Chapter 7

MAISON BELL

Haute Couture

Isabella stood on the sidewalk for several seconds, her face tilted slightly upward and a smile she couldn't suppress spreading across her lips as she admired the sign that had just been installed above the storefront. It was exactly as she'd imagined it, perhaps even better.

The elegant lettering she'd chosen stood out against the newly finished facade without appearing excessive, while the words Haute Couture, considerably smaller beneath the name, completed the sophisticated appearance she'd envisioned ever since Maison Bell had been nothing more than an idea scribbled onto one of the last pages of her sketchbook.

Bell.

No one needed to know where it came from. To anyone else, it would simply be the name of the brand: a short, elegant, easily remembered word. To Isabella, however, it meant something entirely different: a fragment of herself hidden within her own name.

Isabella.

No Vaughn, no Brooks, and no surname identifying the family she'd once belonged to or the man she was currently married to. Maison Bell was hers and hers alone.

She opened the door and stepped inside.

The faint smell of fresh paint still lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of newly installed wood. The renovations had been completed that very morning, and the cleaning crew had left less than an hour earlier, leaving behind an empty space that, for the first time, was beginning to resemble the boutique Isabella had spent so many months imagining.

The curtains covering the display windows were still drawn. She walked over to them and ran her fingers across the fabric, picturing the four mannequins that would eventually occupy the space. She already knew which gowns she wanted to display when the time came for the grand opening, and none of them would be particularly understated. If someone was going to stop in front of Maison Bell, Isabella intended to give them a reason to look twice.

She turned slowly, taking in the rest of the boutique. Boxes occupied much of the floor, some containing rolls of fabric and others filled with thread, zippers, buttons, and the various materials she'd been purchasing little by little over the past several months.

The sewing machines remained covered in the back, waiting for her to finish organizing the workshop, while the fitting rooms were already complete. The large mirrors she'd had installed reflected a space that was still empty but brimming with possibilities.

Farther back was her small office, and at the very end, behind a door that no one would consider particularly important, was the tiny room she'd had converted as an emergency precaution.

Isabella glanced toward it.

She hoped she'd never need it, but knowing it was there gave her peace of mind. If Thomas discovered her plans prematurely, managed to cut off her access to money, or followed through on his unspoken threat to leave her with absolutely nothing, Isabella would have somewhere to sleep.

She would have a bathroom, a roof over her head, her business, and enough money hidden away to survive while she found an apartment of her own. It wasn't the future she wanted, nor was it one she intended to choose willingly, but it was a future she could survive, and for the time being, that was enough.

She turned her attention back to the boutique and smiled.

There was still an enormous amount of work to be done. She needed to unpack the boxes, organize the fabrics by composition and color, assemble the workshop tables, receive the mannequins, finish her portfolio, and, if everything went according to plan, interview Matt Jones soon to discover whether the hands she'd watched working in the park were as skilled as she suspected. Yet, for the first time, none of it felt overwhelming because every unfinished task was further proof that Maison Bell was real.

This belonged to her: her dream, her brand, and her creations.

Isabella closed her eyes for a few seconds and allowed the satisfaction to settle fully within her. She'd imagined this moment thousands of times. During countless nights spent waiting in vain for Thomas to come home, she'd mentally designed every corner of the boutique. She'd selected fabrics while pretending to listen to his excuses, compared budgets while he attended his supposedly important business meetings, and hidden sketches among documents she knew her husband would never bother to examine.

Maison Bell had grown in the spaces Thomas had left empty, and perhaps that was why seeing it finally completed felt even more satisfying. For the first time in a very long while, she had something in front of her that belonged entirely to her, something born not from her husband's expectations or the need to maintain appearances, but from her own ambitions.

Thomas had never bothered to see her as anything beyond the role she played as his wife. He enjoyed showing her off at dinners, gatherings, and social events, proud to have a woman on his arm who attracted attention and perfectly complemented the image he wanted to project, but he'd never shown the slightest interest in learning about her dreams or discovering what she wanted to do with her life. As long as she was well dressed, smiled when appropriate, and didn't question his decisions too much, he seemed to believe there was nothing more he needed to offer her.

The worst part was that Isabella had taken far too long to realize just how thoroughly that dynamic had isolated her from the rest of the world. Her social life had gradually shrunk to Thomas's circle, the wives of his colleagues, and obligations she rarely chose of her own accord.

Every now and then, she'd meet one of those women for breakfast, although she'd never managed to establish a genuinely close friendship with any of them. Their conversations usually revolved around upcoming vacations, the most exclusive destinations, or which schools they intended to send their children to, decisions they seemed to make based as much on academic quality as on the extracurricular activities they could later boast about.

It wasn't that Isabella had anything against enjoying a comfortable life, but she found it difficult to connect with women whose aspirations, at least judging by what they revealed during those gatherings, seemed limited to preserving that comfort. Over time, she'd stopped trying to find common ground with them and, without even realizing it, had also stopped seeking friendships outside that circle.

Now, as she contemplated the space she'd managed to create behind her husband's back, she understood that Maison Bell represented far more than the possibility of achieving financial independence. It was an opportunity to build a life that didn't revolve around Thomas, to rediscover interests she'd neglected for years, and perhaps to find out how much of the woman she'd been before getting married still existed beneath all those expectations.

When she opened her eyes again, she felt an almost irresistible urge to get to work. She wanted to tear the packing tape off the first box, pull out every roll of fabric, and begin arranging everything until the space finally took on the appearance she'd envisioned for so long. She even approached one of the boxes and crouched down to find where to open it, but before she could do so, she glanced around the boutique once more, and a considerably more entertaining idea began taking shape in her mind.

No.

She'd waited far too long to have this place to celebrate its completion by simply unpacking boxes.

Maison Bell deserved a proper inauguration.

The smile that slowly spread across her lips would have been enough to warn anyone that her definition of 'proper' had just taken a rather unconventional turn.

She took her phone out of her handbag and searched for a number she hadn't yet saved under any compromising name. The call was answered on the second ring.

“What are you wearing?” Isabella asked with absolute nonchalance.