All Chapters of You Want a Mistress I’m Already a Queen: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The shears hit the dirt at his feet, spraying soil and petals over his expensive shoes.He flinched, but the smirk never left his face."There's that fire." He brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his lapel. "God, I missed this."Old days?I wanted to throw every pair of shears in this garden at his head."This is what I miss—your spark." He stepped toward me. "Tiffany is so boring. A doll. But you—""Enough.""You're jealous of her, aren't you?" Julian's gaze softened. "You don't need to be. You know your place in my heart."He pulled a velvet box from his pocket."This is for you."I didn't take it.Julian opened it himself. A diamond necklace glittered inside, blinding me."Limited edition Harry Winston," he said proudly. "Only three in the world.""Take it away.""Sera, stop being childish." A hint of annoyance crept into his voice. "I know you're upset, but we're adults now. I will make everyone happy, trust me."I turned my back on him. And walked away."I'll send a car for yo

I clutched the mangled bracelet in my fist.I looked him dead in the eye. "My husband gave it to me."My. Husband.Those two words made Julian's face turn to stone."Your… husband?" he repeated, like he couldn't process the word."That's right."Julian staggered back a step, his eyes wide with disbelief."You… you're with another man? You got married?""Is that so strange?""Of course it's strange!" Julian exploded, his voice echoing down the hall. "Two years! It's only been two years! How could you move on so fast—"He stopped, taking a deep breath."Wait." Julian pulled out his phone. "Marcus," he barked into his phone. "Run a name for me. Angelo. An Italian. Find out who the hell he is."He stepped away to make the call, his voice low.A few minutes later, Julian hung up, his face even darker."Angelo?" He strode back, his eyes burning with rage. "Your new man's name is Angelo?"I didn't correct him."A damn Italian bodyguard!" Julian spat. "You left me for a fucking bodyguard?"Bod

Julian locked himself in his penthouse and let the days bleed together.Empty whiskey bottles were strewn across the Persian rug.He wasn't passed out on the sofa. He sat bolt upright, staring at his phone. At the only picture he had of Sera.In the photo, her smile was bright and fierce. A rose with thorns, fighting for the sun.That was his Sera.Not Dante Moretti’s.The name was a brand on his soul.The Devil of Chicago. The king of the Outfit.His father's slaps and shouts still rang in his ears. Stern letters from the family patriarchs piled up at his door.Everyone told him the same thing: Let her go.But that just fanned the flames inside him.It was a sick, gnawing jealousy. The kind you feel for something stolen. A desperate need to drag her back from the devil himself.“Sir,” his assistant’s voice trembled through the door. “An ultimatum from the Astor family. If you don’t show, they’re starting the process to disinherit you... Also, the invitation for the Chicago United Char

“Our life?” My laugh was pure ice. “Which one? The one where I was your dirty little secret, sneaking out of your little love nest? Or five years ago, when I needed you, and you threw me away like trash for your ‘family duty’?”“That was different! I had no choice!” Julian pleaded.“It’s not different!” I bit out each word. “Your love is a prize you think you can claim whenever it’s convenient. Julian, you don’t know the first thing about love.”“Who says he doesn’t?”A voice, colder than a grave, came from the shadows of the terrace.Julian’s blood froze.Dante stepped out of the darkness, the moonlight carving out the hard line of his jaw.He looked like the devil himself, come to collect a soul. His eyes were empty of all warmth.“You… How are you here?” Julian’s voice was a wreck.“My wife is here,” Dante said, walking to my side and pulling me into his arms. His hand covered mine on the dagger, his touch a steady, burning heat. “Why shouldn’t I be?”He looked at Julian like he was

After Julian’s “accident,” Old Man Astor cut his losses. He shipped his disgraced son off to a remote sanatorium in Europe to appease the Morettis.But his sick obsession never died.For years after, on my birthday, a single black rose would appear silently at the gates of the Moretti estate.It crossed an ocean, passed through countless hands, a ghost from the past arriving right on schedule.The first year, Dante threw it into the fireplace himself, the flames reflecting on his cold face.The second year, he couldn’t be bothered to touch it, just had a guard dispose of it.The third year, he looked at the rose and offered his only comment: “A cripple. This pathetic ritual is all he has left.”This pathetic little ritual continued for five years.Then, on my birthday in the sixth year, a massive storm hit Chicago. Thunder cracked the sky open.The gates of the estate remained empty.A few days later, one of Dante’s men handed me a report.The sanatorium in Europe reported that Julian