The CEO's Little Mistress

1
The day I landed a nine-figure deal, my CEO boyfriend—who’d delayed marriage for years—finally agreed to meet me at City Hall. I rushed over, my heart soaring.
But Nathan never came. Instead, a notification popped up: a post from his assistant. A provocative photo showed her hand clasped in Nathan’s, a new marriage certificate vivid against her dress. The caption read: He saved me from an arranged marriage… now he’s my husband!
Colleagues buzzed in the comments, anticipating my meltdown. I liked the post and commented coldly: “Married already? When’s the wedding? I’ll send a generous check.”
Nathan called instantly, his voice icy. “This marriage to Heather is fake—just to stop her parents from making her quit. It’s not real. Must you be so petty? Delete the comment and apologize. Once this is over, I’ll marry you as planned.”
My reply was frosty. “Don’t bother. We’re done.”
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line before Nathan’s voice exploded with anger. "Monica, how many times do I have to explain this? It was a fake ceremony with Heather! Just paperwork to fool her parents. Is that really worth tearing us apart?"
"I already promised I'd marry you," he raged on. "What more do you want? There's a limit to these tantrums. You don't just throw the word 'breakup' around like a joke!"
I clutched my phone, the cavernous, empty hall of the registrar's office mocking me. A bitter smile twisted my lips. For ten years, marrying Nathan had been my only dream. I’d spent countless nights imagining our happy life together.
I had the wedding favors and invitations ready to go. I’d picked out the photographer, our outfits, even the venue. All I needed was for him to say yes. But every time I brought it up, he’d use the company as an excuse. It was a "critical growth period," he’d say. "Just wait until things are stable."
So I threw myself into stabilizing it for him. I took on every thankless job, every grueling project, working myself to the bone. When the company was finally stable, he said he "wasn't ready." He told me to wait a little longer.
I waited for ten years.
Then yesterday, after I secured the massive project that would set us up for life, he finally relented. He called it my "reward." I was so ecstatic I couldn't sleep, thinking my years of waiting had finally paid off. I took the whole day off, got here first thing in the morning, and waited.
And waited.
Until his assistant, Heather, posted that picture. They’d even driven to the next state over to get the license, just to avoid me. The stark red of the certificate seared itself into my memory.
He wasn't "not ready." He just wasn't ready to marry me.
For the first time, I didn't swallow the hurt. "You're right," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "It's just paperwork. The whole process, from taking a number to walking out with the certificate, takes less than ten minutes. A ten-minute process you couldn't find the time for in ten years with me, but you managed it for her."
I took a breath. "And let's not forget, you were the one who suggested we do this today. You left me hanging all day. Don't I have a right to be angry?"
My firmness seemed to catch him off guard. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with condescending fury.
"Can you stop being so unreasonable, Monica? I told you it was an emergency! Was I supposed to just stand by and watch her parents ruin her life? Do you have any idea how much the company has invested in training her? I was protecting an asset! Was that so wrong?"
I almost laughed. As if. The company was full of people whose parents were pressuring them. Why didn't he "protect" them? What kind of "asset" was Heather, anyway? She had zero competence, couldn't even use the basic Microsoft Office Suite, and hadn't closed a single deal in six months. Any other employee would have been fired without a second thought.
But in Nathan's eyes, Heather was a diamond in the rough, a secret weapon who was only "letting us have the sales" to be kind. He was convinced that if a real crisis hit, she would be the one to save us all. In reality, the only thing saving her from termination was Nathan constantly reassigning my successful projects to her name.
He probably didn't even realize how deep his bias ran, how instinctively he protected her, how tenderly he cared for her.
"You're not wrong," I said, a cold smile in my voice. "I am."
He took the bait, his tone instantly shifting to one of smug satisfaction. "Well, since you know you're wrong, hurry up and delete the comment. And apologize to Heather. You’re making her look bad in front of the whole company…"
"My biggest mistake," I cut him off, "was not breaking up with you sooner."
"Monica, you're being impossible! You want to be stubborn? Fine! You just wait!"
He hung up. A moment later, my phone buzzed with notifications. He had unlinked all our shared accounts and changed his profile picture, erasing me from his digital life. It was his classic move, his way of punishing me into submission.
But this time, I was just tired. Too tired to play his games.
As I was about to turn off my screen, a notification popped up from the company group chat. It was Heather, tagging me.
"Monica, please don't misunderstand! Nathan was just helping me out of a tough spot with my parents. It’s rare to find a boss as kind and humane as him these days!"
"If I had known you'd be so upset, I never would have posted it. It's all my fault, I'm so sorry…"
Nathan replied immediately. "Heather, you did nothing wrong. You don't need to apologize. The person who needs to apologize is the one making snide, malicious comments."
The rest of the vultures in the office quickly chimed in.
[Yeah, Heather, it’s not your fault! Monica’s just being petty! She’s jealous that you’re young and beautiful and have the CEO's favor!]
[Nathan is such a good guy. For a girlfriend, Monica is so cold and heartless. She deserved to be stood up! Serves her right!]
I was used to their backstabbing. Ever since Heather had arrived and become Nathan's favorite, they’d been kissing up to her and whispering behind my back. Their words couldn't hurt me anymore. I turned off my phone.
The registrar's clerk looked at me with pity. "Ma'am, you've been here all day. Is… is the person you're waiting for not coming?"
"We're about to close. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow?"
I shook my head, my eyes fixed on the floor. "He's already married someone else. He's not coming. And neither am I."
I looked down at the ticket in my hand. Number one. The first to arrive, the last to leave. What a joke.
With a short, sharp laugh, I tore the paper into pieces and dropped it into the trash can. The man who would never show, the wedding that would never happen—I was done waiting. The love that was never returned—I was done wanting it.
I walked towards the exit. Just as I reached the door, my phone rang. It was Nathan. He had unblocked me.

2
My first instinct was to hang up, but muscle memory took over, and I answered. Nathan's arrogant voice immediately filled my ear.
"Monica. Have you learned your lesson?"
He didn't wait for me to speak. "Here's a chance to make it up to me. Heather is exhausted after the long day, and she's feeling a bit of a chill. She needs to rest. You'll take her place at the client dinner tonight."
"If you handle it well, I might be willing to forgive your little tantrum from earlier…"
The way he spoke, as if ordering a servant, made me laugh out loud. Had he forgotten that I had also spent the entire day waiting, exposed to the same cold wind?
There was a time when a single sneeze from me would have had him draping his coat over my shoulders, fussing over me with hot ginger tea and medicine, terrified I might fall ill. Now, he spoke to me as if I were a tool, my feelings an irrelevant inconvenience.
More importantly, had he forgotten that I was severely allergic to alcohol?
In the early years of our startup, schmoozing with clients was a necessary evil. But back then, Nathan had shielded me. He would turn down any event with drinking, and if it was unavoidable, he would drink for the both of us. He’d come home staggering drunk, hugging the toilet bowl, but still find the strength to reassure me, telling me not to worry, to get some sleep.
That man, the one whose world had once revolved around me, was gone.
This time, I didn't crumble. I didn't compromise for the sake of our crumbling relationship. My voice was steel.
"I can't go, Nathan. I'm allergic to alcohol. And besides, that's Heather's responsibility, not mine."
His stunned silence was followed by a roar of fury. "I'm trying to be nice to you, and you're going to pull this crap? I pay your salary! That means you are on call for me 24/7. That is your obligation!"
A calm smile spread across my face. "Then I quit."
Before he could respond, I hung up and dialed a number I hadn't called in a long time.
"Mr. Sterling, it's Monica. I'm accepting your offer."
The company was a major international design firm, a global leader in the industry. I’d met Leo Sterling a year ago on a collaboration. Just before signing the deal, I'd noticed a structural flaw in their new product—a design choice made for aesthetics that would have led to frequent malfunctions and a PR nightmare. After I pointed it out, he immediately halted production, saving the company tens of millions of dollars.
He’d become one of my few friends. After learning about the way I was being treated at Nathan's company, he had flown out more than once, trying to recruit me. He’d offered me the position of Design Director and eight figures in stock options.
But Nathan, haunted by his childhood, refused to leave the country. So, for him, I had turned it down, sacrificing my own future to stay by his side. I thought my devotion would be returned in kind. Instead, I had lost everything.
I had given him my youth, my health, ten years of my life, and in return, I didn't even get his name. It wasn't worth it. It was time to start thinking about myself.
Leo's joyful voice pulled me back to the present. "Monica, really?! We're ready for you anytime. But what happened? The last time we spoke, you were planning a wedding."
I managed a wry laugh. "Nothing much. We just broke up."
There was a pause on his end, then his voice softened with sympathy. "Monica, I don't know the details, but I know you. It's his loss. It's definitely his loss."
A moment later, a notification popped up on my phone. A fifty-thousand-dollar wire transfer.
"A little something to help you get settled, Monica. We'll be waiting for you."
I smiled, and after a brief chat about logistics, I hung up. Just as I accepted the transfer, Nathan updated his social media.

3
It was a photo of him and Heather at a trendy new steakhouse, all sleek decor and Western cuisine.
The caption read: “Love at first sight, and still falling for you every day.”
In the picture, Nathan was smiling, actually smiling, as Heather fed him a piece of steak. The irony was so thick I could have choked on it.
Nathan hated Western food. He’d told me it was his least favorite thing in the world. His father had been seduced by a foreign woman and had abandoned him and his mother when he was just three. The trauma had left deep scars. He avoided anything and everything foreign, even turning down lucrative overseas business deals.
On our first date, I had no idea. Wanting to do something special, I’d spent a month's savings to take him to the fanciest steakhouse in the city. The moment the expensive steaks arrived, his face had darkened. He flipped the table, sending the scorching hot steak sliding onto my lap, and stormed out without a word, leaving me to be stared at and ridiculed by the entire restaurant.
He gave me the silent treatment for a week. The incident was only "forgiven" after I knelt on the living room floor for half a day and transferred him a small fortune as an apology.
And now, here he was, happily eating a cheap, frozen-and-reheated steak from Heather's fork, without a hint of disgust. I guess love really is the best medicine. It can even cure deep-seated trauma.
Our colleagues were fawning all over the post. Usually, it was just Heather dropping ambiguous hints, but now that Nathan had made it official, they were all tripping over themselves to offer blessings and pledge their loyalty. And Nathan, usually so stern and formal, was actually replying to them with smiling emojis.
I knew he was doing it to get to me, to provoke me into begging for his forgiveness like I always had.
But this time, I just smiled and closed the app.
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten all day. I sent a text to my best friend, Maya.
[Late-night grill spot?]
Her reply was instantaneous: [I'm there!]
…
At the restaurant, Maya was halfway through a skewer when she glanced at her watch. "Hey, doesn't your control-freak boyfriend have a 10 PM curfew for you? It's getting late, aren't you going to head out?"
It was laughable, really. Early in our relationship, Nathan had claimed he was insecure and paranoid about me cheating. He’d imposed a strict set of rules. I had to be home by ten, reply to his texts instantly, and answer his calls within three rings. If he video-called to check up on me, even if I was in the middle of a client meeting, I wasn't allowed to decline.
I’d put up with it, telling myself it was because of the trauma from his childhood. But the rules never applied to him. He would disappear for days, sometimes not even coming home at night. Once, worried for his safety, I’d video-called him. He had exploded, sending me a barrage of texts accusing me of being a controlling psycho who didn't respect his privacy. He’d frozen me out for a month after that.
He thought he was being so clever. But I already knew the truth, thanks to the "accidental" photos Heather would send me. His late nights weren't for work. They were for her.
And I, like an idiot, had played along, strictly adhering to his curfew, turning down countless nights out with friends until they just stopped asking. My world had shrunk until he was the only thing in it.
What a waste.
I bit into a piece of grilled meat with a vengeance. "Don't worry about him. He can't tell me what to do anymore. We broke up."
Maya stared at me for a second, then broke into a huge grin, clapping me on the back. "Monica! It's about damn time! That guy never deserved you. Tonight’s on me. We're not leaving until you're good and happy!"
I smiled, and we ordered two more platters, eating and talking until the early hours of the morning.
When I finally got home and opened the door, a pillow flew through the air and hit me square in the face.
Nathan's cold voice followed it. "What time do you call this? Did you decide to come home, finally?"

4
I was surprised to see him. Usually, after a "night out with a client," which was code for a night with Heather, he wouldn't roll in until the next afternoon.
The pillow had hit my glasses, the nose pad digging painfully into the bridge of my nose. A warm trickle of blood ran down my face.
Nathan froze, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. He reached for a tissue, about to get up, but then seemed to think better of it. He sank back onto the sofa, his voice hard.
"Why are you so late? You know the rule. Where have you been?"
I ignored him, rummaging through a drawer for some antiseptic and cotton swabs. My silence seemed to infuriate him even more.
"Monica, I'm talking to you! Are you deaf? Or did you do something you're ashamed of and now you don't have the guts to tell me?"
I let out a cold laugh and finally met his eyes. "And you? Why are you home so early? Weren't you supposed to be keeping Heather company?"
His expression faltered. He wasn't used to me calling him out on his lies. He quickly composed himself, his brow furrowing.
"What are you talking about? I didn't have a client dinner tonight. After I helped Heather, I came straight home. And all those other times were just business trips. Stop letting your imagination run wild."
He tried to sound wounded. "I came back because I was worried about you. I know I was wrong to stand you up today, but that's no excuse to ignore my calls and stay out all night. I was about to call the police!"
He gestured to the coffee table. "I even brought you some of your favorite seafood porridge. I was worried you'd be hungry."
I glanced at the container of congealed, cold porridge and felt a wave of nausea. After all these years, he still hadn't realized. This was his peace offering, the thing he always brought me right before he was about to ask me to compromise on something related to Heather. The smell alone was enough to make me sick.
"No, thanks. I already ate."
He missed the ice in my tone completely, assuming he had already placated me. "Oh, by the way," he said, "Heather was telling me her parents are still suspicious. They won't be satisfied until they see wedding photos. So, we're going to get some taken tomorrow."
He looked at me expectantly. "I remember you did a lot of research on this stuff. Could you recommend a good studio? One that’s quick and has nice dresses?"
The hopeful, excited look in his eyes as he planned his wedding photos with another woman was grotesque. He knew I had done all that research for our wedding.
"You're on your own," I said flatly. "I can't help you."
His face fell. The seafood porridge had failed. His go-to tactic was useless. Then, his frustration boiled over into anger.
"Monica, it's just an act! Why are you being so dramatic about this?"
"Whether it's an act or you've actually fallen for her," I said, my voice cutting, "you know the truth in your own heart."
The way his eyes had lit up when he mentioned wedding photos… even a blind man could see it was real. Cornered, he stomped his foot like a petulant child. It was the first time he hadn't gotten his way with me.
"You… you're being ridiculous!"
I was done arguing. I turned to go to the bedroom. But he darted in front of me, grabbed my pillow from the bed, and threw it into the hallway.
"You're not sleeping in here with me! You can sleep in the study tonight and think about what you've done!"
He slammed the door, and I heard the key turn in the lock. Twice. He was treating me like a burglar in my own home. He thought he could break me. He had no idea he was doing me a favor. I hadn't wanted to sleep next to him anyway. I just needed to pack my things.
I looked around the living room. Everything in this apartment was his. I had nothing here but a few old dresses in the closet. I shook my head, grabbed my suitcase from the corner, and went to the study.
The first thing I saw was the gift I had given him for our seventh anniversary. It was a string art portrait of us on our first date at an amusement park. I had spent a month of sleepless nights painstakingly winding tens of thousands of threads around hundreds of nails to create it.
I remembered that day. He hadn't wanted to go. He thought amusement parks were childish and a waste of money. He only agreed to take a single photo with me after I promised to cover all of Heather's work for the next quarter. It was our first and last trip there. That's why I had turned the photo into a piece of art, to preserve that one happy memory. I had cared for it meticulously, just as I had cared for our relationship.
What a fool I'd been. You can't force a man to love you.
I took the portrait off the wall, picked up a pair of scissors, and with a single touch to the taut threads, the entire image unraveled. It looked perfect on the surface, but the slightest pressure shattered it. Just like our love.
I swept the tangled mess of thread into the trash. As I was packing up some documents from the desk, I knocked over a loose folder. Hundreds of handwritten letters spilled onto the floor.
I froze.

5
They were the love letters I had written to him five years ago.
He had caught a bad flu that season, his fever spiking so high he had to be rushed to the hospital. Delirious, he thought he was dying. He had clung to my hand, whispering that he hadn't heard enough of my love letters. He made me promise to keep writing and reading them to him, so that if he died, I could burn them at his grave and he wouldn't be so lonely in the afterlife.
To keep him conscious for the doctors, I had agreed through my tears. I wrote and wrote, filling page after page with every little memory of our life together, my voice growing hoarse as I read them aloud. By the time his fever broke, I had gone through ten pens. My index finger was raw and bleeding, spattering drops of blood onto the tear-soaked pages.
When he finally woke up and saw my hand, cramped and deformed from holding the pen for so long, he had wept. He held me tight and promised he would be good to me for the rest of our lives, that he would never let me be hurt again.
And now, there was Heather. And for her, he had hurt me again and again.
He had broken his promise.
I took a deep breath and swept the letters into the trash can. His promises had expired. Keeping these mementos would only be a form of self-torture.
As I finished packing, I looked at the nearly empty study and the suitcase that wasn't even half full, and I had to laugh. Nathan was always complaining about how tight money was, telling me to save every penny for our future wedding. He painted a grand picture of the ceremony, the rings, the new house… all the things we would have.
I had believed him. I’d worn the same cheap, nine-dollar sneakers year-round, through scorching summers and freezing winters. I’d spent hours hunting for online coupons just to save a dollar on a pre-packaged meal. Every cent I saved, I gave to him.
And he had used that money to buy himself the latest gaming console, a watch worth tens of thousands of dollars, and a life that looked perfect on social media.
I had been so blinded by the promise of marriage that I had let him exploit me, ruin my health, and for what? A man who didn't love me.
I shook my head, dragging my suitcase toward the door. As I turned, it bumped into a small metal safe tucked away in the corner.
It was Nathan's most prized possession. I remembered during a typhoon, when the windows of our apartment had shattered, he had risked his life to drag that safe to a secure spot. No one knew what was inside. I had tried to guess the four-digit code countless times: our anniversary, my birthday, his birthday, his mother's birthday. Nothing worked.
Once, I'd even hired a locksmith. The man took one look at the safe, packed up his tools, and refused to even try, no matter how much money I offered. He finally told me it wasn't just any safe. The lock was a state-of-the-art nanotechnology from abroad, and the box itself was made of aerospace-grade materials. It was practically indestructible.
I had given up. For all our years together, its contents remained a mystery.
But now, as I was leaving, a final, nagging thought entered my mind. A test. I keyed in a date I wasn't supposed to know. The date Nathan had broken up with his previous girlfriend.
I didn't expect anything. He never spoke of her. I only knew she existed because one of his friends had let it slip during a drunken conversation.
Beep.
The lock clicked open.
I stared. Who was this woman, that he cherished the memory of their breakup more than anything else in his life?
Then I opened the safe. And my world stopped.

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