My Husband Regrets Marrying His Assistant

“Evelyn Astor, must you humiliate me today of all days?”

I looked at Alexander Elrod and Stella Monroe’s intertwined hands. They were wearing the matching “Eternity” rings I had designed.

I had spent three months perfecting the sketches for that design. On top of that, I oversaw the craftsmen as they carved every detail.

I had imagined countless times how the woman’s ring would look on my finger.

Alexander noticed my gaze and quickly released Stella’s hand.

“She’s just wearing it temporarily. I’m fulfilling her mother’s wish. Can’t you be a little more understanding?”

Ten years ago, I had turned down a full scholarship from a top art school.

Back then, Alexander was a nobody. We shared a single rusty sewing machine in the basement.

I still remembered him holding my hand and saying, “When I win the Paris Fashion Award, I’ll marry you.”

A decade had passed since then.

To complete the final piece for this show, I worked three consecutive days without sleep.

On the third night, I nearly collapsed at my workbench. The sewing needle pierced my finger, and blood stained the entire piece of fabric.

“Start over,” Alexander said coldly without sparing me a glance.

On the day we had long awaited, he stood there with another woman. He wore the wedding rings I had designed and demanded that I be understanding.

Just then, Stella walked toward me timidly.

“Eve, don’t blame Alex. This is all my fault. My mother... doesn’t have much time left.”

Alexander immediately stepped in front of Stella to shield her and glare at me. “Look what you’ve done. You’ve frightened her. She’s not well.”

Watching him twist the truth, I remembered every excuse he had ever given me over the years whenever I mentioned marriage.

In our third year, he said that we should wait until the company brand was established.

In our fifth year, he said that we should wait until we entered the international market.

In our eighth year, he said that we should wait until he received an invitation to Paris Fashion Week.

It had been ten years, and he had finally won the Paris Fashion Award. However, he was marrying someone else.

“Don’t bother with the divorce,” I said as I pulled my hand free. “I’d hate for Stella’s mother to see you two separate. It might make her condition worse. I can’t take responsibility for that.”

Alexander froze for a moment before he breathed a sigh of relief. “Finally, you understand. Once this blows over, we can—”

“There will be no ‘we.’” I cut him off. “Ten years, Alexander. Now, I finally see it clearly.”

His expression darkened. “What do you mean?”

“I’m done waiting.”

...

After that, I returned to my apartment in Paris.

When I opened the door, I went straight to the wooden box that held Alexander’s tools.

Inside lay the first gift I had ever given him. It was a set of high-quality tailoring shears.