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Stolen By His Rival

Stolen By His Rival

Romance
last updateLast Updated : 2026-03-21
By:  Ana TripsUpdated just now
Language: English
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Synopsis

First-Person POV

Dark Romance

Steamy

CEO

Rebel

Affair

Love at First Sight

Office Relationship

She is still married. And already falling apart. To the world, she is Mrs. Chris Robinson. Elegant. Loyal. Untouchable. Married to one of Britain’s most powerful men. Behind closed doors, her marriage is quiet, passionless, and slowly suffocating her. Chris does not touch her anymore. Does not look at her the way husbands should. Does not notice her thirst to be wanted. Sebastian Cross does. Chris’s greatest rival. The man whose name sparks fury in boardrooms and rivalry in headlines. The one man she should never feel drawn to. What begins as stolen glances and accidental meetings turns into something dangerous. Something aching. Something she can no longer deny. Every encounter with Sebastian reminds her of everything her marriage lacks. Desire. Heat. Choice. She has not divorced yet. But her heart is already slipping. And when Chris finally realizes his wife is slipping away, he will face the one truth he cannot control. She is no longer starving quietly. And Sebastian Cross is more than willing to feed her hunger.

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Chapter 1

First Meet

I learned to recognise the sound of silence in a marriage.

 

It was not loud. It did not shout or accuse. It settled quietly between us, like dust on untouched furniture, gathering day after day until it became impossible to ignore.

 

Chris Robinson and I had been married for three years. Three years of shared dinners that went cold, conversations reduced to logistics, and a bed that felt larger every night. To the world, we were perfect. Powerful husband. Elegant wife. London’s most polished couple, photographed at charity galas and business summits, always smiling, always composed.

 

Behind closed doors, we barely touched.

 

Chris was not cruel. That would have been easier. He was distant, absorbed, constantly elsewhere. His mind lived in boardrooms, negotiations, and quarterly profits. When he spoke to me, it was polite, measured, almost professional. As if I were a responsibility he had already checked off his list.

 

I used to wait for him.

 

I used to believe things would return to how they were at the beginning, when his hands lingered on my waist and his voice softened when he said my name. Somewhere along the way, I stopped waiting and started noticing how much I was starving.

 

That night, I stood in front of the mirror in our bedroom, adjusting the silk dress I had chosen for the Robinson Group annual company party. Deep blue, understated, elegant. Chris liked elegant. He had once told me bright colours were distracting.

 

He was already dressed, cufflinks fastened, jacket immaculate.

 

“You look fine,” he said, glancing at me briefly.

 

Fine. Not beautiful. Not breathtaking. Just fine.

 

“Thank you,” I replied.

 

He checked his watch. “We should leave. I have to speak with several investors tonight.”

 

Of course he did.

 

The drive to the venue was quiet, the city lights blurring past the windows. I watched reflections of London in the glass, wondering when I had started feeling like a passenger in my own life.

 

The ballroom was already full when we arrived. Crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, familiar faces from the upper tiers of British corporate society. People smiled at us, greeted Chris warmly, shook his hand. I stood beside him, the perfect extension of his image.

 

Chris’s hand rested lightly at my back, guiding me through the crowd. It was the only time he touched me in public.

 

“Stay close,” he murmured. “And please avoid Sebastian Cross.”

 

The name landed heavier than it should have.

 

“I was not planning on seeking him out,” I said.

 

His jaw tightened. “Good. I do not want my wife anywhere near that man.”

 

I nodded, even though part of me bristled at the word wife, at the ownership threaded through his tone. Sebastian Cross was a name spoken often in our home, usually followed by irritation or contempt. Chris’s rival. The man whose company challenged his at every turn. According to gossip, Sebastian was brilliant, ruthless, and dangerously charming.

 

And single.

 

Everyone knew that too. One night stands. No attachments. No complications. The kind of man wives were warned about, half joking and half serious.

 

Chris moved away almost immediately, pulled into conversation by a group of executives. I was left standing alone with a glass of champagne, smiling when required, nodding when spoken to.

 

That was when I noticed how invisible I had become.

 

Women laughed too loudly around their husbands. Men looked through me rather than at me. I felt like a ghost haunting a life I no longer belonged to.

 

I excused myself and stepped out onto the terrace for air. The night was cool, the city humming below. I rested my hands on the stone railing and inhaled deeply, trying to remember when breathing had last felt easy.

 

“Are you planning to leave?”

 

The voice came from behind me.

 

I turned slowly.

 

He was taller than I expected. Dark suit, loosened tie, posture relaxed in a way that suggested confidence rather than carelessness. His eyes were sharp, assessing, and entirely focused on me.

 

Sebastian Cross.

 

I knew his face from magazines and whispered conversations, yet seeing him in person was different. More intense. More real.

 

“I was just getting some air,” I said.

 

“A noble attempt,” he replied, stepping beside me but leaving space. “These events have a way of suffocating people.”

 

I hesitated. Chris’s warning echoed in my mind. Do not talk to him.

 

“You are Chris Robinson’s wife,” he said calmly.

 

“Yes.”

 

“No ring tonight.”

 

I glanced down, startled. I had removed it earlier without thinking, the weight of it suddenly unbearable.

 

“I did not realise that was public information,” I said.

 

He smiled slightly. “I notice details.”

 

Silence settled between us, but it was not uncomfortable. It was charged, alive. I became acutely aware of his presence, the way the city lights reflected in his eyes, the way his attention did not drift.

 

“You should go back inside,” I said. “My husband would not appreciate this conversation.”

 

“I know,” he said easily. “That is precisely why I will not keep you long.”

 

Something about his honesty unsettled me.

 

“I have heard things about you,” I admitted.

 

“I am sure you have,” he replied. “Most of them are true.”

 

That made me laugh, a soft, surprised sound that felt foreign in my own throat.

 

“Does that not bother you?” I asked.

 

“Reputations are useful,” he said. “They keep people honest about their desires.”

 

The words lingered, heavy with implication. I felt warmth bloom beneath my skin, an awareness I had not felt in years.

 

“I should return to my husband,” I said, though my feet did not move.

 

Sebastian inclined his head. “Of course. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

 

Meeting. As if this were ordinary. As if my pulse was not racing.

 

I turned to leave, my heart pounding, my mind spinning with the knowledge that something had shifted.

 

Behind me, his voice followed softly. “Be careful. Hunger has a way of revealing itself, whether we want it to or not.”

 

I did not look back.

 

Inside, the music swelled and laughter filled the air. Chris stood across the room, engaged, confident, unaware.

 

And for the first time, I realised that my marriage was not ending with a scream.

 

It was ending with a whisper.

 

And his rival had just heard it.

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32 Chapters
First Meet
I learned to recognise the sound of silence in a marriage.It was not loud. It did not shout or accuse. It settled quietly between us, like dust on untouched furniture, gathering day after day until it became impossible to ignore.Chris Robinson and I had been married for three years. Three years of shared dinners that went cold, conversations reduced to logistics, and a bed that felt larger every night. To the world, we were perfect. Powerful husband. Elegant wife. London’s most polished couple, photographed at charity galas and business summits, always smiling, always composed.Behind closed doors, we barely touched.Chris was not cruel. That would have been easier. He was distant, absorbed, constantly elsewhere. His mind lived in boardrooms, negotiations, and quarterly profits. When he spoke to me, it was polite, measured, almost professional. As if I were a responsibility he had already checked off his list.I used to wait for him.I used to believe things would return to how they
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Guilt
When I finally found Chris again, he barely noticed the change in me.He spoke about contracts on the drive home, about expansion plans and hostile bids. I nodded at the right moments, my body present while my mind replayed a terrace under city lights and a man who looked at me like I was not already claimed.At home, Chris loosened his tie and headed straight for his study.“I will be working for a while,” he said. “Do not wait up.”I did not answer. I did not need to. That sentence had become routine, as familiar as the quiet that followed.Our bedroom was dark when I changed into my nightdress. I slipped into bed alone, the space beside me untouched, cold. I closed my eyes, expecting exhaustion to pull me under.It did not.Instead, Sebastian Cross appeared behind my eyelids.His voice. Calm. Controlled. The way his eyes had held mine without apology. The way he had noticed details Chris never did. My pulse quickened, irritation mixing with something dangerously close to want.I tu
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Invitation
Anger is a strange thing. It sharpens the senses.I woke the next morning with it still sitting heavy in my chest, replacing the guilt that had haunted me the night before. Chris had already left. A note sat on the kitchen counter, brief and impersonal.Working late. Dinner meeting.I crumpled the paper and dropped it into the bin.Something about last night had broken a quiet agreement I had been keeping with myself. I had tried. I had offered him closeness, vulnerability, desire. And he had refused it without hesitation, without curiosity.For the first time, I allowed myself to ask a question I had avoided for months.How long had I been alone while still married.I dressed carefully that morning, choosing structure over softness. A fitted blazer, heels sharp enough to remind me of my own weight against the floor. I wanted to feel composed. In control. I needed the world to see me before I forgot how.The day unfolded predictably. Meetings. Calls. Polite smiles. Yet beneath it all,
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The Purchase
The decision did not arrive dramatically.It came quietly, on a Tuesday afternoon, while I wandered past a department store window pretending to admire shoes I did not need.I stepped inside before I could reconsider.The shop was discreet, polished, and surprisingly calm. Soft lighting, neutral colours, a place designed for women like me, women who needed privacy for their hunger.My heart pounded as I walked past the displays, heat crawling up my neck. No one looked twice at me. I was just another well-dressed woman making a quiet purchase.I picked up a small purple box. A dildo. Next to it, a bottle of lube. My stomach fluttered, a strange mix of thrill and guilt. Nothing in this life had ever made me feel this kind of private control.I paid without meeting the cashier’s eyes, the small bag light in my hand and impossibly heavy in meaning.On the drive home, guilt tried to surface. I pushed it down.At home, the house greeted me with its usual silence. Chris was not back yet. I s
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The Spark
The invitation had arrived a week ago.A corporate gala. The kind of event where champagne flowed in crystal, and men in suits measured each other with polite smiles and sharper agendas. Chris insisted I attend, and for once, I did not argue.Because Sebastian Cross would be there.I told myself, as I dressed, that my choices were about professionalism. About looking the part. But the truth lingered beneath my thoughts, whispering through every brush of fabric and hairpin.I left my wedding band and engagement ring in the jewellery box. A subconscious decision, though I refused to admit it even to myself.I put on a dress that skimmed my curves just enough to feel confident without asking for attention. A deep navy, silky and light, paired with understated heels. My hair fell in soft waves over my shoulders, and my makeup was deliberate enough to sharpen my cheekbones, darken my eyes, make my lips a little more curious.Chris noticed none of it.He arrived before me, as usual, focused
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The Rings
I had spent years letting others decide for me. What was appropriate. What was expected. What was worth wanting. Standing there, under the chandeliers and careful gazes of powerful people, I realized how rarely anyone had asked me what I wanted.Chris turned then, scanning the room briefly before being intercepted by another director. His eyes skimmed past me without pause. Without recognition.A strange ache formed in my throat.Sebastian noticed. Of course he did.“You don’t wear your rings,” he said quietly.My breath caught. “I—” I stopped myself. “I forgot them.”“Did you?” he asked, not accusing, not smug. Just curious.“Yes,” I said too quickly.He hummed thoughtfully. “Interesting.”I bristled. “Don’t read into it.”“I’m not,” he said. “I’m observing.”That word again. Observation. As if he were cataloguing me, piece by piece, stripping away my defenses without ever touching me.“You always do this?” I asked, attempting deflection. “Flirt with married women at corporate events
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Proximity
The arrangement had always been simple.Chris Robinson owned Robinson Capital. Sebastian Cross owned Cross Holdings. Separate companies, separate ambitions, both operating under the same sprawling conglomerate that controlled half the city’s financial pulse. It was why they were forced into the same rooms, the same board tables, the same quarterly reviews. Proximity without friendship. Competition without open war.Chris had always made sure I stayed away from Sebastian.Not explicitly. Not in words. Just in subtle redirections. A hand at my back steering me elsewhere. A quiet request that I join another conversation. A habit of placing himself between us whenever Sebastian entered a room.I had not noticed how deliberate it was until it stopped.The first meeting after the gala was unremarkable on paper. A monthly strategy briefing at the conglomerate headquarters. Long glass table. Neutral walls. Coffee that tasted like anything but coffee. I sat beside Chris, tablet in hand, prepar
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The Pattern
The realization did not hit me all at once.It crept in quietly, the way truths usually do when they have been waiting patiently to be noticed.I was at my desk, coffee cooling beside me, scrolling through my schedule for the coming week. Meetings stacked neatly, colour coded, efficient. One entry made me pause.Board of Directors Review. Thursday. Sebastian Cross attending.I frowned.Not because of him. Not because of the tension that now seemed to follow his name like a shadow. But because it was the fourth time this month.I stared at the screen longer than necessary, rereading the line as if it might rearrange itself. It did not. His name remained there, calm and unapologetic, printed in the same neutral font as everyone else’s.I scrolled back.The luncheon. The joint presentation. The strategy briefing. Another directors’ roundtable scheduled for the following week. Sebastian’s name appeared again and again, woven into my calendar with a frequency that felt deliberate.A strang
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The Arguement
The meeting ended with polite smiles and practiced handshakes.On the surface, it was successful. Numbers aligned. Projections were approved. The board seemed satisfied. Sebastian had left first, pulled away by another director, offering me nothing more than a brief glance that lingered just long enough to be deliberate.Chris noticed that glance.I felt it the moment his hand tightened around my wrist as we stepped into the private elevator.He said nothing on the way down. His jaw was set. His silence was sharper than any accusation. I watched, my heart steady in a way that surprised me. I had expected nerves. Fear. The old instinct to brace myself.Instead, there was only a dull readiness.The drive home passed in a haze of restrained tension. Chris kept both hands on the steering wheel, eyes fixed ahead. He did not look at me once. That, too, was familiar. The calm before the correction.The house greeted us with its usual quiet. Soft lighting. Immaculate surfaces. A space curated
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The Voice
The morning arrived cautiously.Sunlight crept through the curtains in thin, apologetic strips, as if even the day was unsure whether it was allowed to intrude. I lay still for several minutes, listening. The house was quiet. Not the charged silence of the night before, but something looser. Maybe because this was our first real arguement. I got up, showered, dressed for work with deliberate normalcy. A pale blouse. Tailored trousers. Hair pulled back neatly.By the time I went downstairs, Chris was already in the kitchen. Coffee mug in hand. Phone on the counter. He looked tired in a way he usually reserved for flights and negotiations. Not domestic conflict.We stood there for a moment, orbiting each other carefully. I could feel last night hovering between us, unspoken but present, like a bruise you keep touching just to confirm it is real.I broke first.“About yesterday,” I said, keeping my voice light, almost embarrassed. “I should not have lashed out like that.”He looked up s
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