All Chapters of Once Upon a Marriage : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Damon The morning sun filtered through the tinted glass of my Maserati as I pulled into the underground lot beneath Donovan’s Capital’s headquarters. The familiar rumble of the engine settled into a purr before I cut it off, silence folding around me. I checked my watch. 9:17am. Early enough to catch Mike before his day spiralled into back-to-back crises, late enough that the interns wouldn’t be clogging up the espresso machine in the executive lounge. The elevator ride to his floor was quiet. Polished brass mirrors reflected my clean-cut navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the throat, and the faint scar across my jawline, a reminder from years back, another life I rarely revisited. The doors slid open to reveal Donovan Capital’s minimalist reception, all slate floors, white marble counters, and hushed conversation. Mike’s assistant, a petite woman with braids coiled tightly against her scalp, gave me a polite nod. “Mr. Damon Grey to see Mr. Mike,” she said into the phone, her

Mike I sat in my office with the blinds half-closed, the morning sun slicing across the dark desk. My hands itched to type out emails, to approve invoices, to call Eloise just to hear her voice steady me. But instead, they drummed an anxious, frustrated rhythm against the leather armrest. She hadn’t replied to my last text. She hadn’t replied to any of them since last night’s dinner. Dinner with Damon Grey. I clenched my jaw and forced myself to breathe evenly. Damon had always had that effect on people, men or women, it didn’t matter. His presence alone could shift the temperature in a room. Make powerful CEOs sweat under their ties. Make billionaires lean forward to listen. Make someone like Eloise…look at him like he was offering salvation itself. I replayed every second of that dinner. The way she’d visibly softened at his words. The way her eyes had brightened with something I hadn’t seen in weeks, hope, curiosity, maybe even attraction. And the way Damon had watched her, h

Lucian I sank into the plush leather armchair by my office window, swirling the remaining amber liquid in my glass. The scotch glowed under the early dusk light, casting honeyed reflections across the Italian marble floor. Outside, the city skyline rose in jagged steel silhouettes, bathed in blood-orange sunset. But none of its beauty reached me today. My phone buzzed atop the glass table, rattling slightly against the crystal decanter. I ignored it at first, staring blankly at the shifting horizon. When it buzzed again, insistent, I snatched it up with an irritated sigh. “Speak,” I snapped. “It’s Julian from Ristov PR,” came the crisp voice. “Apologies for the late update, sir, but I thought you’d want to know immediately. There’s talk spreading through the upper design circles today.” I felt a familiar tightening in my chest, an ancient predatory tension. “What talk.” “It appears Damon Grey has been showing… unusual interest in Eloise Sinclair’s upcoming collection,” Julian co

Eloise The gallery lights cast a muted gold across the white walls, each display plinth glowing like a moonlit altar. I stood near the entrance, my palms damp, watching as buyers, stylists, and press filtered in with hushed admiration. Their voices hummed around me – snippets of praise, curious questions, reverent silence when their gazes fell on each piece. My pieces. Each sculptural work sat in minimalist isolation under glass domes or mounted on clear acrylic stands. Rough-brushed silver twisted around molten gold in jagged cuffs and layered chokers. Bronze interlaced with black rhodium in raw, brutal earrings shaped like shattered wings. At the centre of the gallery, a heavy breastplate necklace dominated its plinth – wide hammered silver segments inspired by Max’s drawing of an iron-clad superhero chest. I breathed in deeply, the crisp scent of white lilies from the arrangements at each corner grounding me. Around me, candle sconces flickered against the exposed concrete beam

JenniferMy thumb hovered over the screen, refreshing Eloise’s Instagram page for what felt like the thousandth time today. Every refresh brought a new wave of bile rising up my throat.“Eloise Sinclair stuns the industry with emotional Ironheart collection.”“A mother’s heartbreak turned into sculptural brilliance.”“Upcoming face of resilience and feminist expression.”I threw my phone across the marble kitchen counter. It skidded and slammed into the ceramic vase at the edge. The vase wobbled but didn’t fall. I clenched my jaw in irritation.“Lucky bitch,” I hissed under my breath.The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my apartment, catching on the polished surfaces and pristine designer furniture. The place felt colder lately. I padded across the glossy tiles in my silk robe and picked up my phone. A hairline crack now split across the corner of the screen. Great. Another small thing to fix.Just like Eloise. Another stain to scrub from my future.My ph