His Mistress Got a Ghost, I Got His Rival

ELENA’S POV “Damian! Don’t leave him!” Sirens drown out my scream. A second explosion rips through the Grand Meridian ballroom, shattering the chandeliers. For one terrifying second, darkness swallows hundreds of screaming guests before emergency lights flash red across the marble. Tables overturn, and glass rains from above. My heel snaps. I hit the ground hard, jagged glass cutting through my emerald gown and into my knees. “Damian!” Smoke claws down my throat. “Leo is on the third floor!” Ten feet away, my husband stands untouched. His tuxedo is crisp, his dark hair immaculate. He doesn’t even glance at me. His hand rests on Vivienne Shaw’s waist as he guides his executive assistant toward the private east exit. A guard blocks my path. “Mrs. Hart, evacuate south!” “Get off me!” I wrench my arm free, kick off my broken shoes, and run toward the stairwell. Each step sends pain through my twisted ankle. “Leo!” On the second-floor landing, a tactical officer emerges through the haze carrying my five-year-old son. “Mommy!” I drop to my knees as Leo throws his arms around my neck. His face is black with soot, and his small hands clutch a drawing of a stone castle. “Is Daddy coming?” he sobs. I look toward the sealed east doors. Damian has already left. “No, baby. Just us.” Outside, freezing wind cuts through my torn gown. Five Hart family sedans wait behind the police barricades. I limp toward the lead car and strike the window with my palm. “Unlock the door!” The driver lowers the window slightly. “Mr. Hart’s orders, ma’am. Foundation staff takes priority.” Vivienne sits inside, wrapped in a cashmere throw, scrolling through her phone. Her gown is spotless. My son is shivering in my arms, but she doesn’t even look up. “He is five years old!” I shout. “Open this door!” The window closes. The sedan pulls away, splashing dirty water across my legs. I stare after it, struggling to understand how my husband could leave his own child behind, then use his cars to protect his mistress while we stand in the cold. A second sedan stops beside us. “Get in, Mrs. Hart,” the driver says. I climb inside with Leo, saying nothing. At the estate, the mansion is brightly lit, and smooth jazz drifts through the foyer. There is no sign of a family that has just survived a bombing. I carry Leo into the kitchen. Vivienne stands barefoot at the marble island in my white silk robe, holding the ceramic mug Leo painted for my birthday: BEST MOMMY. “Elena!” She gives me a pitying smile. “Thank God you made it. We were so worried.” “Take off my robe.” She tilts the mug, pouring scalding coffee across the counter. It runs toward my bare feet. “Oops. Clumsy me.” I wrench the mug from her hand and smash it against the backsplash. Ceramic fragments scatter across the floor. Vivienne shrieks and jumps back, coffee staining her robe. “Touch my things again,” I tell her, “and the next cup breaks against your teeth.” “Enough!” Damian strides in from the hall, his shirt unbuttoned. His eyes move from my bleeding feet to Vivienne’s stained robe. “You left your son in a burning hotel,” I say. “Security had him under control.” His voice is cold. “Vivienne was having a panic attack. I had to get her out safely.” “And Leo?” “I was told he was being evacuated.” His jaw tightens. “The last thing I needed tonight was another public scene.” He makes it sound as if my desperation to find our child has embarrassed him more than the bombing itself. “In my home, wearing my clothes?” I gesture toward Vivienne. “Vivienne manages this estate now,” Damian says coldly. “You'll do well to remember that.” “Where am I supposed to take Leo?” “Basement guest room. Vivienne is moving into the master wing.” “He is not sleeping in a basement!” “Then sleep on the floor with him.” Damian steps closer, lowering his voice. “The police will want statements from everyone who was there. Be careful what you tell them, Elena. I won't let you turn tonight's tragedy into another scandal for this family.” I stare at him. Our son is barely safe, my feet are bleeding, and all he cares about is what people might hear from me. “I'm telling the truth,” I say. His expression hardens. “Then make sure you understand what the truth can cost you.” He turns away. Vivienne follows him, smiling as she passes me. I carry Leo downstairs, wipe the soot from his cheeks, and tuck him into bed. Only after his breathing settles do I pull the glass from my heels. My hands shake, but I keep working. At dawn, rhythmic banging shakes the ceiling above us. Laughter filters through the vents, followed by Vivienne’s moan. “Damian… harder…” I press my palms against my ears, but the sounds continue. For seven months, Damian has blamed stress and board meetings for keeping his distance from me. Now I know exactly where his energy has been going. I go upstairs. Damian steps out of the master bedroom in a black silk robe, fresh scratches marking his collarbone. Behind him, Vivienne lounges across my sheets. “In our bed?” I ask. He shuts the door. “Lower your voice.” “After what you did last night, you still think you can order me around?” “This marriage has been dead for two years.” His expression barely changes. “I'm offering you a way to keep what matters. You retain your title and the house. Leo stays in private school. You stop questioning where I sleep, and you stop embarrassing me in public.” “An open marriage.” “Call it whatever you like. You can live comfortably, provided you understand the arrangement.” “And if I refuse?” “My legal team will file for sole custody of Leo before noon. After last night, it won't be difficult to question your stability. I control the money, Elena. Don't mistake this house for something you own.” He straightens his collar. “Think carefully before you make another scene,” he says, not even looking back. “You have more to lose than I do.” He turns and disappears down the gallery steps, leaving me standing in the silent corridor. Before the sound of his footsteps fades, my phone chimes sharply in my pocket. Once. Twice. Five rapid notifications piercing the dawn quiet. I pull out the screen, the glare burning against my eyes. Joint Checking: Balance $0.00. Household Operating: Balance $0.00. Personal Checking: Balance $14.12. Beneath the zeroed accounts sits an automated transmission direct from Hart Global’s private legal server: ‘Access revoked by primary account holder. You have until 12:00 PM to sign the uncontested spousal waiver, Mrs. Hart. Failure to sign will initiate an immediate freeze on Leo’s private trust.’