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Chapter 11: A Heavy Burden
Data de publicação:
2026-08-28 17:14:04
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My Statue Husband Chapter 66: Public Backlash
Vivian’s POVThe rain had been relentless since dawn, turning the alley behind my studio into a murky stream that reflected the ugly neon glare of the city. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool, cold espresso, and fear.I sat at my drafting table, the screen of my laptop illuminating the sharp, rigid contours of my face in the dim room. My eyes burned. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, but exhaustion was a luxury I couldn't afford. Not while my name was being dragged through the dirt on every fashion blog, morning show, and social media feed across the country.Fraud. Exploiter. Criminal.The words had been repeated so many times over the last twenty-four hours that they had lost their meaning, turning into a dull, throbbing headache behind my temples. But while the public opinion was a knife, it wasn't the blade that threatened to bleed me dry.It was the money. Or rather, the complete lack of it.My hand hovered over the trackpad as I refreshed the competition por
My Statue Husband Chapter 65: The Dmear Campaign
VivianThe needle slipped, biting deep into the pad of my index finger. A bead of dark blood swelled instantly, threatening to stain the ivory silk draped across my lap.I cursed under my breath, shoving my finger into my mouth to suck away the metallic taste. The studio was dead quiet, save for the hum of the ancient radiator in the corner and the rhythmic, comforting sound of shears sliding through heavy wool on the cutting table across the room.It was 4:00 AM. In three days, my debut independent collection was supposed to walk the runway, proving to everyone—mostly to Zara—that I didn't need the corporate machine to make a name for myself. I didn't need her scraps.I glanced over at the cutting table. Mateo was still there, hunched under the harsh fluorescent light, measuring a bias cut with the kind of precision that couldn’t be taught in any design school. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes bruised and heavy, but his hands were steady."You should go home, Mate
My Statue Husband Chapter 64: The Stalker In the Shadow
VIVIAN’S POVI shouldn’t have been in his study.The heavy mahogany doors were the only real boundary left in this sprawling, suffocating house. My husband, Robert Kelvin, made the rules very clear the day we moved into the estate three years ago. My office is my sanctuary, Vivian. I don't want the maids in there. I don't want the dogs in there. And I don't want you in there.I usually obeyed. It was easier to obey than to deal with the quiet, freezing anger that followed if I stepped out of line. Robert wasn’t a man who yelled. He was a man who punished with silence, with frozen bank accounts, and with looks of utter disappointment that made me feel like I was two inches tall.But tonight, the house was empty. Robert was at a board dinner in the city, an event I had feigned a migraine to get out of. The staff had retired to their quarters. I only went into the study because I needed the master key to the wine cellar, which Robert kept locked in his top drawer. I just wanted a single
My Statue Husband Chapter 63: Advancing the finals
Vivian povThe harsh glare of the stage lights felt less like illumination and more like an interrogation. I stood on the polished mahogany floor of the Vanguard Auditorium, my knees locked to keep my legs from shaking. Seventy-two hours. That was how long I had been awake, surviving on stale black coffee, pure adrenaline, and a desperation so thick it tasted like copper in the back of my throat.Out of the hundreds of designers who had entered the qualifier, only five of us remained on this stage. And in exactly three minutes, only two of us would be moving on to the Grand Expo.I pressed my fingernails into the fleshy part of my palm, welcoming the sharp sting. It grounded me. It kept my eyes from darting toward the woman standing exactly three feet to my right.Zara Sterling.Even at the end of a grueling, multi-day design sprint that had left the rest of us looking like hollowed-out ghosts, Zara looked like she had just stepped out of an editorial spread. Her white silk blazer did
My Statue Husband Chapter 62: Breathtaking Runway
Vivian povThe backstage area of the Grand Palais smelled of expensive hairspray, scorched silk from steam irons, and the coppery, metallic edge of pure panic.At twenty-four, I had learned that high fashion wasn’t built on glamour. It was built on adrenaline and blistered fingers."Vivian, two minutes!"My assistant, Clara, was practically trembling as she held open the heavy velvet curtain that separated our chaotic backstage world from the blinding light of the main runway. Beyond that curtain sat five hundred of the most ruthless eyes in the fashion industry—critics who could destroy a decade of work with a single sentence, investors who held my family’s crumbling design house by a thread, and my father, who had made it crystal clear that if tonight failed, the Rousseau name was finished."Where is Michelle?" I demanded, my voice tight as I made a final adjustment to the seams of my showstopper piece."She’s—she’s on her mark, Vivian. But are you sure about the lighting adjustment
My Statue Husband Chapter 61: The Magic Tapestry
Vivian povThe backstage of the Grand Palais smelled of burnt hairspray, ozone, and impending ruin.Around me, models floated past like tall, elegant ghosts, wrapped in silk and organza, their steps practiced and hollow. Down the long, fluorescent-lit hallway, the muffled roar of the crowd sounded like a hungry ocean waiting to be fed. In less than two hours, the Paris Fashion Week showcase would begin. This was supposed to be the coronation of my career—the culmination of seven sleepless years, ruined relationships, and cold cups of coffee at three in the morning.Instead, I was staring at a corpse.My fingers trembled as I reached out to touch the hem of the show's centerpiece gown. The dress—a custom gown woven from a rare, metallic silk blend meant to look like liquid starlight under the runway lamps—was disintegrating.There was no other word for it. The fibers, once tight and shimmering, were fraying before my eyes. Small, fine cobwebs of silver thread hung limply from the waist
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