THE MISTAKEN MISTRESS

(Jane’s POV)

I held the envelope tightly, like it was my only means of survival. Just a single delivery. One little task for Daniel: drop it off at the front desk, claim it was meant for the wrong floor, then leave. Nothing grand. Nothing worth remembering.

That’s what I kept telling myself on the way up. I was mostly lying.

The lobby was filled with the scent of countless choices,sophisticated perfumes, polished marble, and a whiff of wealth I could only dream of. My heels clicked against the floor way too loud. They always felt out of place in environments like this. I wished I could disappear into the floor, head back home, bury my takeout in the trash, and pretend everything was perfectly normal.

Then the elevator doors sighed apart, and a man stepped out.

He was tall and impeccably groomed, the sort of face they plaster on magazine covers with a label of “mysterious.” He scanned the lobby, and suddenly, the entire room shifted. He didn’t see me, but I certainly saw him. My timing felt like an affront to fate itself.

A camera clicked.

I can’t explain why I froze. Perhaps it was fear, or maybe it was because every second seemed to belong to someone else. It could also have been the overwhelming silence that left me speechless.

The flash pierced the air. That’s all it was a flash. Then another, and yet another. As I looked around, I realized I was the only one still standing. Everyone else had drifted away like characters stepping off a stage. The man in the suit looked irritated, his hands shoved into his pockets, while the photographer wore a triumphant grin, like he had just hit the jackpot.

“You here to deliver?” the photographer asked, his tone polite yet menacing.

“Just a delivery,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. My hands trembled, the envelope feeling absurdly heavy in my grasp.

He kept snapping photos, moving closer and closer. The shimmer of the camera lens drew near, and as I tried to skirt around a potted plant, my heel snagged. I stumbled slightly, feeling utterly foolish, clumsy, ridiculous. Perfect fodder for some sensational tabloid.

“Who are you?” he demanded, not with curiosity but rather with a tone that was downright accusatory.

“Jane Mark. I…” Panic choked my ability to finish my sentence.

That’s when I heard it. A shout faint at first but getting louder, “Exclusive! Hot shot! Get a photo of them together!”

My blood ran cold.

In an instant, the man’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, and for just a moment, everything clicked into place: defend, shield. He seized my wrist, firm and possessive, like he meant to protect me.

“Don’t take another photo,” he said, his voice cool and deliberate, causing something unsettling to churn in my chest.

The photographer let out a laugh. “You two look cozy. Mind giving us a better angle?”

I tried to pull away. My mind conjured various interpretations of that moment, none flattering, none true.

“Lady, step aside,” the photographer sneered. “This is news.”

Suddenly, my phone began buzzing in my pocket like an angry wasp. Notifications flooded in. I glanced at the glowing screen in my palm, and it conveyed a truth that the camera never needed to capture: the world had already spun its narrative.

“Billionaire Caught with Secret Mistress Greenspring Hotel!”

“Who is Jane Mark? Exclusive Photos!”

“BREAKING: William Martins’ Secret Scandal!”

It felt like I’d been punched in the gut. My knees wobbled. I clutched the envelope, feeling its emptiness seep into me. I tried to explain myself, stumbling over my words, waving the paper like it was my only defense.

“I’m just..just here to deliver a package..wrong floor..please…”

But the photographer wasn’t listening. He had a headline lodged in his throat, and he was ready to unleash it.

The man finally released my wrist. He didn’t turn toward me; instead, he fixed his gaze on the camera and the crowd before meeting my eyes. Suddenly, his control seemed to slip away, revealing a vulnerability beneath.

“You’re going to regret this,” he said, his voice low, meant only for me a quiet threat disguised as a promise.

I felt the urge to scream, but instead, I whispered, “Please. I didn’t….”

Once more, the camera clicked. The flash felt like a judgment, sealing my fate.

And amidst the incessant shutter sounds, my phone buzzed again with incoming voicemails. An unfamiliar number called, and a notification from work chimed in. A message from my mom popped up: Are you okay?

I wished I could just disappear, to meld into the marble around me. To erase that one, inconsequential favor that had turned my life upside down.

The man in the suit pivoted smoothly and strolled away as if nothing had occurred, as if he could easily walk away from the chaos he had a hand in creating.

I stood there, watching him leave. Meanwhile, the photos were already flooding social media, and I realized I had to act quicker than the deceit spreading around me.

This was not how I envisioned kicking off my week not in the slightest

But as the week commenced, I found there was no place left to hide.