MY FIANCÉ FLIRTED WITH HIS MISTRESS Right in Front of Me

"Darling, I must admit you were amazing in bed last night..."

At my engagement party, my fiancé Ethan whispered to his mistress in French.

I was holding his arm when my blood ran cold, my fingers instinctively tightening.

He turned his head, smiled tenderly, and his lips formed three words: I love you.

My heart felt like it stopped beating.

So this was what witnessing betrayal felt like—a soul-crushing pain.

Seven years together, passionate declarations, endless devotion—were they all lies, Ethan? Why?

After the pain came burning rage.

Ethan, I'll make you pay for this betrayal ten times, a hundred times over.

**Chapter One**

"Darling, I must admit you were amazing in bed last night..."

The laughter, music, and clinking glasses around me faded into a blur. Only that low, intimate French phrase cut through like a sharp blade into my eardrums.

The speaker was my fiancé, Ethan Carter.

He leaned in slightly, his gaze burning with barely concealed desire as he looked at the woman beside him.

That was Mila Scott, a woman who had always appeared at his side as a "business partner."

Her lips curved in a smile, her eyes teasing.

"Then shall we continue tonight? With that black lace set you love?"

She asked softly in French, her tone as suggestive as a cat's purr.

Ethan chuckled in response: "Of course, my enchanting kitten. Once she's asleep, I'll come."

Mila reached up to twirl a lock of hair, her laugh low: "How thrilling. Your fiancée doesn't understand a thing. I could tell her to her face that I slept with you, and she'd just smile at me like an idiot."

Ethan frowned, his tone tinged with helplessness: "She really doesn't understand French, but you can't call her an idiot."

Everyone around them assumed they were discussing some European project and paid no attention.

But I heard every single word.

They didn't know that for Ethan, I'd been secretly studying French for a year.

Back then, I imagined that someday we'd walk hand-in-hand through the streets of Paris, and I could fluently order wine and steak for him in French, no longer an outsider who didn't fit in.

But now, the language I'd painstakingly learned had become the code for their betrayal.

I forced myself to maintain my smile and looked at Ethan. My blood ran cold, my fingers instinctively tightening.

He turned his head, smiled tenderly, and his lips formed three words: I love you.

He still wore that deeply devoted expression that outsiders would praise, as if nothing had happened.

His eyes were so gentle they could drown someone. He adjusted my slipping shawl and asked softly: "Are you tired, darling?"

I looked up at him, smile still in place: "Not at all."

He brought me small pastries and thoughtfully deflected a glass of strong liquor.

People around us exclaimed: "What a perfect match."

He smiled confidently: "We'll be married soon. She deserves the grandest wedding."

Applause, laughter, and blessings rose in waves.

Everyone was fooled by his performance, believing we were the happiest couple.

Only I knew what hypocrisy lurked beneath that gentle exterior.

When the engagement party ended, he still held my hand with interlaced fingers, leading me to the car.

Under the streetlight, he smoothed my hair, his voice low and tender: "You worked hard tonight. Let me give you a massage when we get home, okay?"

I turned my head, looking at his gentle profile, laughing coldly inside.

But outwardly I replied softly: "Okay."

In his eyes, my reflection remained elegant and composed, my manner perfect.

But only I knew that from this moment on, my heart had frozen over.

Between us, it was completely over.