Dear Father, Your Mistress Is Mine

♤YASMIN♤

I straighten my gown for what feels like the hundredth time. It’s that silk champagne number, the one that cost more than my aunt’s chemo treatments. I try not to think about that part.

The reality of me standing in Jonathan Cross’s gigantic mansion in Highland Park, Illinois, still has me in a chokehold.

The idea of me settling down with a man like Jonathan Cross, with his long history of women and children, feels a little crazy when I really think about it.

But whatever. I’m doing it anyway.

Jonathan sits on the leather sofa. He looks young for 65, even with diabetes. Good money, I guess.

The gray at his temples works for him. He’s not handsome the way young men are handsome, more like a well-kept building that’s aged nicely.

I’ve heard the news call him disdainful, ruthless, but that only seems to appear for his business rivals because, since I met him back at that party in Ibiza three months ago, he’s been nothing but nice to me.

Weeks after meeting him in Ibiza, he somehow convinced me to move to America. Gift of gab, maybe. Or maybe because my stay in Spain was already running on empty after my aunt passed.

She is the only family I have since I woke up in that hospital three years ago with a blank memory. She tells me her name is Sofia, mine is Yasmin Vaziri, and that she is my aunt.

She says I have been through something traumatic, that my memory will take time, and that for now I should just focus on getting better. And somehow, I did.

I spent those three years helping her survive her illness instead of living anything that could be called a life, and she always says she feels guilty for that.

Before she dies, she makes me promise I’ll live my life to the fullest. She tells me to travel, enjoy life, and to find a partner because life is more beautiful with the right person beside you.

After she was gone, I tried. I went to parties, I explored Spain, and that was where I met Jonathan, the first man in my life, or at least the first one I remembered.

My aunt’s words about choosing a life where I wouldn’t have to keep surviving everything alone keep echoing in my mind, and when he asks me if I would like to marry him, I find myself thinking… why not?

Either way, I moved into the multi-million-dollar island he bought under my name in Fisher Island, where he had kept me private until now.

Jonathan never really cares about what most young men care about, especially not sex. That’s one reason I’m still with him.

He’s more about the company and conversation—conversation he does most of—and the good wine. But somehow, company and wine turned into me standing in his home about to be introduced to his family as his new wife.

According to the articles I read online about Jonathan Cross, despite his history with several women, Jonathan Cross only married once.

And that wife died mysteriously fifteen years ago. She gave him his first child, Sebastian Cross.

“What else are we waiting for? Let’s get whatever this is started. I’ve got clubbing by 9 p.m.,” the youngest one sulks, glancing at his Patek Philippe.

Theophilus Cross. Golden curly hair, piercing blue eyes, and a gold nose ring. Born to a Spanish model, now a model himself.

Someone hisses. I turn.

“Who else would it be than our dearest Sebastian Cross? He’s always doing this.”

Beauty Cross, second child and only daughter. She holds a position in Cross Holdings, got her father’s business brain but none of his patience.

Someone snickers behind me, and I turn my head slowly, already knowing I’m about to regret it.

Daniel Cross, the third child.

He’s leaning against the wet bar like he owns the oxygen in the room, one hand buried in his pocket, the other swirling a drink he barely looks at.

His eyes land on me with immediate disinterest, like I’m something unfortunate that got tracked into a place it doesn’t belong.

I hate that look.

He’s handsome, I’ll give him that. Dark skin, close-cropped hair, and a face that probably convinces women to make very bad decisions and thank him for it afterward.

But his eyes ruin it, cold in a way that isn’t just arrogance, but conviction, like he’s already decided what I am, and nothing I do will change the category.

He doesn’t even bother hiding the sneer.

“Relax, Beauty,” Daniel slurs. “Sebastian’s always late. It’s part of his brand.”

He lifts his fingers in lazy air quotes. “Mysterious, brooding, and too important for family dinner.”

Beauty doesn’t even look at him fully. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he replies, taking a slow sip of his drink.

His gaze slides back to me again, sharper this time. “I’m just saying what everyone knows.”

A pause, then his tone shifts slightly. “But I guess we’re all supposed to play nice now, right? For her.”

The way he says “her” makes my skin crawl.

Beauty’s jaw tightens. “Daniel.”

“What?” He shrugs, feigning innocence. “I’m being polite.”

His eyes drop deliberately to my feet. “I haven’t even asked why she’s wearing that.”

He tilts his chin slightly with a wicked grin tugging at his lips, and just like that, every gaze in the room follows, landing on my pale pink kitten heels.

Compared to the designer pairs Jonathan had sent up last week, they’re cheap, but they’re not cheap to me. Aunt Sofia bought them for my last birthday before she died.

So I chose them today because I wanted to feel her presence here with me.

Now I feel every second of that choice under their attention.

Heat rises up my neck, but I don’t react. I’ve read enough about this family to know Daniel thrives on seeing people’s confidence crumble before him.

“Daniel,” Jonathan warns.

Daniel lifts both hands in mock surrender, a smile playing on his lips.

“Chill, Dad.”

Then his gaze finds mine again, lingering a second too long, like he’s waiting for a crack. I don’t give him one.

Instead, I take another slow sip of rosé, wondering if anyone would notice if I just slipped through the French doors and disappeared back to my island, where the only drama is whether the pool guy remembered to add chlorine.

But then Jonathan’s eyes find mine across the room, and he smiles. Not a big one, just a small tilt of his mouth that says I’ve got you.

And damn if that doesn’t make my chest do something stupid.

He gestures for me to come over. My heels click against the floor as I cross the room.

Jonathan takes my hand when I reach him. His fingers are warm and a little rough.

“Nervous?” he asks quietly, making sure no one else hears him.

“Is it that obvious?” I whisper back.

“Only to me.” He pulls me down to sit beside him on the leather sofa. “They’re going to love you.”

I almost laugh. “Jon, they’ve been here for thirty minutes and no one’s said a single word to me.”

“That’s because they’re testing you.”

“Testing me?”

Before he could respond, the front door flings open. Every head in the room turns as a man walks in.

Sebastian Cross.

I’ve read too much about him not to recognize him immediately, yet seeing him in person feels different in a way I can’t quite settle in my mind.

Something in my stomach tightens, a small involuntary lurch I don’t welcome.

He walks in like he’s late for his own funeral and doesn’t really care.

God, he is extremely tall, tall enough to make the spacious living room shrink.

His charcoal black hair is tied back and dangles past his shoulders, and his jaw looks carved by someone with too much time and talent.

And he’s wearing all black from head to toe. Black turtleneck, black slacks, black boots that don’t make a sound because he moves like this place taints his dominating aura.

He stops in the middle of the room, eyes moving around slowly.

First his siblings, then his father, and then… me.