His Mistress Got a Ghost, I Got His Rival

Chapter 5: The Rival

ELENA’S POV

The chandeliers of the Blackshore Grand Hotel glitter above like shards of ice.

I stand near the edge of the terrace doors, clutching a glass of sparkling water until my fingers ache. My emerald gown falls loosely over my hips, chosen deliberately this morning to hide what little change might show beneath the silk.

Roman Vale.

The name has pounded behind my temples ever since Damian flicked that gold invitation across the breakfast table. For three weeks, I convinced myself Suite 2801 was a ghost—one isolated rebellion with a faceless man whose silence I bought. But seeing that identical silver crest proved the truth. The stranger who touched me in the dark isn't an escort. He is Damian’s fiercest corporate predator.

And in less than an hour, we will be standing in the same room.

A wave of sickness churns in my stomach. I take a slow, measured breath, forcing it down. Across the floor, Vivienne laughs at something my husband whispers, the scarlet silk of her backless dress catching the flash of press cameras. Damian’s hand rests comfortably on her hip in plain view of half the city’s elite, untroubled by shame.

I look away. All I need to do is survive tonight, keep my composure, and get back home to Leo.

A heavy grip closes over the small of my back.

"Elena." Damian’s fingers dig into the silk of my dress, steering me forward before I can take a step back. "He just entered through the private salon. Keep your mouth shut, look presentable, and let me handle the terms."

He guides me toward a circle of senior board members near the center of the hall.

"Come," Damian adds under his breath, his voice tight with forced polish. "The majority shareholder of Vance Enterprises wants an introduction."

The executives part.

My blood turns straight to ice.

The man at the center wears a midnight-charcoal three-piece suit cut with razor precision. His dark hair is swept back from high, sharp cheekbones, and the heavy silver signet ring on his right hand gleams under the chandelier light.

R.V.

He doesn't look like a companion hiding in shadows. He looks like an executioner.

Roman's dark eyes lift, meeting mine across the circle. Not a flicker of surprise breaks the hard granite of his face.

"Roman Vale," Damian says smoothly, stepping between us with possessive pride. "Meet my wife, Elena."

Roman extends his hand.

"Mrs. Hart," he says, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

I stare at his hand, remembering how those fingers traced my spine three weeks ago. Then I place my hand in his. His grip is warm and firm, and his thumb brushes my knuckles before he releases me.

"The pleasure is mine," I manage.

Damian watches us. I can almost feel him searching for a reason to be suspicious, but he has no idea what connects us.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Vale," he says. "I thought you preferred hiding behind your board."

Roman's smile is cold. "I'm looking at an acquisition, Hart. I prefer to examine what I'm buying for myself."

His eyes flick briefly toward me.

Damian stiffens and tightens his arm around my waist.

"Elena, go get us some drinks."

The order leaves no room for argument. He wants me away from Roman.

"I'll be back."

I walk toward the private balcony, my heels clicking against the marble. My heart pounds with every step. I need air. I need to think.

The cold night hits my face as I push open the glass doors. I grip the stone railing and try to steady my breathing.

"You look pale, Mrs. Hart."

I spin around.

Roman steps onto the balcony and closes the door behind him. The gala's music fades into the background.

"Yoo..uuu," I whisper.

"Me." He slips his hands into his pockets. "I must say, I wasn't expecting to meet my former client on Damian Hart's arm."

A tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it away, angry that he has seen me lose control.

"You should have told me who you were."

"You asked for no names. No questions." His expression hardens slightly. "I respected the arrangement."

"You knew who I was tonight."

"Not until Damian introduced us."

I search his face for a crack in his composure, some sign that he is lying. I find none, which only makes me more unsettled.

"Why would a man like you work as an executive companion?"

For the first time, his smile disappears.

"Access," he says. "Men like Damian guard their offices, their accounts, and their boardrooms. They are less careful about what they say when they believe the people around them are temporary and discreet." His gaze holds mine. "The service gave me access to circles I wouldn't normally be invited into. I had my reasons for being there, and they had nothing to do with finding a woman to fall into my bed."

The admission leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. "So it was all business?"

"That night, I was working. You were the one part of the evening I hadn't planned for."

"Convenient."

"Perhaps." He doesn't try to defend himself. "But you didn't look at me like I was a billionaire, and you didn't ask me to save you. You looked like someone who had spent too long being told what she was allowed to want."

His words strike closer than I want them to.

"I don't need you to understand me."

"I know." He steps nearer but leaves enough space between us for me to walk away. "That's what caught my attention. You wanted one night that belonged to you. Even when you were frightened, you made your own choice."

I look away, remembering how easily I had let myself believe that night could exist outside the life waiting for me.

"You lied by omission," I say.

"And you asked me not to give you my name." His voice softens. "We both wanted something without consequences. We were wrong about that part."

I look up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I'm here because I have unfinished business with your husband. Now I discover the woman I spent that night with is his wife." His eyes darken. "That changes the situation."

"And what does it change for you?"

His gaze drops briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes.

"I haven't decided yet. But I know I want to see you again, Elena. Not because of your husband, and not because of what happened in that suite. I want to know the woman who walked away from me without asking for anything more."

My chest tightens. Part of me wants to believe him. The rest remembers that men like Roman Vale don't build empires by leaving themselves vulnerable.

"I need to go inside."

I push past him, my shoulder brushing his chest, and reach for the glass door.

"Elena."

I stop but don't turn around.

"You've been holding your stomach all evening," he says quietly. "You've barely touched your drink, and you look as though you're fighting not to be sick. I don't know what you're hiding, but I know you're afraid someone will find out."

My hand tightens around the door handle.

For one terrible second, I wonder whether he can see the truth beneath my dress.

"Whatever it is," he continues, "be careful what you trust Damian with."

I turn to face him. "Why should I trust you instead?"

“You shouldn't. Not yet.”

His answer unsettled me more than any oath could have.

I turned, my palm hitting the glass door to push back into the light.

The door didn't budge.

On the other side of the glass, standing in the shadows of the velvet drapery, was Damian.

His drink was gone. His tie was slightly crooked, and his eyes weren't looking at the crowd—they were locked directly onto Roman's hand resting on the stone railing inches from my shoulder.

Damian didn't shout. He slowly gripped the exterior brass handle and pulled the door open himself.

“Taking the night air, Elena?” Damian murmured, his voice deadly soft. “With my drinks nowhere in sight, and my competitor right at your back.”