Mistress jealousy

Loud music pulsed through the luminous loft, each dirty bass note vibrating the glass walls and shaking the marble floors beneath swaying bodies. Lights danced across the ceiling—gold and violet and blood red—casting shadow-play over limbs that moved in primal rhythm. The crowd roared as women twirled around chrome poles, their silhouettes caught in frozen beauty with every camera flash.

Above the chaos, Zyla stood still.

Perched on a balcony, a wine glass balanced between her fingers, her gaze swept the crowd with cold precision. Black fabric clung to her frame like oil to fire, shimmering faintly with diamonds as the club lights kissed her curves. Her face—carved in shadow and contour—was unreadable, eyes smoked in darkness and lips the shade of withered roses.

She had once stood beside a king.

Mistress to his secrets. Keeper of his empire. Loyal beyond reason.

But loyalty meant little when soulmates entered the picture.

She had felt it the day it happened. The sudden shift. His voice colder, his touch brief. His eyes... searching for something that was no longer her.

Zyla's fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

Centuries of devotion discarded. Centuries of silence—of hiding the curse she had suspected but never named. Of failing, again and again, to bear him an heir. Always thinking it was her. Only to realize too late: the curse bound him. Bound them both. Only his soulmate could bear him heirs.

The wine had gone warm in her hand. She didn't drink it.

Her jaw twitched. Just once.

No magic. No curses. No bloodshed.

She would ruin him with strategy.

Down below, bodies writhed in meaningless celebration. He had built his earthly kingdom on glass towers and corporate sheen. Vale Heights Tower—his pride and joy—an architectural crown meant to pierce the sky and his name into it.

Perfect. Too perfect.

She smiled then, slow and cold, just as Jasper appeared at her side. His voice was velvet and breathy.

"Ma'am... they're here."

"Good." She set her wine glass down. "Let's begin."

********

The inner lounge was worlds apart from the blaring club. Dimmed lighting kissed satin walls and marble floors, casting a quiet, luxurious hush over the room. A long black table stretched down the center, surrounded by men who lived in corner offices and luxury sedans—men who craved more.

At the head of the table, Zyla now wore ivory.

Clean. Elegant. No heavy makeup, just a soft smoky eye and a silk dress that whispered wealth without trying. She greeted each guest personally, with a warm smile and a knowing touch on the arm. Her energy was magnetic but never overpowering.

She smiled, listened, let them believe they were powerful. Let them bask.

They didn't know they were prey.

Dinner was served. Wine flowed. Laughter rose, echoing off stone and gold. It was nearly easy to forget that every man at this table had once touched her body, begged for her favor, or whispered secrets in the dark.

She waited.

Then, gently, she tapped her glass.

The laughter died down.

"So," she began, her voice warm silk over cold steel, "I hear a certain empire is breaking ground again."

A few chuckles rose.

"You mean Vale Heights?" someone said.

She smiled, letting it stretch just enough.

"Luxury residential," she said. "Corporate towers. Penthouses in the clouds. An entire estate to reflect his kingdom."

The room hummed with interest.

"These projects don't build themselves," she added, placing her glass down. "They'll need construction. Architecture. Interior design. Logistics. All clean, all public. But we both know what's needed beneath the surface."

Her leg crossed slowly over the other. Her tone dipped to a conspiratorial purr.

"He's created a face for the world—a respectable face. We're going to peel it."

Roland Smith, ever ambitious, leaned in. "You want to infiltrate the operation?"

"I want you to be the operation."

"But—he's protected," James Walker said, brows furrowed. "Military contracts. Government ties. Even... others. You know what he is."

Murmurs flared. Fear bloomed.

Zyla did not raise her voice. She let her glass strike the marble—sharp, commanding.

"I'm giving you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to work with Sebastian Vaelrath."

Gasps, nervous laughter.

Then her voice turned to ice.

"Unless of course, Mr. Walker, you'd prefer the Talibod to review those labor reports from your last government project?"

His face drained of color.

"Mr. Smith," she continued smoothly, "overuse of undocumented labor. Offshore transfers."

She glanced toward the end of the table.

"And Mr. Johnson... your wife must be a saint. Does she know about Dalia? Or the condo in Southside?"

A thick silence coated the room.

James stood abruptly, his voice shaking. "You filthy slut—you think you can hold us hostage with secrets?!"

A few others shifted, visibly rattled.

"I don't need all of you," Zyla said, calm and composed. "Just one. One seed inside his machine. Someone who'll bleed it from within."

James cursed under his breath and stormed out. Two others followed.

Zyla smiled.

The doors shut softly behind them.

And still, she smiled.

The remaining men looked toward her. Silent. Weighing their fear against their desire.

She raised her glass again, voice smooth as aged brandy.

"I'm not asking for betrayal. I'm offering power. Access. Wealth beyond your current reach. And when the tower collapses... we'll build on the ashes."

A beat passed.

Roland nodded first. Then the others.

Zyla leaned back, victorious.

Tonight wasn't about seduction. It was about laying the first brick.

Let the king have his soulmate.

She would take everything else.