Claimed By His Greatest Rival

For five years as Conrad’s secret girlfriend, his favorite spectator sport was watching other men pursue me. Whether someone offered a bouquet of peonies or a velvet jewelry box, Conrad would sit back against the leather lounge cushions, swirling his bourbon with unbearable ease. He never intervened. He never looked remotely threatened. He knew my script by heart: "I’m sorry, but I’m already in love with someone." Once, after a client had made a particularly humiliating spectacle of confessing his feelings over dessert, I asked Conrad if he ever worried someone might actually take me away. He set his glass down, the ice clinking softly, and gave me a lazy, lopsided smile. "A dog that knows its master doesn’t run off," he said smoothly, "no matter what kind of treat a stranger dangles." I stood there with hot tears burning behind my eyelids, but he didn’t even look up to wipe them away. He was utterly certain of me. He was convinced that no matter how much indignity I swallowed, I would always crawl back to his side. Yet whenever another man showed interest in Margo, his childhood friend, Conrad was always the first to jump into the fire. He held her hand, wrapped his arm around her waist, and let everyone assume they were an item. He never hesitated. Not once. Then came the quarterly gala. A junior partner from business development had too much to drink and cornered me against the bar, his heavy arms pinning me in place. Panicked and suffocating, I fought him off and instinctively looked toward the VIP booth, pointing at Conrad. "He’s my boyfriend!" I gasped. "Back off!" The entire room fell dead silent. Conrad sat there. Beside him was Margo, and right across the low table sat the wealthy investor who had been aggressively courting her for months. To protect Margo’s facade, Conrad looked straight at my bruised wrist, his expression cool and completely detached. "Don’t drag me into your mess," he said evenly. "I barely know you." A sick laugh rippled through the room. The drunk partner gripped my arm tighter, dragging me into the adjoining private lounge, forcing me to swallow ten shots of neat whiskey as an apology for "delusional name-dropping." A single drywall stood between us. Conrad never came. Later that evening, Conrad’s fiercest industry rival walked into the lounge, held out a stunning bunch of white lilies, and asked me out in front of everyone. Conrad stood in the doorway, hands shoved into his slacks, leaning back against the frame. He was waiting for the familiar punchline. He was waiting for me to turn the man down and crawl back into the dark. Instead, I reached out, took the lilies, and looked the rival in the eye. "What a coincidence," I said, my voice steady. "I happen to be completely single." … The lounge plummeted into a vacuum. Conrad’s lips remained curved in an easy arc, but the amusement in his dark eyes vanished, replaced by an icy, predatory stillness. "Single so long your taste has gone to hell, Bridget?" he drawled. "Since when do you follow any stray off the street just because he waves a flower at you?" Dean’s face hardened, his shoulders squaring, but I didn’t drop the lilies. The faint tremor in my fingers ceased. Conrad’s easy smirk finally slipped, fracturing at the edges. He moved back to the head of the table, sat down, and tapped his index finger twice against the polished mahogany. "Tap. Tap." I knew that signal. It was his command for me to come heel. In our first year together, a colleague had asked me to dance at the annual winter gala. Conrad had tapped the rim of his crystal tumbler twice just like that. I had immediately fabricated an excuse and slipped out to the freezing balcony. He hadn’t spoken a single word; he simply draped his wool coat over my shoulders and kissed me deeply in the shadows. In our second year, a client offered to drive me home after a late-night pitch. Conrad tapped three times before I broke away. That night, he pinned me against the mattress, teeth grazing my earlobe, whispering harshly, demanding to know if I’d forgotten whose mark was on my skin. Back then, I had been naive enough to mistake that suffocating ownership for devotion. Standing here tonight, looking at his manicured finger hovering over the wood, I felt a wave of nausea. It wasn't love. It was the sharp click of a trainer's tongue calling a trained golden retriever. Conrad tapped once more. Sharp. Impatient. I stayed rooted in place. Dean shifted, putting his broad frame between me and Conrad’s gaze. He looked down at me, his eyes surprisingly warm. "Ready to leave? I’ll walk you down." "Please," I whispered. We had barely crossed into the carpeted corridor when heavy footsteps sounded behind us. Conrad’s hand clamped down around my wrist like a vice, jerking me to a halt. "You’re really playing this game?" he hissed, his composure peeling away to reveal raw irritation. "Flirting with Dean just to get back at me over ten stupid drinks? When did you get so childish?" Dean took a step forward, his jaw tight, but I reached out with my free hand and lightly touched Dean’s sleeve, shaking my head. This toxic ledger belonged to Conrad and me. Dean didn’t deserve to be collateral damage. Dean looked at Conrad’s hand locked around my flesh. He didn’t push, but he took off his jacket and settled it around my cold shoulders. "I’ll be in the lobby. Call me if you need anything." The moment the elevator doors slid shut behind Dean, I wrenched my arm back with everything I had. "Mr. Weston," I said, rubbing the red welt on my skin, "do we know each other that well?" Conrad’s hand hung frozen in the air. He read the cold detachment in my eyes, and his voice dropped into an urgent, low register. "I know what’s bothering you, Bridget. You’re sulking over Margo. You hate that I held her hand, that I let people assume she’s with me." He exhaled sharply, stepping closer. "It’s theater. You know it’s theater. Why are you making a scene over nothing?" I turned on my heel to walk away. He darted around me, blocking the exit. "The portfolio director is still in that room, Bridget! Your five-year project sign-off is on the table, and the final verification sheet hasn't been signed. Are you really going to throw away months of eighty-hour workweeks over a bruised ego?" He knew my pressure points with surgical precision. He knew how much sweat and sleepless nights I had poured into that account. I stared at him for three long seconds. Then, without a word, I pushed open the double doors and walked back into the private dining room. The moment I took my seat, Margo’s suitor leaned forward, nursing a drink, a sly grin on his face. "Come on, Margo. If you and Conrad have really been together for five years, you should at least remember where your first date was." Margo didn’t bat an eye. She leaned into Conrad’s side, glowing. "The regional airport," she said smoothly. "Five years ago during that historic blizzard. I was burning up with a hundred-and-three fever, and Conrad drove seven hours through mountain detours just to get me home." Under the white tablecloth, my fingernails bit deep into my palms. Five years ago, the girl stranded with a hundred-and-three fever was me. The interstate had been shut down due to black ice. Conrad had taken state routes through three counties, arriving at dawn with his knuckles bruised and his eyes bloodshot. When I asked him if he was exhausted, he had tucked my hair behind my ear and said, "Why would I be tired picking up my girl?" The suitor pressed on, laughing. "What about your first kiss?" Margo rested her chin in her hands, smiling coyly. "That same night. Right when he leaned across to buckle my seatbelt. Oh, and our rescue dog, Seven? We found him shivering in a ditch on the seventh of July. That’s how he got his name." A chorus of envious sighs and teasing murmurs swept around the table. Every single memory. Every tender, sacred milestone. I had cataloged them all in a password-protected shared cloud drive that Conrad and I used. Tiny details that I had almost forgotten had been served up by Margo, verbatim, like a rehearsed monologue. She even brought up the first night we moved in together. "He was so hopeless in the kitchen," Margo giggled, collapsing lightly against Conrad’s shoulder. "He spent forty minutes trying to make a basic bowl of noodles and nearly burned down the stove. I teased him and asked if I was the very first woman he’d ever cooked for." Laughter erupted around the room. Margo’s gaze drifted toward me, lingering, her eyes glittering with deliberate, venomous amusement. The blood drained from my face until my lips felt numb. That noodle story. I had written it in a single sentence in our private shared diary. Nobody else had access. Only Conrad. Conrad swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler, his eyes drifting over to me. A smug, faintly mocking tilt touched his lips. "You’ve been listening so quietly, Bridget. Sound romantic to you?" Every set of eyes turned to lock onto me. I held his stare, forcing my mouth into a razor-thin smile. "A couple that cannibalizes their private moments for an audience? Absolutely. Romantic to a fault." The moment the portfolio director signed the final authorization, I stood up and walked out into the rain. At one in the morning, I unlocked the door to the high-rise condo. Hearing the latch, Seven scrambled out from the living room, whining softly, circling my shins and pressing his warm snout against my stockings. It wasn't until I dragged my suitcase down from the top shelf that I realized something chilling: across five years of living here, there was barely any trace of my existence. My skincare products were stored in unlabeled white acrylic bins tucked behind bathroom cleaner under the sink. My clothes hung in the deepest, darkest corner of the walk-in closet, completely obscured by three rows of Conrad’s tailored charcoal suits. My house slippers were shoved into a hidden divider in the shoe cabinet. If anyone unexpected came to the door, Conrad only had to shut a couple of closet doors, and I would be entirely erased. I had barely laid the suitcase flat on the floor when my phone lit up on the vanity. Two texts from Conrad: "You home?" "The group wants to take the afterparty to my place. Go hide." Almost instantaneously, the electronic lock chimed at the front door. Conditioned reflex moved faster than my pride. I grabbed the clothes off the floor, scooped Seven into my arms, backed into the dark walk-in closet, and pulled the heavy pocket door shut. Only when the darkness swallowed me whole did the absolute shame hit me. I had already decided to walk away. Yet the moment I saw the word "hide", my body obeyed like a well-drilled soldier. Over five years, how many times had this played out? When his mother made surprise visits, I sat in the stifling dark of this closet for three hours straight. When he had executive conference calls, I hid in the guest bedroom with a plate of lukewarm breakfast, too terrified to even flush the toilet. Once, I had suppressed a cough so hard I choked, and an executive on the speaker had asked if someone was there. Conrad hadn’t missed a beat: "Just the dog acting up." I had cried once, asking him why we had to live like roaches. Conrad had looked down at me with mild irritation. "The corporate charter strictly forbids inter-office relationships between leadership and team members. I’m protecting you, Bridget. I don’t want you losing your career over office gossip." And God help me, I had believed him. Through the wooden slats, the living room erupted with boisterous laughter and the clink of glassware. "Hey Conrad," a colleague shouted over the music, "aren’t you afraid the board is going to find out about you and Margo and drop the hammer on one of you?" Conrad’s low, careless chuckle drifted through the air. "Let them try. If the board dares touch my contract today, I’ll incorporate my own firm tomorrow and peel away half their client base before lunch." A chorus of agreeable murmurs followed. Nobody doubted him; the firm needed Conrad far more than he needed them. I sat in the dark, bowing my head until my forehead touched my knees. He was never afraid of corporate policy. He just didn't want the world to know he was tied to me. Suddenly, Seven squirmed out of my grip and slipped through the slightly cracked closet door. "Seven!" Margo’s voice trilled with theatrical delight. "Perfect timing! Come take a picture with Mommy and Daddy." I heard the shutter clicking as she tried to force Seven between herself and Conrad on the sofa. Seven refused, backing away and whining. Embarrassed, Margo’s voice went sharp. She grabbed Seven’s leather collar, violently hauling him backward across the hardwood toward the cushions. My chest seized. Seven had undergone a delicate tracheal reconstruction as a puppy; any pressure on his throat caused severe respiratory distress. Conrad glanced at the dog choking and merely frowned. "He doesn't like strangers. Put him out on the balcony." The glass door slid shut. Then, another voice piped up over the clinking ice. "Speaking of which, Conrad, what's the deal with that girl Bridget taking flowers from Dean tonight? Is she into you or something? She always watches you like a hawk." A brief, suffocating pause. Then Conrad let out a dismissive snort. "I looked out for her on a few high-profile accounts. Guess she forgot her place." "Then why’d she leave with Dean?" Conrad swirled his scotch, his tone laced with unresolved, spiteful venom. "She climbs whatever ladder is tallest. It was me yesterday. It’ll be Dean tomorrow." Margo offered a soft, saccharine reproach. "Don’t be so cruel, Conrad. What if she hears about this? She’d be heartbroken." Conrad scoffed. "Not her. Her skin is thicker than a vault door." Peals of drunken laughter washed through the living room. Sitting there surrounded by the scent of his dry-cleaned wool and my hidden laundry, something inside me finally snapped. It was not a violent break; it was simply the quiet realization that I had nothing left to lose. On the balcony, Seven let out a strangled, wheezing cry. I stood up. I reached out, grabbed the brass handle, and shoved the heavy closet door wide open. The laughter died instantly. The room froze as if someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the air. Conrad turned, his face turning an ash-gray color, his jaw clenched tight. Before I could speak, the sharpest colleagues in the room read the room with terrifying speed. "Uh, look at the time. I’ve got an eight-o’clock kickoff tomorrow." "My Uber’s outside. Goodnight, everyone." They were corporate animals; seeing me walk out of Conrad's master bedroom closet while remembering his cruel insults was more than enough to piece together the dirty secret of the last five years. Within two minutes, the apartment was cleared. Only Margo remained. She held Seven’s leash in a white-knuckled grip, her face cycling between crimson and pale rage. "I spent months getting those guys to believe we were real, Conrad! And she just blew it up in front of everyone!" She slammed the leash onto the floor. "I'm not staying in the same room as her." Conrad was already simmering with humiliated fury. He snapped, his voice dropping an octave. "This is my house. Who stays here isn't your call." Margo gasped. "Conrad! What is wrong with you?" "You played the shield a few times, Margo, and you actually think you own the title?" Conrad pointed a stiff finger toward the front door. "Get out." Margo’s eyes welled with furious tears. She waited, expecting him to soften, but Conrad’s face remained stone. Snatching her designer bag, she slammed the door so hard the glass fixtures rattled. The silence that followed was deafening. Conrad turned to me, his chest heaving. "Now everyone knows," he said, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Satisfied?" I didn’t look at him. I knelt down, gently unbuckled the tight collar from Seven’s throat, and clipped on a loose harness. I was taking him with me. Conrad stepped forward, planting his body in front of the door. "The dog stays." "He is my dog." "I paid for his vet bills," Conrad countered, wrenching the leash from my fingers. "You don't even have an apartment lined up. How the hell are you going to take care of him?" I stared at him for one empty, hollow second. Then I turned, grabbed the handle of my solitary suitcase, and walked out into the cold night alone. I checked into a boutique hotel near the river. The next morning at nine, Conrad arrived at my room. Flanking him were Margo and Trent—the junior partner who had assaulted me in the lounge two nights ago. Trent held a massive, expensive gift basket. The moment he crossed the threshold, he bowed deeply toward Conrad. "Mr. Weston, I’m so sorry," Trent stammered, sweating through his collar. "I had way too much to drink. I had no idea the young lady was a personal friend of yours." He turned slightly toward Margo. "And I deeply apologize for causing any confusion between you and Miss Margo. I swear on my career it will never happen again." From beginning to end, Trent never looked me in the eye. To him, the person he had pinned against the bar and force-fed liquor didn't exist. He was only apologizing to the man whose property he had touched. Conrad’s expression relaxed slightly. "Keep your hands to yourself next time." Trent nodded profusely, backing toward the door. Just as the neat little corporate absolution was about to conclude, I spoke up from the armchair. "I don't accept your apology," I said clearly. "And I’m going to the police." Trent’s face instantly lost all color. Conrad’s brow furrowed, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. "Bridget, I brought the man here to apologize to you in person. What more do you want?" I looked straight at Conrad. "Did a single word out of his mouth sound like it was addressed to me?" Conrad choked on his rebuttal. Beside him, Margo let out an ugly, mocking snort. "Weren’t you the one who told me she was more obedient than Seven?" "Shut up, Margo," Conrad barked. He turned back to me, adopting the tone of a generous benefactor. "Tell me what kind of settlement you want. Name it. Weren't you begging me to visit your mother after her surgery? I’ll clear my schedule this weekend and fly down with you. We close the book on this right now." I looked at him, and against my will, a bitter laugh slipped from my throat. Three years ago, after my mother’s major spinal operation, Conrad and I went to the rehabilitation clinic to discharge her. When the nurses gathered around, my mother had beamed, proudly taking his hand: "This is my daughter’s partner." Conrad had jerked his hand back as if he had been burned by grease. "You’re mistaken, ma’am. We just work together." On the drive back, when I sobbed and asked why he had to humiliate my sick mother, he had snapped: "My family knows you stay at my apartment and that I cover your expenses. To them, this is a transaction. Your mother running around calling me your boyfriend just makes you look like a gold-digger grasping for leverage." He had never set foot in her home since. And now, he was presenting a visit to my mother as the grandest concession of his royal benevolence. I picked up my phone. A few taps later, a chime rang out from Conrad’s breast pocket. He pulled out his phone, staring at the notification. His brow pinched. "What is this?" "Eighteen hundred and twenty-six days," I said flatly. "That’s how long it’s been since the first night we slept together. At a dollar a day, it comes out to exactly one thousand eight hundred and twenty-six dollars." I looked up, meeting his bewildered eyes. "That’s your tip, Conrad. Don’t feel shortchanged. Honestly, you aren’t worth a penny more." I blocked his number, deleted his profiles, and locked my phone. "Five years of service fees, settled in full. You’re relieved of duty. Don't contact me again." The following afternoon, I went to the office as usual to wrap up my deliverables. I had barely sat down when my managing director summoned me into the glass conference room. "Bridget, you were the unanimous frontrunner for the senior director promotion on today's executive docket," he said gently, sliding a sealed envelope across the table. "Did you do something to offend Conrad?" I stared at the rejection slip. A crushing, leaden exhaustion settled deep into my marrow. I carried the envelope back to my cubicle. Just as I sat down, my phone gave an urgent, double-pulse vibration. An alert from the indoor pet camera. My heart plummeted into my stomach. I opened the feed. Seven was lying collapsed on the Persian rug in Conrad’s penthouse living room. A puddle of dark bile was pooled beside his head. His chest was heaving in violent, ragged spasms. He tried to scramble to his paws, but his hind legs gave out, and he crashed down hard. "Seven!" I grabbed my purse and sprinted for the elevators. When I reached the gated community, the private security guard stepped out, holding a hand up. "I’m sorry, Mr. Weston has permanently revoked your guest credentials." I dialed Conrad’s private line. One ring. Two. Five. Twelve times. No answer. I flagged a yellow cab, speeding toward his private athletic club across town. The concierge barred my way at the corridor leading to the private suites. "Mr. Weston gave strict orders. No business discussions during his recovery hours." Before I could scream, the elevator doors chimed open. Margo stepped out, swinging a pristine tennis bag. The concierge bowed instantly. "Miss Margo, Mr. Weston is expecting you in Suite B." I swallowed every ounce of pride I possessed. I lunged forward, grabbing Margo’s forearm. "Margo, please. When you get inside, tell Conrad that Seven is dying. Tell him to unlock the smart door remotely. Please!" Margo glanced down at the frantic pet-cam feed looping on my phone screen. Her lip curled into a cold, indifferent smirk. "He was running around just fine this morning. Dogs don't die that easily, Bridget." The heavy mahogany door clicked shut in my face. I collapsed to my knees outside the corridor, banging on the brass hardware until my knuckles split, only to be dragged away by private security guards over and over again. On my phone screen, Seven’s labored breathing slowed. His small chest shuddered one final time. Seven died less than five miles away from me. And I couldn't even hold his paw. When the suite door finally opened an hour later, I was still sitting slumped on the cold marble floor. Conrad walked out, his hair slightly damp from the shower. Seeing me sitting there, he assumed I was still sulking. His tone carried a rare, patronizing softness. "I’ll tell the board to reverse their veto on your promotion," he said, extending a hand to pull me up. "And one more thing." He paused, clearly preparing to bestow upon me the holy grail I had prayed for over five years. "My mother finally softened up," he said. "You’ll resign from the firm, sign a standard prenuptial agreement, and complete a reproductive screening at her clinic. If you keep your head down and behave, I’ll take you to Sunday dinner at the estate next week." I slowly raised my head. "Anything else?" Conrad, deaf to the deadness in my voice, continued smoothly: "Keep your mother away from the family for the first year or two. Once my parents are comfortable with you, we’ll see." I looked at his handsome, unblemished face, and the ghost of a rainy night two years ago came rushing back. I had been eight weeks pregnant. The cramping had started suddenly, accompanied by a terrifying torrent of blood down my thighs. I had called him fifteen times. He was at his parents' charity gala, sitting next to Margo and her prospective suitors. He couldn't leave early. He couldn't risk our secret slipping out. He had failed to protect our unborn child. And today, he had murdered Seven. I looked up at him and let out a broken, quiet laugh. "Conrad. Seven is dead." Conrad froze. He snatched the phone from my trembling fingers. On the screen, Seven lay perfectly still against the dark carpet, his brown eyes staring into nothingness. On the drive back to the penthouse, Conrad drove like a madman, blowing through red lights, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. Late that night, we buried Seven in a private pet cemetery in the outer hills. Conrad knelt in the damp soil before the small granite marker, burying Seven’s favorite chewed tennis ball. By the time we walked back to the car, the eastern horizon was breaking into a dull, bruised lavender. Conrad suddenly reached out, seizing my fingers. His voice was frantic, cracking at the edges. "Give me a little time, Bridget. I will cut Margo off completely. I will deal with HR. I will deal with my parents." His grip was desperate, bruising. "You won't have to hide anymore. I will tell the entire world you are mine." Those were the exact words I had begged to hear across five long years. Yet hearing them now, my heart was a flat, unmoving sea. Not a single ripple stirred. I looked at him and nodded gently. "Okay." His shoulders slumped in profound relief. He thought he had won me back. He didn't realize that I had simply run out of energy to fight a dead man. It took Conrad two full days to execute his promises. He severed his business ties with Margo’s family. He cleared his schedule. On his way back to the apartment, he bought a massive armful of fresh gardenias—my favorite—and an engagement ring hidden inside a velvet box. When he unlocked the door, the condo was hollow. He dialed my number; the automated operator informed him the line was disconnected. My accounts were wiped clean. Every bridge had been systematically incinerated. Just then, his phone pinged with an alert. Dean had posted a single photo on his private feed. It was taken at the international terminal gate. The frame captured my silhouette from behind, suitcase in hand, walking toward the skybridge. Dean’s caption was two simple sentences: "She said she wanted to clear her head somewhere nobody knows her name." "Honored to carry her bags."