My Statue Husband

VIVIAN POV

The neon sign across the street flickered through the rain-streaked window of the studio, casting a low, rhythmic pulse of amber light over the cutting table. It was three in the morning. My eyes burned, raw and strained from hours under the stark white fluorescence, but my hands didn't shake. They couldn't.

I smoothed a line of hand-dyed ivory silk across the mannequin’s torso, my thumb tracing the edge of the seams. This was it. The crown jewel of the Celestial Dawn collection—a line meant to anchor my career at the House of Raymond, meant to prove that five years of working sixteen-hour days as an underpaid associate hadn't bled me dry. It was meant to make me a lead designer.

"If you stare at that bodice any harder, Vivian, you’re going to burn a hole right through the chiffon."

I didn't turn around, but the tension in my shoulders eased just a fraction at the sound of Zara’s voice. She stepped out from the shadowy back kitchen, holding two steaming paper cups. She smelled like high-end espresso and expensive plum perfume—a signature scent that always seemed to announce her presence before her footsteps did.

"It’s the drape on the left lapel," I murmured, taking the cup she offered and leaning back against the edge of the heavy wooden drafting table. The heat from the cardboard soothed my cramped fingers. "It’s sitting a quarter-inch too low. Under the runway spotlights, the shadow will throw off the whole silhouette."

Zara let out a soft, melodic laugh, settling herself onto a stool beside me. She looked pristine, as she always did. Where my hair was pinned up in a messy, chaotic bun held together by two stray fabric markers, her dark hair fell in liquid waves over a tailored blazer.

"You are insane," she said affectionately, reaching out to pat my knee. "Vivian, it’s absolute perfection. You’ve been staring at these twenty-five pieces for six months. You lost your mind somewhere around chapter three of the mood boards."

"I just... it has to be flawless, Zara," I said, my voice dropping, carrying the weight of everything riding on tomorrow's review with Director Raymond. "You know how Raymond is. He’s looking for a reason to pass the promotion to someone from the outside. If this flagship piece doesn't stop his heart, he’ll leave me stuck in the basement studio for another three years."

Zara set her coffee down, her dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt fiercely protective. She reached out, placing her cool, manicured hands over my thread-calloused knuckles.

"Listen to me," Zara said softly, her voice steady and grounding. "You are the most brilliant designer this city has seen in a decade. Raymond would be an idiot to overlook you. You poured your soul into these sketches, into every single stitch. I’ve watched you bleed for this collection, Vivan. Literally." She pointed with a slight grin to a faded pinprick scar on my index finger. "This is your moment. Stop doubting yourself."

A lump formed in my throat, thick and heavy. The exhaustion, the quiet dread of failure, the terrifying vulnerability of putting my absolute best work out to be judged—it all pressed against my chest at once. I leaned into Zara’s side, letting out a long, shaky breath.

"I don't know what I'd do without you here tonight," I confessed quietly. "Leo was supposed to come by hours ago. He said he’d bring dinner, bring some moral support... but his phone went straight to voicemail at midnight."

Zara hesitated for a fraction of a second—a subtle hitch in her breathing that I only caught because my head was resting near her shoulder. She smoothed my hair back with a gentle, motherly touch.

"You know how Leo gets when he’s stressed with his own legal clients, Vivian," she said softly, though there was a strange, distant edge to her tone. "Don't hold it against him tonight. He cares about you. But right now, you need to focus on this. On your legacy."

"Yeah," I breathed, pulling back and forcing a faint smile. "Yeah, you're right. My legacy."

I turned back to the mannequin, reaching for the small velvet box sitting beside my shears. Inside lay the final touch: a hand-forged, antique gold needle-brooch, custom-made to pin the dramatic diagonal sash of the flagship dress in place. It was the physical signature of the whole line.

My fingers brushed the velvet, but before I could lift the brooch, the silent studio was shattered by the harsh, vibrating rattle of a cell phone on the metal cutting desk.

I jumped, my heart slamming into my ribs.

Zara reached out, her movement surprisingly fast, snatching the phone before I could see the screen. "It’s... it’s just an automated notification," she said quickly, slipping the phone into her blazer pocket. "Probably the building management letting us know the main doors lock at four."

I frowned, a sudden, cold prickle of unease rippling across my skin. "The main doors lock automatically at midnight. They don't send texts."

"Well, whatever it was, you don't need distractions right now," Zara said smoothly, her composure instantly sliding back into place like a sheet of silk. She picked up the golden brooch from the box and handed it to me, her eyes shining with warmth. "Finish the crown jewel, Vivian. Put the pin in, pack up the leather portfolio, and let’s go home. You’ve won."

I looked at the golden needle in my hand, then looked at Zara. The warmth in her smile was identical to the warmth she had shown me since our first day in design school together six years ago. The girl who had shared cheap ramen with me, who had stayed up through endless late nights, who knew every secret ambition I harbored. I pushed the faint, irrational flicker of doubt out of my mind, scolding myself for letting sleep deprivation make me paranoid.

"Together," I whispered, holding out my hand. "When I get the lead position, I’m making you senior associate. We build the brand together."

Zara smiled—a wide, brilliant expression that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Together," she agreed.

I turned back to the dress, carefully piercing the heavy silk with the golden needle, securing the sash in a cascading wave of ivory folds. It was done. Twenty-five garments stood lined up on the rolling racks along the wall, draped in protective black velvet garment bags, and at the same time my heavy leather portfolio—containing every original sketch, fabric swatches, and technical specification sheet—lay closed and pristine at the head of the table.

"I'm going to grab a bottle of water from the breakroom downstairs before we haul the bags to the car," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Can you make sure the garment bag zippers are fully clipped?"

"Go," Zara smiled softly, gesturing toward the door. "I'll handle the bags."

I left the studio, the heavy oak doors closing behind me with a soft click. The long, dimly lit hallway of the corporate office building was completely silent, empty save for the low hum of the air conditioning. I walked down to the breakroom, splashed cold water on my face, and stared at my reflection in the mirror—pale, exhausted, but with a quiet fire burning in my eyes. Tomorrow, everything would change.

Five minutes later, I walked back down the hallway, keycard in hand.

As I approached the door to Studio 4B, I paused. The heavy oak door was slightly ajar, a sliver of bright light spilling into the dark corridor.

From inside, I heard the faint sound of hushed, low voices.

I stopped, my hand hovering an inch from the handle.

"...are you sure she didn't notice?" a man’s voice whispered—a familiar, smooth baritone that made my blood instantly run cold.

Leo.

"She’s exhausted, Leo. She suspects nothing," Zara’s voice replied, sharp, cold, and utterly stripped of the warmth she had offered me just moments ago. "I told you to wait in the parking garage. If she saw you up here—"

"I got nervous," Leo cut in, his voice laced with a tense, hushed urgency. "Is it all in here? The entire portfolio? The original draft blueprints?"

"Everything," Zara said, followed by the crisp sound of a heavy zipper closing on a leather case. "Every sketch, every fabric spec, every technical drawing from the past six months. Without this book, she has no proof these designs were ever hers. By nine tomorrow morning, the Celestial Dawn collection belongs to me."