Swapping Brides on My Cheating CEO

As I was stepping out of the apartment with my belongings, the neighbor suddenly stopped me in the hallway. He furrowed his brows and asked, "Could you guys keep it down at night?" I froze, bewildered. "What do you mean?" "The walls here are paper-thin. I hear you screaming every single night, and it's seriously loud. I'm a healthy, single guy—it's pure torture." As he spoke, he pointed toward the door right behind me. That was the starter apartment my fiancé and I used to share. Except I hadn't set foot in this place for over a year. Clutching the ring box in my hand, I stood frozen in place. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, yet I felt as if I’d been plunged into freezing river water, chilled to the bone. I stared at him and asked again, "What do you mean?" He looked up at me. Seeing that my confusion wasn't an act, he explained with a bit more patience: "Lately, at night... you’re way too loud." "Look, I get it, natural urges and all, but maybe tone it down a notch?" "Seriously, the soundproofing is nonexistent. You can hear everything." My mouth opened, but my throat felt choked with cotton. No sound came out. Finally, digging my fingernails into my palms, I asked him: "You think that was me?" He arched an eyebrow with a dry chuckle and pointed at the door behind me. "Don't you live here?" With that, he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and held up a photo. "This is your boyfriend, right?" The photo had been taken at dusk, right as the golden sunset bathed the balcony. A shirtless man leaned against the railing with his arms spread, a cigarette dangling from his lips, exuding pure post-coital languor. His profile was slightly blurry, but I recognized him in a heartbeat. Tyler Reynolds. My fiancé of five years. Just last night, he had been sitting across from me, patiently discussing which flowers we should use for our wedding aisle.With our wedding date just around the corner, Tyler had been insanely busy for months. Between constant business trips across the country and organizing every detail of the ceremony, he barely had time to breathe. This morning before heading out, he had kissed my forehead gently, pinched my cheek, and smiled. "Here’s your mission for the day: think about what special vows or ring exchange you want." I had punched his arm playfully, teasing, "Trying to dump the work on me again?" But a smile had already spread across my face. I had already made up my mind. During the vows, I wanted to exchange our new custom bands using the very first pair of promise rings he had ever given me. Back when we first started building his company, we were dirt poor. The two of us crammed into a dingy, damp studio apartment under four hundred square feet. The smell of cooking grease and rotting floorboards had followed us for years. It was right there that Tyler took his very first paycheck and bought a pair of matching 0.1-carat diamond rings. He had dropped to one knee, the tiny diamond catching the dim light so fiercely it stung my eyes. I had covered my mouth, tears spilling over, my first words being: "How much did this cost?" Heartbroken at my tears, he gently wiped them away and whispered: "Don't cry, Sienna. I'm going to make a fortune. I swear you’ll never cry over money ever again." Then he pointed out the grimy window toward the luxury high-rises across the avenue. "Look over there. One day, I’m going to buy you a penthouse just like that. And then we’ll get married." He had kept every single promise. The day we moved into our luxury penthouse, the man who had never shed a tear through all those grueling years soaked my shoulder with his weeping. He had said, "Sienna, I did it. I didn’t let you down."Over the years, we upgraded our jewelry several times, and that first pair of cheap rings was tucked away. I had torn our penthouse apart looking for them, but found nothing. Then I remembered the last time I wore mine—back in that tiny starter apartment. Tyler had bought the unit outright purely for sentimental reasons. He always said it was the sacred ground where our love story began. And now, my hand shook so hard around the velvet box that I could barely keep my grip. Fighting back the tremor in my voice, I looked at the neighbor. "I haven't been here in over a year." The man's face shifted instantly. After a long pause, he muttered: "Damn. I'm sorry." I took several deep, ragged breaths, trying to stop shaking. I fumbled for my phone, entering the passcode wrong twice before unlocking it. "Can we connect on SnapChat?" He added me, giving me a long, piercing look. "I'm Julian. Reach out if you need anything." I didn't have the energy to decipher the strange look in his eyes. In a daze, I somehow made it back home. It wasn't until I collapsed onto the bed, still clutching the ring box, that reality crashed in. I tapped open the new contact and sent my first message: [If that man comes back, could you let me know?] His reply came almost immediately: [They just walked in.]I stared at the screen, paralyzed. I clicked into my chat with Tyler. His last message was from this afternoon: [Babe, boarding now. ETA is 8:00 PM. Make sure you eat a good dinner, okay?] Attached was a photo looking out of an airplane window. I checked the time. It was 7:30 PM. I typed and erased several messages before finally sending: [Text me when you land.] Right after hitting send, I flagged down a cab and raced back to our old studio apartment. The whole ride, I desperately tried to convince myself: Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Julian mistook someone else for Tyler. That photo was blurry. It could be anyone. Every excuse, every rationalization I fabricated to save Tyler completely shattered the second I arrived at the apartment door. Sitting on the welcome mat was the exact pair of shoes Tyler had worn when he left this morning. I was the one who had picked them out for him. The door next to it clicked open. Julian peeked out, raised an eyebrow, and murmured: "Come in. You can hear it clearer from in here.""Mr. Reynolds, aren't you getting married soon? How do you still have time to sneak off with me?" Through the paper-thin wall, a woman's coquettish giggle came through loud and clear. Then, a voice so agonizingly familiar that I could no longer lie to myself responded. "This is the last time." Evidently displeased with that answer, the woman whined playfully: "You say that every single time. Could your precious little bride ever satisfy you the way I do?" Tyler didn't reply with words. Through the wall came the violent creak of bed springs and the woman's breathless, moaning cries. After what felt like an eternity, Tyler's voice drifted over, cool and distant: "You're a smart girl." "The money will be wired to your account. After today, we never see each other again." My stomach heaved violently. I clapped a hand over my mouth, stumbled into Julian's bathroom, and threw up until my ribs ached. I hadn't eaten all day, so I brought up nothing but acid. Tears streamed down my cheeks, washing over my shattered, humiliated face. *Ding—ding—ding—* My phone buzzed repeatedly with notifications. I didn't care to check. Suddenly, a loud ringtone cut through the quiet studio. It was our song. Mine and Tyler's favorite track. The sweet, romantic lyrics echoed off the bathroom tiles like a cruel slap in the face. Julian walked over and picked up my phone from the counter. "Aren't you going to answer?" I froze before the sink, paralyzed by grief, fury, and sheer helplessness. My brain had short-circuited. The ringing went on for a minute. The commotion on our side must have alerted the people next door. Out in the hall, floorboards creaked. Then came a knock on Julian's door. "Hello? Anyone in there?" It was Tyler. I scrambled to mute my phone. Julian took quick strides to the door, peered through the peephole, and looked back at me, silently asking how I wanted to play this. The knocking grew more persistent. With trembling fingers, I opened Tyler's chat. He had just messaged me: [Just landed, babe! Still taxiing on the runway.] Attached was a photo. Inside a plane cabin, his rolled-up sleeve rested casually on his knee, his wedding band gleaming on his ring finger. I stared at the cuff of his shirt. It was completely different from the color in the photo he'd sent earlier today. A deafening buzz roared in my ears. His lies weren't even sophisticated. I had simply trusted him so blindly that I had never bothered to look at the details. The knocking outside grew harder, his tone turning impatient: "Is someone home?"I’ve never been a martyr. My immediate instinct was to kick down that door, slap Tyler and his mistress across the face, strip them bare, and drag them into the street for everyone to see. But as those vengeful fantasies flashed through my mind, a chilling question stopped me: *And then what? What do I get out of it?* I gave five years of my youth to Tyler, standing by him when he had nothing, grinding by his side until everyone groveled before him as "Mr. Reynolds." If I threw a tantrum now, people would just laugh it off as a wealthy man's wild bachelor phase. What about me? What would I be left with? A broken heart and the title of a bitter, discarded ex? Was I just supposed to accept that? Hell no. I dug my nails fiercely into my palm, forcing my breathing to steady. I looked up at Julian and whispered: "Cover for me." Julian gave a sharp nod. He held his own phone to his ear, pretending to be on a call as he swung the door open: "Sorry man, on the phone with my wife, didn't hear you. What's up?" At the exact same time, I typed back to Tyler in my usual sweet, docile tone: [Go grab some dinner, babe. Don't work yourself too hard.] Outside the door, a text chime sounded from Tyler's pocket. Then his voice came, polite and apologetic: "Sorry about that. Wrong door. My bad." Footsteps receded. The moment the latch clicked shut, all my strength vanished, and I slid down against the wall onto the floor. I couldn't wrap my head around it. He loved me so much. For five years, he had doted on me, cherished me, noticing even when one of my eyes looked slightly bloodshot. How could a man like that cheat? While I was still grasping for reasons, the woman's voice drifted through the wall, pitched high and mockingly: "What are you panicking for? Why would your precious little bride ever come here?" "We've hooked up here so many times. Has she ever caught us once?"The noise next door eventually subsided. Julian walked over, patting my shoulder awkwardly. His lips parted as if searching for words of comfort, but all he managed to say was: "Don't beat yourself up. There are plenty of men out there." My gaze drifted past his shoulder to the neon lights blinking outside the window. Memories flooded my mind—every single time Tyler was supposedly "away on business." Every time I prayed for his flight safety and wished him luck on his meetings... how many of those trips were real? All those check-in photos, all those daily updates—which were truth, and which were calculated lies? In this apartment, the so-called birthplace of our love story... how many times had he brought women here to betray me? Did he buy her a promise ring here too? Seeing me drift off, Julian called my name in a low, husky whisper: "Sienna." "Just start over. You deserve better." I gave a faint nod. My mind was so overwhelmed that I didn't even stop to wonder how this supposed stranger knew my full name. I just stared at him blankly and asked: "How long has this been going on?"Julian told me he’d moved in about six months ago. And throughout those six months, he’d heard that kind of commotion every couple of weeks. I looked down and let out a cold, bitter laugh. Six months ago. That was the exact week Tyler proposed to me on that yacht. Seeing my hollow expression, Julian tried to cheer me up again: "Dodging a bullet before walking down the aisle is a blessing in disguise. Your whole life is ahead of you." I met his dark, bright eyes and managed a faint smile. "Thank you. Really." "Can you do me one more favor?" "What's that?" He arched an eyebrow. "Next time you hear anything over there... text me right away." A signature, roguish smirk touched his lips. "Consider it done." ... When I got back to the penthouse, I tossed the ring box carelessly into the back of a drawer. Then I texted Tyler: [When are you coming home?] He replied in seconds: [Babe, why are you still awake?] [I'll be back tomorrow morning. Pulling an all-nighter to finalize the proposal, then catching the first flight back.] I didn't reply. Instead, I opened my photo album and scrolled back through five years of memories. From college dorms to downtown skyscrapers, from a rotting studio to a multimillion-dollar penthouse... the photos became sharper, higher in resolution, but the boy who once held out his entire heart to me became blurry. I remembered the day he confessed his feelings, his young face flushed red with awkward shyness. His voice had been barely louder than a whisper: "Sienna, I've loved you for so long. Will you be my girlfriend?" "I promise I will treat you right, forever and ever." Now, years in the corporate grind had polished him into a smooth, calculating, slick CEO. The raw sincerity and passion had completely died out. Looking at the cute sticker he just sent me, my resolve hardened into stone. This wedding was definitely off. But I wasn't leaving empty-handed. I once told him: I need a whole lot of love, and a whole lot of money. Now that the love was dead, the gap had to be filled with cold, hard cash. It wasn't hard to dig into the other woman. Within hours, I had her background. Her name was Amber Vance. A wannabe influencer and gold-digger who had latched onto Tyler at a networking mixer. Beyond Tyler, she was juggling several other men—all of them wealthy, married, or gullible. She loved money above all else. Perfect. That made things so much easier. I created a burner account on SnapChat and sent her a friend request. For the verification message, I wrote just one line: [Do you want to marry Tyler Reynolds and become the official Mrs. Reynolds?]