Page 1 — The Mistress In My Seat, Wearing My Jewelry
The venue was absurd: a private ballroom with velvet drapes, high crystal chandeliers, and a stage lit like a miniature awards show.
It screamed money. Corporate money.
My money.
I arrived alone because Mark “needed to network.” He’d told me, “Meet me inside. Don’t cling.”
I walked in wearing the maid uniform under a long coat, head lowered, expression neutral.
The room smelled like champagne and cologne and ambition.
And then I saw her.
Jessica sat at the head table—the place of honor—like she owned it. Her posture was effortless. Her laugh was loud. Her hand rested possessively on Mark’s forearm while he told some story to the executives around them.
And around her neck…
I felt something inside my chest tighten into a hard, silent knot.
