My Groom Chose His Mistress, Not Knowing I Was the CEO novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Don't Wait Up
On her wedding night Iris watches Carter walk Lydia to the guest room; she leaves in her dress and Jack texts that he ran the check anyway.
On my wedding night, Carter had just laid me on the bed when Lydia Kingman walked out of our closet wearing his shirt and nothing else.
She climbed into his lap without looking at me once.
"Saturday nights are mine," she said. "You swore that wouldn't change when you got married."
It was Saturday.
Carter laid a steadying hand on her back, the way he would for any friend in trouble.
He took her hand, stood up, and walked her across the hall to the guest room.
"Don't wait up," he said over his shoulder.
The door shut.
A minute later I heard her crying his name.
The housekeeper came up the stairs with fresh towels and a pitcher of water, and she wasn't surprised at all.
"Here we go again," she said. "Those two have been like this since they were teenagers."
Then she saw me on the bed, and the smile left her face.
"Mrs. Brantley, in this house a smart wife learns not to ask questions."
I looked at the marriage license on the nightstand.
The ceremony was over, but the license still needed my signature at city hall on Monday at ten.
At two that same afternoon, Dunhill Group would vote on a two hundred million dollar loan that would keep Brantley Holdings alive.
The Brantleys expected me to sign the first thing and Dunhill to sign the second.
They didn't know I was the person who signs the second.
I wasn't going to be signing either one.
My name is Iris Bannon, and I teach art at a public high school in the Bronx.
That is all the Brantleys know about me.
Bannon was my mother's name. My grandmother's was Dunhill, and she built the company that carries it.
I never told Carter that.
At the county clerk's counter, he had asked me twice to spell out my full legal name for the license, middle name included.
I thought it was sweet.
At twenty-six I almost married a man who said on the phone, "Two years of putting up with her and the Dunhill money sets me up for life."
I ended it that week, and after that I told everyone my name was just Bannon.
Carter had said, "You're marrying me, not the Brantley name."
I had believed him.
I sat on the edge of the bed for more than an hour.
Half the buttons down the back of my dress were undone, and I left them that way.
The sounds from the guest room rose and fell.
At one in the morning the door opened.
Carter came across the hall with his collar open and a red smear of lipstick on his collarbone.
He frowned when he saw me sitting there.
"Why are you still up? You were exhausted all day."
Lydia appeared behind him in a silk robe, her hair a mess, smiling.
"So you're the teacher," she said, looking me up and down. "Carter told me you'd be easy. You do look the type."
I said nothing.
She leaned on the doorframe and spoke to Carter.
"Your bride doesn't seem very happy."
Carter reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear.
"Stop it. You weren't supposed to come tonight."
"What did I do?"
She turned to me and widened her smile.
"Iris, don't be stingy. Carter and I have spent every summer in Newport since we were five. If you want to be Mrs. Brantley, you'll get used to me."
I smiled back.
"Get used to what? You coming out of our closet in his shirt?"
Lydia didn't blush.
"Oh, that closet? My things have been in there for years."
She winked.
Carter looked at me and pointed at the closet door.
"Leave her things alone."
Something in my chest went completely quiet.
I stood up and picked my phone off the nightstand.
"Where are you going?" Carter asked. "It's one in the morning."
"Out."
"You're my wife."
"Not until Monday at ten," I said. "And Monday I'm not signing."
He laughed.
"You'll sign, Iris. You've got nowhere else to go."
Lydia giggled into her hand.
So I walked out.
At the top of the stairs Margaret Brantley stood in her robe with her hands folded, already dressed for a conversation.
"Come back to bed, dear," Margaret said. "Every bride has a difficult first night."
I walked past her.
The housekeeper stood at the bottom of the staircase holding the front door key, and I took it out of her hand and opened the door myself.
Outside on the gravel, headlights came on at the gate.
I texted one line to the only person who knew who I really was.
Send a car. I'm leaving the Brantley house.
Jack Sorrell answered before I reached the driveway.
Already at the gate.
A second message came right behind it.
I ran the background check on Carter anyway, two months ago. It's all in the file. Do you want it?
I stood in my wedding dress with the gravel cold through my shoes and typed back.
Not tonight.
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