Two years ago — The Night Naomi Became the Mistress
It started with a kiss.
Not the hot, breathless kind.
But the kind that felt inevitable.
Julian had just returned from a week-long corporate retreat in Hong Kong. Eira had canceled their dinner—something about a client emergency.
Naomi was already at the penthouse when he arrived.
She had a key.
Of course she had a key.
She always said it was "in case of emergencies."But that night, the emergency was loneliness wrapped in lingerie.
Julian loosened his tie. "Where's Eira?"
Naomi shrugged, sipping red wine on the leather sofa. She wore one of Eira's robes—black silk, sheer enough to whisper intent.
"She texted. Last-minute meeting. Said not to wait."
Julian exhaled. Sat down. Loosened his collar.
Naomi poured him a drink. "You look like you need this."
He took it without thanks.
Silence stretched.
Then she said, "You know she's already halfway out of this marriage, right?"
Julian turned. "Excuse me?"
Naomi leaned back, lips curling. "She sleeps on the edge of the bed. Dodges your hand at breakfast. Fakes orgasms like it's part of her skincare routine."
He said nothing.
But his jaw tightened.
"Julian," Naomi whispered, crawling across the couch. "You've already lost her. Why not stop pretending?"
She kissed him.
And this time?
He didn't pull away.
Present Day — Naomi's Condo
Naomi lit a cigarette with one hand, her phone in the other.
Julian Vaughn: "No contact with Eira. I'm handling it."
She smirked.
Too late, darling. She already knows what your anger tastes like.
She pulled up Callen Reed's portfolio.
Photo after photo of raw, tortured beauty.
Naked women. Crying men. One particularly haunting image of a girl curled on a windowsill, blood smeared on her thighs like war paint.
That one had gone viral in underground art forums.
Naomi zoomed in on the watermark.
CR.0017
Callen didn't shoot models.He shot confessions.
And Eira?
She'd given him the biggest confession of all.
Naomi stubbed the cigarette out.
"Let's see how she handles fame," she whispered.
Then sent a message to an anonymous tip line with an attached photo: Eira, half-naked, straddling Callen's lap.
—
8:45 A.M. – The Vaughn Penthouse
Eira's phone wouldn't stop vibrating.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Her inbox was on fire.
Subject:"Scandal: Julian Vaughn's Wife in Sex Tape with Controversial Photographer"
Attached: Blurry but unmistakable footage. Her face. Callen's hands. Her body—unapologetically undone.
Her breath caught.
She staggered into the bathroom and threw up.
Not from shame.
But from violation.
This wasn't just about sex.
This was warfare.
She wiped her mouth. Splashed water on her face.
Then picked up her phone.
Eira: "Callen. Did you…? Did you record us?"
No reply.
Then—
Callen: "Not me. I swear. I would never."
She stared at the screen.
Who else had access?
Her blood ran cold.
Julian.
Only he had the resources, the tech, the rage.
She rushed to her closet, throwing on jeans, grabbing keys.
If Julian wanted a war?
He just f*cking got one.
—
10:10 A.M. – Vaughn Industries HQ, 27th Floor
The receptionist blinked in panic when Eira stormed through security.
"Ma'am, you're not—"
"Spare me," she snapped.
Julian looked up from his office as she slammed the door behind her.
"Ah. The porn star arrives," he said, cold as steel.
Eira slapped a printout of the leaked image on his desk.
"You did this."
He sipped his coffee. Calm. Calculated.
"You f*cked a man with cameras in every wall. I'm not the villain here."
"You had me filmed."
He leaned forward, voice low.
"I gave you everything. And you spread your legs for a stranger with a camera fetish. What did you think would happen?"
Eira's voice cracked.
"You were already cheating on me!"
"With your best friend," he added, smiling. "At least I had taste."
Slap.
It echoed.
Julian touched his cheek. Still smiling.
"You just declared war on a man who doesn't lose," he said. "Let's see how much dignity you have left when I'm done."
Eira stepped back.
"Good. Because I have nothing left to lose."
—
11:45 A.M. – Callen's Studio
She stormed in, hair wild, eyes glassy.
"Why didn't you tell me there were cameras?"
Callen froze.
"I didn't know. I swear, Eira. Someone tapped the backup system. Probably Julian."
"Then you should've destroyed everything!"
He stood.
"I was going to. But I kept one. Not for blackmail—never that."
"Then why, Callen?"
His voice cracked.
"Because you looked real. And I haven't seen real in years."
She blinked.
Then punched him in the chest.
Once.
Twice.
Collapsed into his arms.
"I'm ruined," she whispered.
"No," he said, holding her. "You're reborn."
—
Meanwhile — Naomi's Apartment
She watched the footage again.
Eira's moans.
Callen's voice.
The gasps. The passion.
And the thing that burned most?
It wasn't lust. It was love.
Naomi gripped her wine glass so tight it cracked.
"She thinks she's won," she hissed.
But love?
Love was temporary.
Revenge lasted forever.