, deepening the kiss, tongue stroking mine in a rhythm that made my knees weak.

I moaned into his mouth. He growled in response, hand sliding up my side, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through the fabric. Heat pooled low in my belly. I arched into him, desperate for more. His other hand cupped my jaw, holding me exactly where he wanted me. We were losing it again, right here in a hallway where anyone could walk by.

I broke away first. Gasping, lips swollen and my chest rising and falling too fast.

“I can’t,” I whispered.

He didn’t move back. His forehead rested against mine for a second. Breathing rough.

“You already did,” he said.

I shoved him away. Lightly, but enough. Turned and ran back toward the ballroom. The noise hit me like a wall. Lights. Laughter. Adrian still at Olivia’s table, head bent close to hers.

I pushed through the crowd. Found the exit. The car was waiting. I slid inside, and slammed the door. The driver glanced back.

“Home,” I said.

The ride blurred. I touched my lips the whole way. They tingled from the swelling.

Back in the penthouse I locked the bedroom door. Leaned against it and slid to the floor. My dress pooled around me like spilled ink.

I replayed every second. The way his hand felt on my waist, the taste of him, the growl when I kissed back. Guilt clawed at me, but underneath it was something worse.

Relief.

For the first time since the wedding, I felt seen.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I crawled over and picked it up.

Noah.

I answered, my voice shaky. “Hey.”

“Sis” He sounded serious. “I found something in Dad’s drawer. Your birth certificate.”

I sat up straighter. “What about it?”

“Everything looks normal… except the hospital listed. It doesn’t exist.”

The room tilted.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not in any records. Not in the city. Not anywhere.”

My pulse roared in my ears.

The photo from the bar. The kiss in the hallway. Adrian with Olivia, and now this.

I stared at the wall, my heart pounding.

What else had they lied about?