My Husband Dared Me to Take a Lover of My Own to Match His Mistress—He Never Imagined I’d Walk Out and Come Back as the Majority Shareholder Who Owned His Company

PART 1: THE HEIR AND THE HUSBAND

By the third year of our marriage, my husband, Preston, was openly keeping a pet canary on the side. And today, the little bird finally fluttered right up to my face.

When she saw me walk into my own kitchen, the young woman panicked. She looked flushed and clumsy, exactly like a little sheltered princess stepping out of a fairy tale who had never tasted the bitterness of reality. I casually took a sip of the hangover soup she was making, then quietly gestured for her to leave through the front door.

Walking down the grand staircase, I saw Preston leaning against the mahogany railing, completely unbothered. He looked me up and down, a careless, mocking smile playing on his lips.

“You know, Victoria,” he drawled, his tone dripping with cynical amusement. “Maybe you should try it out yourself. Young, beautiful things… the feeling they give you is truly something else.”

I knew exactly what kind of man he was. I knew he was just taunting me, and I knew his twisted hobby was trampling on other people’s dignity just to feel powerful. So, I just lowered my head and gave him a polite, hollow smile.

What Preston didn’t know was that I played the game much bigger than he did. The target I had my eyes on was the literal “Crown Prince” of the New York financial elite.

Earlier that night, when I returned home from a late networking dinner, I heard the clattering of pots in the kitchen. The light in the master bedroom on the second floor was still on. Preston and I had been married for three years, and he had never stepped foot in the kitchen once. The housekeeper had gone home hours ago.

I paused, then walked toward the kitchen. Seeing the girl bustling around the stove didn’t surprise me. Getting closer, I smelled the aroma of a ginger hangover remedy. She looked to be in her early twenties, young and fresh as a white lily. The silk nightgown she wore was clearly too big for her—the hem dragged on the floor, and the apron around her waist was loosely tied.

Hearing my footsteps, she turned her back to me and smiled sweetly. “Preston, tie the apron for me, will you?”

Without missing a beat, I stepped forward, took the two dangling strings, and tied them into a neat, perfect bow.

“Didn’t I tell you to go rest?” she continued, turning around.

The rest of her sentence died in her throat. The porcelain spoon slipped from her fingers, shattering against the marble floor. Shards scattered across my heels. The color drained from her face, and she stuttered, “M-Mrs. Hayes.”

My eyes drifted to her neck. The deep red marks trailing down her collarbone were a blatant testament to just how intensely my husband had been entertaining her.

I smiled calmly. “Hangover soup? Mind pouring me a bowl?”

I couldn’t even remember when my marriage to Preston had started rotting. I just remembered the first woman who ever showed up at my door. It was his former secretary. She barged in when I wasn’t expecting it. The moment I opened the door, I found them tangled together on the custom sofa Preston and I had picked out together. When she saw me, she faked a look of sheer terror and pushed him away. Her acting was so horrendous it was laughable. I knew Preston was blackout drunk that day, and I knew she was just using his state to make a desperate gamble for the role of Mrs. Hayes. She was fired the next day. I felt nothing.

I have an excellent memory. I recognized the girl standing in my kitchen right now. Her name was Audrey. We had crossed paths four months ago. I had driven to Preston’s corporate headquarters during a torrential downpour. Through the rain, I watched Preston carry her in his arms while his executives scrambled to hold umbrellas over them. I watched him gently place her into his Maybach. It was a scene straight out of a romantic movie.

I took a sip of the lukewarm hangover soup and glanced at the girl standing by the island. Audrey had her head bowed, her fingers intertwined so tightly her knuckles were white.

“It’s getting late,” I said, starting the eviction process.

She snapped her head up like a startled rabbit. “I’ll leave right now.”

Obedient, understanding, knows her place. No wonder Preston kept her around this long. She didn’t demand to go upstairs to see him one last time, nor did she ask to change her clothes. She just meekly grabbed her phone and headed straight for the door.

Halfway there, she stopped and looked back. “Mrs. Hayes… the hangover soup. Please remind Mr. Hayes to drink it. Otherwise, he’ll wake up with a splitting headache.”

I nodded. The moment the heavy front door clicked shut, the man in the master bedroom finally sauntered out. Preston’s silk robe was loose, halfway unbuttoned to reveal his toned chest. I glanced at him, then indifferently looked away.

“You heard her. I don’t need to remind you.”

He hummed, leaning against the railing as he walked downstairs, suggesting I go find a young toyboy of my own.

I looked at his calm, emotionless face and suddenly remembered our wedding day. Everyone had smiled, wishing us a lifetime of happiness. The only exception was my best friend, Caroline, who had fixed my veil in the dressing room with a deadpan expression. Right before I walked down the aisle, she tucked a stray curl behind my ear and whispered, “Victoria, welcome to the swamp. High-society marriages are nothing but business transactions.”

My marriage to Preston looked like a luxury item displayed in a glass case. Everyone praised us as the perfect power couple. But no one knew what cheap, rotting materials the cunning merchant had used beneath the exquisite exterior. In the shadow of money and power, genuine affection from the elite was the ultimate luxury good.

I just didn’t expect the person encouraging me to cheat would be my own husband.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen island. I looked down. A text from a certain “young thing.” Preston was sitting right across from me. I stood up, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “I have some business to attend to. I’m heading out.”

He gave a dismissive wave.

The midnight streets were empty. I drove straight to the location Nathaniel Vance had sent me. There was a small crowd outside an exclusive nightclub—a group of young, rich socialites laughing and chatting. I immediately spotted Nathaniel standing under the streetlamp. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. The harsh white light made his face look almost ethereal, a breathtakingly handsome young man.

I pulled my Porsche to the curb, stepped out, and called his name. “Nathaniel.”

He looked up. Before he could speak, a girl stumbled out from behind him, aggressively blocking the space between us. The stench of alcohol hit my nose, making me frown. She shoved me hard on the shoulder, her voice shrill.

“Hey, where did you crawl out from? Coming out here to prey on younger guys at your age?”

I was twenty-eight. But after surviving the cutthroat corporate world for years, I carried the heavy, intimidating aura of an executive, entirely different from the naive arrogance of a college girl.

She looked me up and down with disgust. “You don’t seriously think Nathaniel Vance would ever look twice at an old hag like you, do you?”

I raised an eyebrow. Before I could respond, the man behind her grabbed her wrist with a vice-like grip. The girl winced in pain, sobering up instantly.

“Madison,” Nathaniel’s voice cut through the night air, laced with pure ice. “This is my senior from my alumni network.”

The girl froze, immediately lowering her head. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know…”

“I don’t need you managing my social circle,” Nathaniel said coldly, dropping her wrist. “Maybe you should hire a tutor to teach you basic manners.”

Madison’s face drained of color. I could practically hear the sound of a teenage heart shattering into pieces. Tsk. Brutal.

I had actually met Nathaniel at this very club. That was the first time Preston’s cheating scandals had caused a ripple effect that hit both of us. Our company’s stock took a dive, and I was left dealing with the PR nightmare. Exhausted, I had gone to the bar for a drink alone.

The bartender had joked with me, “Who knows, maybe a Prince Charming will fall from the sky and save you from your misery.”

I hadn’t cared, just getting up to use the restroom. On my way out, I stumbled upon a confession in the hallway. Over the thumping bass of the club, I heard a girl screaming at the top of her lungs, “I really, really like you! Can you please let me be your girlfriend?!”

I didn’t hear what the guy said, but the girl ran away crying. When the guy turned around, I saw his face. Nathaniel Vance. God’s favorite child. The undisputed Crown Prince of the New York financial elite, born with a platinum spoon in his mouth.

My razor-sharp business instincts made a decision in a fraction of a second. I walked right up to him, patted his shoulder, and smiled.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Vance. I’m not like those other girls. I’m a married woman.”

The Crown Prince froze, sheer bewilderment written across his face.

Prince Charming falling from the sky didn’t just save Cinderellas; he could also heal the gaping holes in a married woman’s heart. After all, if I could secure a partnership with the Vance family, nine-figure contracts would fall right into my lap. Seducing the Crown Prince was honestly a lot easier than dealing with the old, cunning foxes in the boardrooms.

For months, I had shamelessly used my status as his “university alumni senior” to dote on him. Using gentleness to win someone over was my specialty. Whether it was sisters, aunts, or female professors, women were usually easy to soften. But Nathaniel was different. He was bulletproof. He blocked all my advances, categorizing my kindness under the pristine label of “alumni camaraderie.”

Just like tonight. Under the guise of a caring senior, I came to pick him up because he was drunk.

When I started the engine, Nathaniel was sitting in the passenger seat. “Sorry for the trouble,” he muttered.

I leaned over him, grabbing the seatbelt from above his shoulder, pulling it down to buckle him in. His breath hitched. He completely stopped breathing, freezing in place. I could smell the faint scent of expensive bourbon on him. Looking up, our eyes met, our noses dangerously close to touching.

“Why’d you stop talking?” I teased.

Nathaniel practically jumped out of his skin, immediately shoving me back. “You’re too close!”

The tips of his ears turned burning red. He looked exactly like a fluffy cat puffing up in the dead of winter. “Victoria, can you act normal for five seconds?”

I leaned back into the driver’s seat, resting my hands on the steering wheel, and said seriously, “You helped an old, aging woman like me out of a tight spot. I don’t know how to repay you, other than offering myself to you.”

“Victoria.” The cat hissed.

“Yes, I’m here,” I replied calmly. “What are your orders, Your Highness?”

The Crown Prince frowned. The Crown Prince went silent. The Crown Prince was displeased.

After a long time, I finally heard him mutter, “You’re not old. Should I be the one offering myself to repay you?”

The passenger side fell silent for a long time. At a red light, I glanced at Nathaniel. He was resting his chin on his hand, his eyes half-closed, staring intently at my hand. The diamond ring on my ring finger reflected the streetlights. A glaringly obvious wedding band.

Preston’s ring had been lost in some unknown gutter ages ago. I was the only one who still wore it. In our circle, no one cared about wearing wedding rings. Love and loyalty had nothing to do with their vanity marriages. Because of that, I was treated like an anomaly. At first, they laughed, predicting Preston would become a whipped husband. But I never caused a scene. So then they grew jealous, saying Preston was lucky to find a wife who loved him so deeply she would tolerate all the wild flowers outside.

As the light turned green, I heard Nathaniel’s calm, steady voice.

“I don’t date married women.”