The Billionaire's Seven-Year Mistress

Damian Vance was gorgeous, wealthy, and born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I was nobody. Just a broke girl pouring drinks in a VIP lounge to survive. Because of one careless thing he said, I willingly stayed by his side as his secret lover for seven years. Once, when he was half-drunk, he whispered against my lips, "My heart belongs to you, and only you." Deep down, I always knew the truth: he had to marry an heiress from a family as powerful as his own. *** In our seventh year together, I brought up ending our relationship for the first time. He had just come home from a business dinner. When he heard my words, his hand froze on his loosened silk tie. Those handsome eyes flicked over me with a cool, sharp scrutiny, as if checking whether I was being serious. It made sense that he looked surprised. In all those years, he had been the one calling the shots. I was always obedient, quiet, and kept my place. I had never dared to say I wanted out. "Give me a reason," he demanded coldly. "I heard you’re getting engaged," I said honestly. "Congratulations." I had only found out about his upcoming wedding because his best friend, Logan Foster, let it slip by accident. The second the words hit me, it felt like being shoved into a freezing cellar. Chills ran down my spine, and my head kept echoing: *Damian’s getting married. He’s really getting married.* On the outside, though, I stayed completely calm. My hands didn't even shake. Maybe that was the only thing I truly mastered after seven years with him: hiding how I really felt. This time, Damian didn't wear his usual careless expression. His face darkened. He stood frozen in the exact same spot for nearly three minutes. He only snapped out of it when I called his name. "Think this through carefully," he dropped coldly, turning and slamming the door behind him. Not long after, his fiancée, Natalie Miller, showed up at my place. At the time, I figured Damian and I would soon be strangers anyway, so I had given up on my diet and ordered three boxes of greasy takeout fried chicken. Because of that, I lost the battle the moment I opened the door. Natalie was wearing a custom designer dress that showed off every perfect curve. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in flawless waves, and her nude-rose lipstick screamed expensive taste. The second she looked at me, pure disgust radiated from her eyes. She didn't even bother looking me in the face as she walked inside. She sat down, pulled out a checkbook and a sleek pen, and placed them on the coffee table. "Write down any amount you want, Miss Taylor. Once it's filled out, get the hell away from my fiancé." It felt like a classic soap opera scene where the wealthy wife buys off the mistress. But oddly enough, I felt no shame. I smiled slightly and pushed the check back toward her. "Sorry, Miss Miller. I only take money from Damian." To anyone else, it might have sounded petty and bold. Every word was the truth. Between Damian and me, it had always been a clean transaction. The money I received from him was what I earned. My conscience was clear. Natalie rolled her eyes and let out a harsh laugh. "Miss Taylor, let me give you a piece of advice. A woman needs self-respect. Know your place. Do you honestly think you're good enough for him in any way?" I kept a polite smile on my face, stood up, and opened the door to see her out. She didn't need to remind me. I knew there was an ocean of difference between Damian and me. Once he came back, cut me a generous settlement check, and sent me packing, I would take what was left of my dignity and disappear. Over the next month, I didn't see Damian in person. Instead, I saw a photo of him and Natalie walking hand-in-hand into a luxury hotel. In the picture, his tall silhouette was wrapped in a tailored coat, the hem fluttering in the chill wind. It looked freezing outside. He had an arm wrapped tightly around her waist, shielding her from the cold. The gesture made Natalie look tiny, delicate, and adored.Even though the shot was taken from a distance, his gentlemanly care practically radiated off the screen. There was a second photo—a selfie. Natalie was holding up two fingers in a playful heart shape right in front of Damian’s famously stoic face. Those two pictures hit me like a punch to the gut. They came from an unknown number. I didn't bother digging into who sent them. There was no denying it worked. I kept telling myself in my head: *Remember your place. Don't cross the line.* Eventually, I slipped down into his private wine cellar, cracked open two bottles of his vintage red wine, and drank until my mind went fuzzy. In the haze, my mind wandered back to a warm summer night when I was twenty-three. We had just worn each other out in bed. On a whim, I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture of his sleeping face, staring at it like it was the most precious thing in the world. I didn't even notice him wake up. Damian glanced at my screen, his voice deep and raspy in the dark: "I'm right here beside you. Why are you staring at a screen?" I was too spoiled by his touch back then to hear the underlying warning. He left quietly before I woke up the next morning. For the entire following month, he vanished from my life. I eventually called his executive assistant and dropped subtle hints. Wearing him down, the assistant finally sighed over the line. "Miss Taylor, Mr. Vance dislikes having his picture kept without his permission. You shouldn't have done that." The moment the realization hit me, my face burned with shame, and I hurried out of his office tower. The next day, for the first time ever, I called Damian directly and put on a soft, sweet voice: "Could you bring me the new pink smartphone when you come back? Mine slipped and fell into the bathtub. It's completely ruined." The silence on the other end lasted so long that I thought he had hung up. Finally, he gave a quiet, low grunt: "Alright." Relief washed over me. I handed the house phone back to the housekeeper. She looked at the perfectly good phone sitting at the bottom of the filled tub and shook her head in pity. "Miss, why throw away such a nice phone? Let me fish it out; maybe it can still be fixed." I raised a hand to stop her. "It's just a phone," I said softly. "It's not worth losing everything else over." *** On a night of pouring rain, Damian walked through the front door at precisely nine-thirty. I was sitting on the couch with a cigarette between my fingers, sipping a cold beer, watching some mindless TV drama. Hearing his footsteps, my instinct kicked in. I hurriedly stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and waved the smoke away with my hand. He hated it when women around him smoked. The first time he ever caught me with a cigarette was at Club Mirage, an upscale private lounge in the city. I was out with a few friends trying to unwind when a handsome young guy cornered me, asking for my number. I blew a lazy plume of smoke right into his pretty face. Seeing his cheeks turn red, I teased, "Do you have deep pockets, pretty boy?" He nodded eagerly. "Loads of cash." Before I could say anything else, Logan Foster’s amused voice drifted over from the side: "Looks like Damian isn't giving you enough pocket money, huh?" My entire body went rigid. In that split second, my mind raced through my bank balance, the downtown condo, and the retail property Damian had signed over to me. I slowly turned around, scanning the dimly lit lounge. Before I could catch my breath, Logan pointed a smug thumb toward the dark VIP booth in the corner. "Stop looking. He's right there." His teasing tone irritated me, but I had no time to snap at him. Damian’s face was as dark as storm clouds. Back then, I genuinely thought I was about to be kicked to the curb. Damian had zero tolerance for his playthings flirting with other men. I was terrified he would strip away everything he gave me before kicking me out. After all, when Damian agreed to keep me, the very first question he asked was whether I had been with other guys. If any other man had asked that, I would have spat on the floor and walked away. But this was Damian Vance—a man standing at the very top of the corporate ladder. He had the looks, the endless wealth, and was insatiable in bed. Putting up with his rules was easy enough. He didn't kick me out that night. Instead, he made me sit on his lap, ordering me to light a cigarette and immediately put it out, over and over again. Once I obeyed, he strictly told me to quit smoking entirely. As a sugar daddy, Damian was practically flawless. He was rich, generous, and could wipe away life-altering problems with a single phone call—except for his rough, possessive habits behind closed doors. This was the third time he had caught me smoking. But tonight, he seemed exhausted. He just stood there, staring at me with cold, quiet eyes. Then it hit me. My request to break things off hadn't been forgotten over the weeks. He had simply set it aside until now.Ever since I stepped into this arrangement with Damian, I had pictured our breakup a thousand times. I imagined crying my eyes out, screaming at the top of my lungs, or pretending nothing was wrong. But none of that happened. There was only a hollow, numb acceptance. My body and my mind were completely drained. We went through our usual evening routine: ate dinner, showered, and climbed into bed together. The dim, warm glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the sharp angles of his face. My heart was in knots. One part of me wanted to end it all quickly, to run away and heal. Another part wished foolishly that we could stay like this forever, even daring to dream of what it would be like to have his child. Damian wrapped his arms tightly around my waist, his low voice rumbling against my skin with a faint chuckle. "Not eating well lately? You feel thinner." I didn't answer right away. He buried his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling my scent. As the room fell dead silent, he let out a heavy sigh, sounding like a man who had finally made up his mind about something difficult. "Stay with me a little longer, Elena. Just for a while." He didn't say how long "a while" meant, but we both understood. Suddenly, none of it mattered anymore. I realized I had never had any boundaries when it came to Damian. Three months. It was just enough time for me to slowly let him go. I turned in his arms, cupped his jaw, and kissed him deeply. He kissed me back naturally, his lips demanding and warm. We never needed to spell things out. We knew each other too well. He knew I would accept whatever he offered, that I was head-over-heels in love with him, and that I would swallow every ounce of heartache just to stay in his arms. Over the next three months, no matter how packed his schedule was, Damian came home to me every single night. One night, I woke up thirsty and walked into the dark living room for a glass of water, only to find him sitting out on the balcony lounge chair, smoking a cigarette. The silver moonlight traced the sharp lines of his jaw. Smoke curled lazily between his long fingers, and even from behind, the heavy exhaustion clung to his broad shoulders. Men like Damian, who kept their emotions buried deep beneath an unreadable facade, rarely let you see what they were feeling. Yet whenever he was in a foul mood, I could sense it before anyone else did. A sharp ringtone shattered the silence. Damian glanced inside cautiously, and I quickly tapped on my phone screen, pretending to browse Twitter. He kept his voice low, but the sharp, shrill tone from the other end still made it through the glass door. It was Natalie. "How much longer are you keeping that girl around? Why don't you just let her wear my wedding gown down the aisle while you're at it?!" Damian cut her off with a warning: "If you harass her again, don't blame me for tearing up our agreement." He ended the call without hesitation. Inside, my heart hammered like a drum. Years ago, I jokingly asked him when he was going to marry me. His stone-cold silence cut like a blade, followed by him disappearing for three solid months. That was his answer back then: don't dare dream of things that don't belong to you. I took two deep breaths and told myself to stop reading into things. Damian had this dangerous charm—a single sentence from him could make any foolish girl imagine a future that didn't exist. Just as I turned to head back to bed, I heard a sharp hiss of pain, followed by a quiet curse: "Fuck." He had burned his finger on the cigarette butt. It was almost funny, but a sudden sting hit my nose, and my eyes welled with tears. Even when he cursed, even when he took off his tailored Tom Ford suits and looked like an ordinary man, the gap between us remained unbridgeable. No master's degree, no luxury habits, and no amount of elegant grooming could ever make me his equal. The divide between us wasn't about looks or money. It was the mountain peak versus the ocean floor. As the wedding grew closer, his days became hectic. His phone rang constantly. It was his mother, thrilled with the daughter-in-law she had hand-picked and obsessing over every detail of the ceremony. Damian’s answers were always detached: "Yes. Whatever you like. I don't care." Then, three days before the wedding, he dragged me out on a sudden shopping trip. Seriously, what kept woman would have the guts to go shopping with her billionaire owner right before his wedding? His childhood friend Logan always called me "Elena" with that teasing grin whenever he saw us, and Damian never told him to stop, offering only a faint smirk as if he didn't care. I held onto those tiny crumbs of attention, secretly smiling to myself. Today, though, felt like an ambush. The second Damian and I stepped into Harry Winston, a modest, radiant-cut pink diamond ring caught my eye. This time, I took one quick look and forced my eyes away, keeping my mouth shut. In the past, a cute pout would have put that ring on my finger by the end of the day. Not today. Never again. The reality that he was about to belong to another woman screamed in my head. In three days, a different ring would be placed on his finger by his lawful bride. Damian noticed where my eyes went. He stepped up to the counter and signaled the sales associate to bring the ring out. Before I could protest, Logan bounded through the double doors, shouting, "Damian? Elena?" "Logan, who are you calling Elena? Getting friendly so fast?" The voice didn't come from me. It came from Natalie, who stepped out from behind the displays with an effortless glide.