Six years I gave Damien Krest. He gave me back a contract — three years as his secret mistress, on call like a damn escort. I thought it was a prenup. I’d already picked up the pen, ready to sign. But the words staring back at me read: Mistress Agreement. Three-year term. On call at all times. Renewed upon satisfaction. My fingers tremble. “Damien, what the hell is this?” He lights a cigarette without looking up, his tone lazy and cruel. “The family’s been pushing. The Don arranged a match — someone from the right bloodline. I have to get married.” “Then what about me?” My voice comes out raw. He glances up, smiling like he doesn’t have a heart. “Baby, let’s be fair here.” “Your old man walked out on you and your mom, then limped back when his liver gave out , and you held his hand. Your ex drained your accounts and ghosted , and you still paid off his bookies. So don’t stand there looking at me like I’m the villain.” “All I’m asking is for you to become my side piece. That’s not unreasonable, is it?” … The terms are printed in black and white, each clause more blinding than the last. “Party B must be available on demand and shall not inquire about Party A’s whereabouts.” “Party B shall not display affection toward Party A in public.” “Should Party B become pregnant, she must handle it on her own…” I stare at that last line. My hand drifts to my stomach without thinking. My fingers are ice cold. Damien leans back on the couch, exhaling smoke. His gaze lands on me, light as air. “Sign it.” He flicks ash off the cigarette. “What are you waiting for?” I set the contract down. My voice shakes with fury. “Damien… we’ve been together for six years.” “And?” He smiles. “Six years, and you still never made it through the front door, did you?” That sentence is a knife — aimed right at the place I’m most afraid to touch. He’s right. Six years. He brought me to every family gathering, every gala. But the introduction was always “my assistant.” Maybe his mother sensed something. More than once she hinted: “You should really think about settling down, dear. It only gets harder as a woman gets older.” I thought she was pushing for our wedding. Turns out she was just giving me a polite nudge toward the exit. “Then what were these six years?” I ask. Damien stubs out his cigarette, stands, and walks over to me. “They were mutual.” He reaches out, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “Ivy, you stayed with me six years. I took care of you for six years. That little paycheck of yours , how many times would it have covered your dad’s medical bills? And those tens of thousands your ex owed the loan sharks, didn’t you pay that off with my card?” He pauses, then smiles. “Baby, be fair. You had no problem using me. Now I’m using you. It’s an even trade.” My eyes burn, but not a single tear falls. He never said these things before. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t true. My father did abandon us. Then he got old and sick and came crawling back. I’m pathetic — too soft-hearted. I spent every penny I had keeping him alive. As for my ex… He was nobody. A guy I dated for one month before we split over “incompatibility.” I only found out he’d stolen my identity to take out loans when the sharks showed up at my office. Damien stepped in and made it go away. I know I owe him. I just didn’t know he was keeping score. “So,” I push his hand away, “you’re saying these six years meant nothing to you? I was just an investment?” Damien laughs. “Not quite. What kind of investment value could you possibly have?” He pulls out a bank card and sets it beside the contract. “There’s five million in here. Sign, and it’s yours.” “Be my mistress for three years. After that, you want to renew, we renew. You don’t — the money’s still yours.” I stare at the card. Five million. Enough to pay off every debt I owe — but not enough to buy me. That sentence rolls around my throat three times. I never say it. Because I think of my father’s care facility fees. If I don’t pay by next week, they’ll send him back to me. Damien knows I can’t afford it. That’s why he can toss that card in front of me so casually. Like throwing a bone. Waiting for me to gnaw on it. “Well?” He watches me hesitate, then lights another cigarette. “Not enough?” I don’t speak. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Six years with me? Half a mil is a little low.” He blows smoke in my face; it stings my eyes. “But that’s the rate I pay a mistress. Not a girlfriend. Your current status — that’s what it’s worth.” He pauses, then smiles. “Of course, you don’t have to sign. But if you don’t, you can’t stay in this apartment either.” My heart feels like someone’s squeezing it in a fist. Six years together. I always thought of this place as home. The succulents on the balcony , I grew them one by one. The spice rack in the kitchen , arranged exactly how I like it. The nightstand always held a photo of us together. I thought this was our home… Turns out I was just a tenant who could be evicted at any time.
“Damien,” my voice is still shaking, “if you don’t have feelings for me, we can part ways like adults. There’s no need to humiliate me like this.” “Feelings?” He says it like it’s a joke. “Ivy, did your father have feelings for you?” “Did your ex have feelings for you?” “When you poured your heart out to people — did any of them have feelings for you?” He insists on talking like this. Insists on making me admit — every relationship I’ve ever fought to hold onto never truly belonged to me. “They all did, I guess?” He answers his own question, his tone suddenly softer. “At least once upon a time.” My tears finally fall. Not because he’s being cruel — but because for one terrible second, I think he’s right. “Signing or not?” He holds out the pen, impatient now. I reach out and take it. I flip to page two, clause five: Should Party B become pregnant, she must handle it on her own… My hand freezes. Damien adds casually from beside me: “Relax. I won’t let that happen. My fiancée’s family is very traditional — no bastards before the wedding.” Fiancée. The title I craved for six years — and it was never mine. Not for a single second. “Damien, what if I told you I’m already—” The words reach my lips and die there. Forget it. What would it change? I lower my gaze and say flatly: “What if I told you my mother and I already discussed it — we’re planning a wedding next month. Would you still be making me sign this?” “Your mother?” He laughs. “That useless woman drowned herself in the ocean. Who exactly did you discuss this with?” He exhales slowly, smoke blurring his expression. “Even without all this mess between us, I had no plans to get married this young.” “Next month? You’ve got quite the imagination.” I close my eyes. Six years. We’re both pushing thirty. That’s not young. A wedding that never happens , because from the very beginning, it was never going to. I open my eyes. My fingers finally stop trembling. I sign the last page. “Good girl.” Damien picks up the contract, smiling with satisfaction. “Everything stays the same. Only difference — from now on, you call me Mr. Krest.” He leans down and presses a cold kiss to my forehead. “Be good.” He leaves. The door closes softly. I look down at the bank card. Slowly, I sink to the floor and bury my face in my knees. Outside, it starts to rain. As hard as the night six years ago when he pulled me out of the storm. Back then, he was the one holding the umbrella. Now he’s the one pushing me into the rain. I don’t know how long I stay there. My legs go numb. My tears dry up. I stand slowly, walk to the bathroom, turn on the faucet, and splash cold water on my face. Until that face in the mirror is calm again. Then I pick up my phone and dial a number. “Mom. You were right. I lost.” “That thing you mentioned before… don’t wait. I’m ready to start.” A pause on the other end. “Are you sure? Once it begins, there’s no turning back.” I look out the window. “I’m sure.”
The next morning, I go to the care facility first. My father sits in a wheelchair, pushed into the courtyard by an aide to get some sun. He’s aged badly. His hair is all white. He looks like a tree hollowed out by rot. I hand over the bank card. “There’s five million on this. Enough for the best facility, the best care. From today on, I won’t be coming back.” “Because — she wants me clean when I see her.” His lips tremble like he has a hundred questions. I don’t give him the chance to speak. Some memories, I don’t want to touch anymore… But the moment I turn around, they flood back anyway. The year he went bankrupt, he knelt in front of me, asked if I could forgive him. I suddenly find it laughable. My mother gave everything fighting for a man and got nothing but a cheap apology in the end. So I swore I’d never be like her , crying, clinging, losing everything. Just as I’m about to tell him “I don’t forgive you,” a flash of white cuts across my peripheral vision — a van, out of control, barreling straight toward me. The next second, a massive force shoves me aside. I hit the ground hard. When I look back— He’s lying in a pool of blood, the bumper embedded in the left side of his body. He took the hit for me. That’s why he ended up in the care facility. Five million — not because he’s my father. It’s me paying back a life. After that, I go to work like normal. Damien walks into the office while I’m sorting files. He glances at me. No expression. “Ivy, bring the quarterly reports to my office.” “Yes, Mr. Krest.” I say it naturally. He’s the one who falters. “You adapt fast.” He murmurs it under his breath. He passes me, his fingers deliberately brushing the back of my hand. I don’t flinch. I don’t respond. Our relationship was never exactly a secret at headquarters. Six years of him picking me up after work, bringing me to events — everyone knew without being told. But he never made it official. A relationship that was never official ,now he calls me “Ivy,” I call him “Mr. Krest,” and to everyone watching, it actually looks proper. That night he sends me a location pin. I take a car. I push open the suite door and find rose petals scattered across the floor and a silk negligée hanging on a rack. She’s not here. But her perfume still is. Damien’s voice comes from behind me: “Seen enough?” I turn around. He’s leaning against the doorframe, cigarette in hand, watching me with that half-smile. “The engagement gala is next week. I need you there to help.”
I pull out the calm I’ve trained myself into these past weeks. “Help with what?” Their engagement gala has a top-tier event planning team handling everything. They don’t need an ex-girlfriend stirring things up. “Greet the guests. You know everyone at headquarters — keep them comfortable.” He exhales smoke. “Serena also thought it’d be nice for you to witness our happiness.” I let out a small laugh. That last part is the real point. “Sure.” I pull out my phone to take notes. “I’ll confirm the details with you at the office tomorrow, Mr. Krest. If there’s nothing else, can I go?” His fiancée just left. He won’t need me staying the night. After all, a mistress only serves one purpose. He narrows his eyes. “You’re not upset?” “Would you like me to be upset, Mr. Krest?” He doesn’t answer. He stubs out his cigarette, walks over, and grips my chin. “Ivy, honestly. You’ve changed a lot lately.” “Changed into—” He tightens his grip. “Something a little irritating.” I keep my eyes down. “What would you like me to be, Mr. Krest? I can adjust.” Back then, what drew him to me was exactly this — the fact that I was close enough to have him but never once asked for anything. He used to call it dignity. Now he calls it irritating. The one who changed was never me. “Forget it.” He stares into my eyes for a long time, then lets go. “Go home.” I turn to leave, but he wraps his arms around me from behind. His chin rests on my shoulder. His voice comes out muffled: “Do you know why I won’t let you go?” He means the Mistress Agreement binding me to him. I don’t know either. At the very least, I thought two people who don’t love each other could split peacefully. “Because you’re too obedient. You never make things hard for me, never fight with me, never ask where I’ve been or who I’ve seen. Not like her — checking up on me every damn day.” His arms tighten. “Sometimes I think, if you just had a proper family behind you, I wouldn’t have to marry someone else.” I almost laugh. In the end, he’s blaming me for not having a better bloodline. But he forgets — he’s the one who pursued a girl with nothing. “Mr. Krest,” I gently peel his hands off me, “what color should I wear to the gala? I’ll get something ready.” His hands freeze in midair. Maybe the evening wore him out. He doesn’t have the energy to push back. He lets me go. Outside the hotel doors, I realize my palms are bleeding where my nails dug in.
The day of the engagement gala, I’m stationed at the entrance handling the guest book. Champagne in hand. My eyes can’t leave the couple everyone’s congratulating. In a daze, I think back to the day I signed the Mistress Agreement. I’d quietly slipped the pregnancy report into the study drawer. I thought — once he finds it, a proposal would be the natural next step. So when he pulled out that contract, my heart leapt. I thought it was a prenup. In these powerful families, signing one is perfectly normal. I was willing. Because all I wanted was him. I never imagined six years together would end as a joke. In one moment, I became a dirty secret — a mistress hidden in the shadows. Near the end of the gala. Serena stops in front of me, smiling warmly. “So you’re Ivy?” I blink, then nod. “Damien mentioned you. Said you’ve been with the organization for years — very capable.” I return a few polite words. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, by the way — starting next week, I’m having him move out of that apartment. We’ve already picked out our new place.” “I figure it’s awkward for you to stay there, so… you might want to start looking for somewhere else.” My fingertips jolt. The sting behind my eyes nearly spills over. I swallow it down while pretending to straighten the guest book. “Of course… I’ll take care of it.” The words barely leave my mouth before she picks up the champagne glass beside me. Before I can react, she lets out a shriek. “Ah—!” “You — how could you throw your drink on me?” Then a slap cracks across my face. I press my hand to my cheek and look up to see her — drenched, eyes glistening red. Half the room turns to stare. Damien walks over, frowning. “What happened?” Serena throws herself into his arms, sobbing: “Damien, I was just kindly letting her know you’re moving out, telling her to find a new place — and she threw champagne on me…” “Ivy.” “I didn’t—” My voice is raw. “So what — she poured it on herself and then came over to slap you?” His logic is flawless. No one would believe a bride-to-be would ruin her own dress on her big night. And he’s already decided I think of that apartment as my territory. His voice turns cold. “Apologize.” I don’t move. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You know what today is. If this blows up, it’s bad for you. Apologize — or don’t bother showing up tomorrow.” I look at him. Six years ago he pulled me out of the rain and said, “No one’s ever going to hurt you again.” Six years later he holds the woman who just hit me in his arms — and tells me to apologize. The scab over my chest tears open again. I lower my head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spilled my drink on you.” Damien isn’t satisfied. But he turns and waves the crowd away. “It’s fine. Misunderstanding. Everyone move along.” Before he goes, he gives me one last look. “Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up. Don’t embarrass yourself out here.” I touch my swollen cheek and the hair shaken loose by that slap. Right. How embarrassing. But the most humiliating part — is the man I loved for six years convicted me in front of everyone without even asking. I pick up my phone and send one message: [Move everything up.] Then I smile through my tears.
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