The Billionaire's Mistress

"Looks like they're here," John murmured, his elbow lightly brushing against hers. She carefully placed the vodka glass on the table, her attention shifting to the venue's entrance. A figure stepped out from the dimness, his posture striking a chord of recognition in her. He paused, extending his arm for his soon-to-be wife, his lips curling into a smile that Vlada knew was as beguiling as it was insincere. As the couple, freshly bonded by engagement, made their entrance, a wave of applause washed over them. Her heart pounded in her chest, her years of evading his presence suddenly collapsing under the weight of this moment. Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her hold on the glass-cleaning cloth, her gaze tracking their progress through the sea of well-wishers.“He’s Lazare Ibañez, the son of Lionel Ibañez, the late race car driver. He’s a one lucky useless spoiled brat, living off his parents’ money and the things they owned. All this jerk has to do is keep everything.”I know.

“Business tycoon Lazare Ibañez, son of the late race driver Lionel Ibañez, is now in the eye of a storm. A photograph from his engagement party last night has surfaced, showing him in a compromising position with an unidentified woman, who is not his fiancée, the acclaimed actress Nicole Asuncion. Efforts are underway to reach Mr. Ibañez for his statement on the matter. Stay tuned for further updates—”Vlada turned off the television and she put the remote on the table. She reached for her phone and dialed Michael’s number. “Michael!” she screamed in excitement. He chuckled on the other line. “Yeah, you’re very much welcome, Vlada.”“No, I really want to thank you for helping me. It means a lot.”“Silly girl. You don’t have to thank me. I should be thanking you for actually helping me secure my position in our company. This news reached a lot of people. This is the biggest controversy, to be honest.”“Will they be able to know who I am?” she asked. “Maybe yes but they wouldn’t focu

“F-ck,” Lazare breathed, his voice tight, barely audible.His muscles coiled like a spring, fingers braced hard against the wall on either side of her. His breath came hot and shallow. The air between them thinned. Vlada’s back met the cold surface, and his frame closed in around her, leaving no space, no escape.She could feel the tension pulsing off him—restrained, electric.And she knew then: he was cornered, and so was she.She could almost feel the heat rolling off him, not from fear, but frustration—the kind that only surfaced when she got involved. His mother. The one woman who knew exactly where to twist the knife.“Lazare Ibañez!” The voice came shrill and sharp, echoing through the grand corridor like a gavel. “Who is that girl you're hiding?! This is outrageous! You're engaged! What would Lazarus say if he knew about this filth?!”Lazare’s jaw clenched. His eyes shut tight as though bracing for impact. Every muscle in his face went still—too still.Fear clawed at the edges

Vlada glanced at her wristwatch for the fifth time in ten minutes. Her arms stayed tightly folded against her chest, one finger tapping rhythmically against her elbow like a silent metronome. The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows over the pavement outside the covered court. Leila should’ve been out by now—class had ended a while ago. And Leila? She was never late, not when going home was the highlight of her day.With a quiet sigh, Vlada shifted her weight and eased herself onto a nearby bench, wincing as she stretched her legs. She tugged at the hem of her shirt, trying to smooth it down as if that could make her feel less exposed. Her eyes flicked around, wary. The court always made her skin crawl—too many lingering stares, too many boys with nothing better to do.A sharp whistle sliced through the air behind her.She stiffened.Another whistle, closer.She clenched her jaw, fixing her gaze straight ahead, pretending she hadn’t heard.“Ignoring me, huh? What a snob.”She rose