All Chapters of The Mistress: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

“You’re doing what, Michael? Say it again. Say it so the acoustics of this room can record the exact moment you sold your own son for a seat at a table you already own.”Zander’s voice wasn’t a roar. It was a low, terrifying hum that seemed to vibrate the crystal water carafes on the mahogany boardroom table. He was standing at the head of the long table, his knuckles white as he leaned over the documents.Opposite him, Michael Blackwood sat with his silver-headed cane resting between his knees, his expression as unreadable as a tombstone. Next to him, Julian sat in a chair that hadn’t been there yesterday, wearing a smirk that was as sharp as a scalpel.“The vote is cast, Zander,” Michael said, his voice a dry rasp. “The merger is bleeding. The investors are skittish. Julian brings the ‘Pure’ Vermon optics we need to stabilize the stock. My vote is for the stability of the Blackwood name, not the ego of its current CEO.”“Stability?” I cut in, my voice shaking with a mix of fury and t

“Do you prefer the vintage? Or does the taste of stolen legacy make everything go down smooth regardless of the year?”I sat at the head of the long, mahogany table in the estate’s private dining room, the candlelight flickering against the silver. I looked every bit the Vermon Queen—stoic, untouchable, my midnight-blue silk dress draped over the swell of my stomach. Across from me, Julian swirled a glass of Bordeaux, the crimson liquid catching the light like fresh blood.“Stolen legacy is such a tired phrase, Victoria,” Julian said, his voice a melodic purr. He took a slow, deliberate sip. “I prefer to think of it as a long-overdue inheritance tax. Besides, this vintage is excellent. It tastes like… victory.”“Victory is expensive,” I replied, my voice as cold as the marble beneath our feet. “Zander is at the office. The guards are at the perimeter. It’s just us, Julian. No board members to charm. No cameras to play for. Why are we still doing this dance? What do you actually want?”

“She’s in Room 402, Zander. If you want the files, you have to get past her first. Just remember—Isabella doesn’t play for our side anymore.”The voice on the other end of the burner phone was Michael’s, cold and dripping with the kind of parental disappointment that usually preceded a funeral.Zander Blackwood didn’t answer. He snapped the phone shut and adjusted the lapels of his tuxedo. The Swiss air was biting, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the Zurich University gala happening downstairs. He wasn’t here for the champagne or the architectural accolades. He was here for Isabella—the woman he had been told was his ally, his intended, and now, his father’s most dangerous spy.He moved through the marble corridors of the east wing with the silence of a predator. He had to get to 402. He had to confront her before Daniel—the reckless, volatile Blackwood cousin—could secure the Vermon blueprints she had stolen.But as he turned the corner toward the fourth floor, he didn’t s

“You’re wrong, Sophie. He’s not at the office. The GPS on his secondary vehicle stopped at a residential block in the Diamond District three times this week. Alone. After midnight.”I leaned against the cold glass of my studio window, my voice a hollow rasp. My world had already been gutted by the boardroom coup, but this—the possibility of a secret life, a secret woman—was the killing blow.“Victoria, let me handle this,” Sophie’s voice came through the speaker, thick with concern. “If Zander is keeping an apartment, it could be for security. Or a safe house. Don’t go there in your condition.”“Security doesn’t require a penthouse lease under a shell company called Blue Ivy,” I whispered, my fingers tightening around the silver sparrow locket. “I’ve spent three years being the protected wife. The ‘pure’ prize. I’m done being the last person to know the truth about my own life.”I hung up before she could protest. I didn’t take the SUV. I took a nondescript sedan from the staff garage,

“Eat your soup, Zander. It’s a classic vichyssoise. Chilled, like the state of your current portfolio.”The voice was like the scraping of a dry leaf against a gravestone. Michael Blackwood sat at the head of the long, obsidian-colored dining table, the candlelight glinting off his silver hair and the sharp, predatory curve of his smile. He looked invigorated, a man who found his youth in the wreckage of his children’s lives.I sat to Michael’s right, my hands clasped tightly over my swollen stomach. Across from me, Julian was already spooning the soup with a grace that felt practiced and hollow. He looked at Michael with a reverence that made my skin crawl—the look of a protégé who had finally been invited to the inner sanctum.“I didn’t come here for a meal, Michael,” Zander said. He was sitting at the far end of the table, as far away from his father as the architecture allowed. He hadn’t touched his spoon. His eyes were fixed on me, dark with a protective, simmering rage that felt