THE WIFE HE CHOSE FOR REVENGE

CELESTE POV

The heavy silk of the evening gown felt like liquid ice under my fingers, but my hands were steady. They had to be.

"Hold still, Julian," I murmured, a pearl-headed pin pressed lightly between my lips. "If I prick you, it’s going to ruin two hundred hours of hand-embroidery, and neither of us can afford that drama before the Gala."

Julian, standard fashion-week royalty and currently my most difficult client, let out a dramatic sigh that rattled the golden embellishments on his jacket. "Celeste, darling, if this zipper gives out on the red carpet, I am suing Sinclair Atelier for emotional damages. My reputation can't take another wardrobe malfunction."

"Your reputation is intact, and so is the gown," I replied around the pin, pulling the fabric taut across his shoulder.

Inside, my chest was tight enough to snap. I looked up into the tall, gilded mirrors lining the fitting room of Sinclair Atelier. Surrounding us were high ceilings, hand-painted murals fading at the corners, and rows of pristine, bespoke mannequins holding months of unpaid craft. Outside these doors, the heart of Paris buzzed with lights and money. Inside, I was holding together a global fashion house with thread, grit, and desperate lies.

Eight months ago, my mother had stroke-induced memory loss, leaving her sitting in a quiet sunlight-filled room in a private clinic, unable to remember her own name, let alone the creative direction of the brand she built. Three months ago, my father vanished into thin air, leaving behind empty bank accounts, forged signatures, and a trail of astronomical debts.

And now, every stitch of this empire rested entirely on my shoulders.

I took the pin out of my mouth and smoothed down Julian’s lapel. "Take a look. Perfect silhouette."

Julian turned to the glass, his critical eyes softening into a smile. "Oh, Celeste. Your mother would—"

The heavy oak doors of the fitting studio didn't just open; they smashed against the marble wall with a crack that sounded like a gunshot.

Julian shrieked, ducking instinctively. I whirled around, stepping between my client and the doorway before my brain even had time to process the intrusion.

Two men strolled into the room. They didn't wear the bespoke Italian suits of our clients or the sleek black linen of my staff. The front man wore a heavy leather jacket, his eyes hollow, cold, and assessing, like a butcher calculating the yield on a carcass. Behind him was a hulking mass of a man whose knuckle scars told a story far uglier than any rag-sheet headline.

"Celeste Sinclair," the leader said, his voice grating against the quiet luxury of the room. He didn't introduce himself. He didn't need to.

"We are in the middle of a private fitting," I said, my voice cutting through the air like a tailored blade. I forced my posture straight, shoulders back, chin tilted. "You have thirty seconds to turn around before security removes you."

"Security?" The man let out a dry, barking laugh. He reached into his coat, pulled out a brass paperweight from my front desk, and tossed it casually into the air before catching it again. "You mean the two old men at the gate? They're currently taking an early lunch, sweetheart."

My blood ran cold.

"What is the meaning of this?" Julian squeaked from behind me, trembling in his unreleased haute couture. "Do you know who I am?"

"Shut up, peacock," the large man growled, taking a heavy step forward. Julian bolted for the private dressing room, slamming the velvet curtain shut behind him.

The leader walked over to a rack of vintage silk coats—pieces my mother had restored thirty years ago. He ran a dirty, oil-stained thumb over a delicate piece of cream cashmere.

"Get your hands off that," I snapped, taking a step toward him. My hands were shaking now, not from fear, but from a hot, blinding surge of rage. "Who are you?"

"My name is Gregor," he said, turning to face me. He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, dropping it onto the velvet fitting stool between us. "And that paper says your father, Richard Sinclair, owes my associates four point two million Euros."

The breath slammed right out of my lungs.

Four point two million.

"My father is gone," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, though I fought with everything in me to keep it steady. "Whatever deals he made, he made alone. The Atelier is owned by my mother's estate. It has nothing to do with Richard's personal gambles."

"Nice try, little heiress," Gregor smirked. He tapped the paper with a thick finger. "Check the signature on the guarantor line."

My heart pounded a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs. Slowly, against every instinct screaming at me to run, I stepped forward and unfolded the document.

The paper was a high-interest loan agreement from a firm registered offshore. But it wasn't my father's signature at the bottom that made the room tilt on its axis.

It was my mother’s signature. Dated six months ago—long after her stroke, when she couldn't even hold a pen.

He forged it. My father had forged his incapacitated wife’s name to hand over her life’s work as collateral for his criminal debts.

A heavy, suffocating grief threatened to swallow me whole. He hadn't just abandoned us; he had strapped a bomb to our chest before he walked out the door. The tears burned hot behind my eyelids, but I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. I would not cry in front of these vultures. Not here. Not in her studio.

"This is a forgery," I whispered, lifting my eyes to meet Gregor's. "My mother was ill. She didn't sign this."

"The court won't care, and frankly, neither do we," Gregor said smoothly. "The deadline passed forty-eight hours ago. My boss wants his money, or he wants the deed to this building."

"You're not getting this building," I hissed, stepping closer, my knuckles white as I clutched the document. "Sinclair Atelier has stood for forty years. I will die before I let you tear it down."

Gregor smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Dying is cheap, Miss Sinclair. Living with the consequences is the expensive part."

He turned to his muscle and gave a casual wave of his hand. "Clear the racks. Start with the historical archive."

"No!" I lunged forward, grabbing the large man’s arm as he reached for an irreplaceable 1980s silk gown. "Don't you dare touch that!"

The man turned and shoved me hard. My heels caught on the edge of the rug, and I crashed sideways into the display table. Crystal vases shattered around me, water soaking into my trousers, shards cutting sharp lines into the palms of my hands. Pain flared through my wrists, but the physical sting was nothing compared to the agony ripping through my chest.

Everything was falling apart. Everything my mother bled for, everything I had sacrificed my youth to protect—it was all disintegrating in a matter of minutes.

Gregor leaned down over me, his shadow blotting out the chandeliers.

"You have until midnight tomorrow, Celeste," he murmured, his breath smelling of stale tobacco. "Four point two million. Or my boys come back with gasoline instead of moving trucks."

He stood up, whistled to his henchman, and walked out, leaving the front doors swinging open to the cold autumn wind.

I sat on the floor among the broken glass and wet silk, my breathing ragged, my hands bleeding into the hardwood. The quiet returned, heavier and more terrifying than the noise.

Then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

With trembling, blood-stained fingers, I pulled it out. It was an unknown number. I swiped to accept, pressing the speaker against my ear.

"Celeste?"

The voice on the other end was raspy, hushed, and distorted by wind.

My breath hitched. "Dad?"

"Listen to me carefully," my father whispered, panic lacing every word. "Do not pay them. If you give them the building, they will kill you anyway. Look in the lining of your mother's blue dress. I'm sorry, Celeste—they found me."

A muffled scuffle echoed through the line, followed by a sickening thud, a sharp intake of breath, and then—total silence.