Betrayed by His Affair with Her Sister

The Montgomery Foundation Annual Gala was my family's crowning achievement each year. Tonight, the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glittered with New York's elite, all gathered to support children's education—a cause my grandmother had championed decades ago. I stood backstage, reviewing my speech one last time while Alexander adjusted his bow tie beside me.

"You look beautiful tonight," he said, his eyes barely skimming over the midnight blue gown I'd spent weeks selecting. The compliment felt mechanical, like checking an item off his to-do list.

"Thank you," I replied, smoothing my hands over the silk. "Are you ready to introduce me?"

He nodded, his attention already drifting toward the entrance where guests continued to arrive. I followed his gaze and felt my stomach twist—Victoria had just walked in, resplendent in a crimson dress that clung to her body like a second skin.

"She came," Alexander whispered, more to himself than to me.

"I didn't realize she was invited," I said carefully, watching his face illuminate with an eagerness I rarely inspired.

"I added her to the guest list. The Cross family has always supported your foundation." His tone dared me to object.

My brother Marcus appeared at my side, his eyes narrowing as he tracked Alexander's gaze to Victoria. "Two minutes until you're on, Bella," he said, squeezing my arm. The concern in his eyes told me he'd noticed everything.

The lights dimmed, and Alexander took the stage to introduce me. His voice carried through the ballroom as he spoke of the Montgomery Foundation's achievements, my dedication to the cause, and the importance of tonight's fundraising goals. I waited for my cue, heart pounding with the familiar pre-speech jitters.

"And now, please welcome the woman who has made all of this possible—Isabella Montgomery."

I stepped onto the stage, the spotlight warm against my skin as applause filled the room. Alexander pressed a perfunctory kiss to my cheek before moving to stand slightly behind me. I placed my notes on the podium and began to speak.

"Thank you all for coming tonight. Six years ago, when I took over as chairperson of the Montgomery Foundation..."

I was three minutes into my carefully rehearsed speech when I heard it—a small commotion from the front tables. A flash of crimson caught my eye. Victoria had placed her hand dramatically against her forehead, swaying slightly in her seat.

I continued speaking, but I felt Alexander tense behind me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Victoria's delicate hand flutter to her throat, her face a perfect mask of distress.

"And it is through your generous contributions that we've been able to establish five new—"

The words died in my throat as Alexander abruptly moved from behind me. Without a word, without even a glance in my direction, he strode off the stage and straight to Victoria's side. The microphone captured my stunned silence as he knelt beside her chair, his hand cupping her face with a tenderness I'd begged for but never received.

"Is she alright?" someone called out.

I stood alone at the podium, cheeks burning as hundreds of eyes darted between me and the scene unfolding at Victoria's table. Alexander was helping her to her feet, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist as he guided her toward the exit.

"I... I apologize for the interruption," I managed, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. "As I was saying..."

But no one was listening anymore. The room buzzed with whispers. I caught fragments—"his sister, isn't she?"... "the way he ran to her"... "poor Isabella."

Marcus appeared at the edge of the stage, his face tight with fury as he watched Alexander disappear with Victoria. Our eyes met, and in that moment, I knew he understood what I was only beginning to accept—I was fighting a battle that had been lost long before it began.

I finished my speech on autopilot, each word tasting like ash. Later, when Alexander returned without Victoria, he offered no explanation, merely asking if I'd secured the donations we'd targeted. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't left me standing alone before everyone who mattered in Manhattan.

That night was just the beginning of what would become a pattern of public humiliations. But the worst was yet to come.

* * *

Three weeks later, on our actual anniversary, Alexander called to cancel our dinner plans. His voice was flat, unrepentant.

"Something's come up at the office. Don't wait up."

I sat on our bed, still wearing the new dress I'd bought for the occasion, a tiny velvet box containing platinum cufflinks clutched in my hand. Six years together, and this was what it had come to—a dismissive phone call and another night alone.

Something inside me snapped. I grabbed my purse and car keys, determination fueling each step as I rode the elevator down to the garage. I would go to Emilio's—the intimate Italian trattoria where we'd had our first date, where I'd made reservations weeks ago for tonight's celebration.

Perhaps seeing me there would remind him of what we once had. Perhaps he'd realize what he was throwing away.

The restaurant was warm and inviting, soft lighting casting a golden glow over the white tablecloths. I gave the maître d' my name, watching his face shift from welcome to discomfort.

"Ah, Ms. Montgomery. Your... your table has been seated already."

"That's impossible," I said. "My boyfriend canceled. The reservation should be empty."

He hesitated, then gestured discreetly toward a corner table—our usual table. There sat Alexander, raising a champagne flute in a toast with Victoria, whose laughter carried across the restaurant like wind chimes.

Time seemed to stop as Alexander's eyes met mine across the room. There was no shame in them. No guilt. Only irritation at the interruption.

But it was Victoria's expression that cut deepest—a small, victorious smile playing at the corners of her perfect lips as she raised her glass slightly in my direction. A mocking salute.

I backed away, bumping into a waiter who steadied me with concerned hands. "Ms. Montgomery, are you alright?"

I wasn't. I would never be alright again.

* * *

Two days later, at the Ashfords' townhouse party on Park Avenue, my phone buzzed with a text. Unknown number.

"Hope you enjoyed last night's show. He never could resist me. -V"

The room spun around me. My fingers trembled as I looked up, scanning the crowded living room until I spotted her—Victoria, watching me from across the room, champagne flute in hand and triumph in her eyes.

I moved through the crowd with single-minded purpose, ignoring greetings from acquaintances as I followed Victoria's retreating figure down the hallway. She slipped into the powder room, and I waited three excruciating seconds before following her inside.

She stood at the marble vanity, reapplying her lipstick with steady hands. Our eyes met in the mirror.

"That was you at Emilio's," I said, my voice low and dangerous even to my own ears. "You knew I'd go there."

"Of course I knew." She turned to face me, leaning against the counter with casual elegance. "You're so predictable, Isabella. Anniversary dinner at the place of your first date? It's almost painfully cliché."

"Stay away from him," I warned, stepping closer. "Whatever game you're playing—"

"Game?" Her laugh was musical, infuriating. "Oh, darling. This isn't a game. This is me reclaiming what's mine. Alexander has always been mine."

"He chose me," I insisted, hating the desperation in my voice. "For six years, he chose me."

"Did he?" She tilted her head, studying me with mock pity. "Or did he settle for you because I wasn't available? Think about it, Isabella. Has he ever looked at you the way he looks at me? Has he ever begged for your forgiveness the way he begs for mine?"

Each word was a precise cut, targeting insecurities I'd buried deep. My hands clenched into fists at my sides.

"You don't know anything about our relationship," I said, but the words sounded hollow even to me.

"I know everything." She stepped closer, her perfume—too sweet, too heavy—suffocating me. "I know he calls out my name in his sleep sometimes. I know he keeps a photo of us from Santorini in his desk drawer. I know that when he's inside you, it's me he's thinking of."

Something inside me broke. I reached out, knocking her champagne flute from her hand. It shattered against the tile floor, golden liquid splashing across our shoes.

Victoria's eyes widened in feigned shock. Then, like a switch being flipped, her expression crumpled. Her lower lip trembled as tears filled her eyes.

"Please," she whimpered, suddenly small and fragile. "Don't hurt me. I'm sorry. I'm just—I'm so fragile right now."

The door to the powder room swung open, revealing Cassandra Ashford, our hostess. Her eyes darted between Victoria's tears, my rigid posture, and the broken glass.

"What on earth is happening in here?" she demanded.

Before I could speak, Victoria pushed past me, shoulders hunched in a perfect portrayal of a victim fleeing her aggressor. "I'm sorry about the glass, Cassie," she sobbed. "I just—I need some air."

She disappeared down the hallway, leaving me standing amid the wreckage, Cassandra's accusing eyes boring into me.

"Isabella Montgomery," she said coldly. "I expected better from you."

As I knelt to help clean up the broken glass, I realized Victoria had orchestrated this entire scene—from the text to the confrontation to her dramatic exit. She wasn't just trying to take Alexander back. She was systematically destroying everything I'd built—my relationship, my reputation, my dignity.

And the worst part? She was succeeding.