Married To My Husband’s Rival

The rain was pouring down hard outside, washing against the dark tinted glass of the upscale corporate tower, but inside Marcus Vance’s private office, the heat was suffocating.

I stood frozen just inches away from the mahogany door, my breath catching tightly in my throat as I listened to the muffled, breathless sounds leaking from the other side.

A woman's high-pitched moan echoed through the quiet corridor, followed by a deep, gruff male voice growling words of pure filth. Words that my husband, Marcus, had not spoken to me in over two miserable years of our loveless marriage.

My fingers trembled so violently that the takeaway bag carrying our daughter Lily’s third birthday cupcakes nearly slipped from my grip. I had rushed straight from the bakery, hoping against all hope that Marcus would finally leave his endless board meetings early for once to celebrate with us.

Instead, I found myself standing outside his executive suite like a fool, listening to my husband cheat on me in broad daylight.

I couldn't take it anymore. The crushing weight of his endless lies, the cold shoulder he gave me at every family dinner, and the constant rumors swirling around his late nights at the office had finally broken something deep inside my chest.

With a sharp intake of breath, I shoved the heavy door open, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The sight that greeted my eyes was far more sickening than any nightmare I could have ever imagined.

Scattered across the expensive Italian leather sofa were discarded clothes. Straddling my husband's lap was a tall, platinum-blonde woman with heavy makeup caked across her face. Her artificial nails dug deeply into Marcus's bare shoulders as her hips rocked rhythmically against him.

Marcus froze mid-thrust, his dark eyes widening in sheer shock as he looked up and saw me standing there in the doorway, clutching a bakery box.

For a fleeting second, I waited for him to push her away, to stammer out an apology, or to show even an ounce of shame for betraying his wife of three years.

Instead, a cold, arrogant smirk slowly curved across his handsome face. He lazily patted the blonde woman on her naked hip, signaling her to pause.

"Well, well. Look who decided to crash my private meeting," Marcus drawled lazily, his voice dripping with absolute contempt as he adjusted his slacks.

The blonde woman turned around with a smug, cat-like grin, not even bothering to cover her bare chest with the silk blouse lying nearby.

"Hi there! I'm Tiffany," she purred, waving a hand lazily in my direction. "Marcus talks about you sometimes—well, mostly about how boring and clingy you've become since the baby was born. It's so nice to finally put a face to the name!"

My stomach churned with a violent wave of nausea. The sheer audacity of her words, combined with Marcus's utter lack of remorse, made my head spin.

"Marcus... how could you?" I whispered, my voice cracking under the agonizing weight of humiliation. "I came here because it's Lily's birthday. You promised you'd be home by six."

Marcus rolled his eyes dramatically, letting out a loud, scoffing sigh as he stood up from the couch, buttoning his crisp white shirt.

"Oh, please, Chloe, spare me the cheap melodrama. I already told my secretary to wire some money to your account for the child's birthday party. Why on earth did you have to come barging into my office like a hysterical lunatic? Just take your cupcakes and get out. Tiffany and I are in the middle of important business."

Important business. Hearing those words from the man I had given my youth, my dreams, and my loyalty to felt like a physical blow to my stomach.

I didn't cry. To my absolute surprise, the tears refused to fall. Instead, a thick, paralyzing numbness washed over my veins, freezing every nerve ending in my body.

"You're disgusting," I said quietly, my voice devoid of all emotion. "We are done, Marcus. I want a divorce."

Marcus burst into a harsh, mocking laughter that echoed off the glass walls. "A divorce? With what money, Chloe? You're a penniless freelance book designer living off my charity. If you ever try to leave me, I will make sure you never see a single dime, and I'll bury your father's medical debts so deep you'll spend the rest of your life in court. Now get out before I have security throw you onto the street."

The threat hung heavily in the air, reminding me of the invisible golden cage Marcus had trapped me in ever since my father fell ill and Marcus 'generously' stepped in to pay the hospital bills.

Without another word, I turned on my heel, walked out of the office, and rode the private elevator down to the underground parking garage.

My hands shook so badly I dropped my car keys twice against the concrete floor. As I climbed into my beat-up sedan, I knew I couldn't go back home. The empty, silent house would suffocate me. My heart felt heavy, broken into a thousand jagged pieces.

On an absolute whim, I gripped the steering wheel, shifted gears, and drove away from the residential suburbs, heading straight toward the neon-drenched downtown district where the city's most notorious underground lounge was located.

It was called *The Velvet Abyss*. A place wealthy executives and shady underworld figures frequented to lose themselves in cheap alcohol and expensive sins.

I had never stepped foot inside a nightclub in my entire life. My friends always joked that I was too innocent, too much of a homebody, spending my nights typing away romance novels and designing book covers under a secret pen name.

But tonight, the good girl in me was officially dead. Murdered right on Marcus's office couch.

I parked my car in a dark corner, stepped out into the misty rain, smoothed down my simple floral midi dress, and walked straight through the heavy velvet curtains guarding the entrance.

The wall of sound hit me instantly—throbbing electronic bass, flashing amber and crimson strobe lights, and the heavy scent of expensive perfume, sweat, and whiskey.

I kept my head down, my heart pounding wildly against my ribs as I maneuvered through the writhing crowd of dancers toward the back where a long mahogany bar stretched across the dimly lit room.

A bartender stood polishing a crystal glass under the amber spotlights. He was tall, powerfully built, with jet-black hair pushed back carelessly and intricate dark tattoos peeking out from beneath the cuffs of his rolled-up linen shirt.

Even amidst the chaos of the club, he radiated an effortless, dangerous aura that made the other patrons unconsciously step out of his way.

I climbed onto a high leather barstool, gripping the edge with trembling fingers.

"What can I get you, beautiful?" the bartender asked, his deep, gravelly voice cutting cleanly through the thunderous music as he finally lifted his intense, obsidian-dark eyes to meet mine.

I looked straight into his mesmerizing gaze, feeling a strange, magnetic pull that momentarily made me forget all about Marcus and my shattered marriage.

"Give me the strongest drink you have," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "And make it a double."