Semua Bab He Chose my Cousin, so I Chose Revenge: Bab 131 - Bab 140

After Julian left for home that night, I stayed in the workshop. I told myself I was just tidying up before locking the door, but my hands kept drifting toward the things Simone had touched. I found myself stopping at her worktable, my eyes drawn to the thimble she always kept in the top right corner, just where her hand would naturally reach for it. It still sat there, as though she had only stepped away for a moment and would be back before the kettle had time to boil. Beside it was the tiny scrap basket where she tossed threads that were too short to save for real use but too pretty to throw away without at least one more look. Some of the threads were still curled at the ends, catching the light when I tilted the basket.I picked up one of her fabric rulers. It was an old wooden one, the kind with worn edges and faint markings that had been dark once but had faded from years of handling. My fingers traced the indentations almost without thinking. The ruler reminded me of the first

The next morning, I found Simone already at her worktable when I arrived at the boutique. She was bent over a length of soft grey wool, her glasses slipping down her nose, her hair pulled into a knot that looked like it had been made in a hurry.“You’re early,” I said, setting my bag down.She didn’t look up. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I might as well come in.”I hesitated for a moment before pulling up the stool next to her. “I got an invitation yesterday. Paris.”That made her glance up. “Paris Paris?”“Cultural sustainability summit. They want me to speak.”Her eyebrows rose in what might have been excitement, but she didn’t smile. “That’s big.”“I know.”“You don’t look thrilled,” she said, setting down her scissors.“It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I just… remember what it’s like when everything I do is watched. Judged. Twisted.”She studied me for a moment, then reached for a spool of thread. “You know, the first time I heard about you was during that whole mess years ago. The gossi

We left the summit building without saying much. The early evening light in Paris had a way of softening the edges of the streets, even the busy ones. The river caught the last streaks of the sun, turning them into long ribbons of gold on the water. I was aware of Julian beside me, his pace matched to mine, his hands tucked loosely in his coat pockets.I thought I would feel relief after the talk, the kind that comes when something you’ve been building toward is finally done. Instead, there was a strange heaviness in my chest. Not dread exactly, but weight. The applause had been warm enough. The questions had been pointed but not entirely hostile. Still, there was something about standing in that room, about feeling the attention directed toward me, that no longer gave me the rush it once had.We crossed a narrow bridge where street musicians were playing something soft and unhurried. A few people had stopped to listen, their scarves tucked close against the chill. Julian slowed, and

That night, after the last package went out, I lingered in the boutique alone. The air still held the faint smell of steamed wool and paper tape from the day’s work. I turned off the overhead lights and left only the small lamp by the front counter on. It cast a circle of warm light over the register and the old brass scissors we kept there — a pair Simone had once sharpened herself.I sat down behind the counter, listening to the faint sounds of the street outside. The city never went fully quiet, but at this hour the noise softened into a low hum, like a sewing machine running in the distance.Part of me wanted to call Julian, but I knew if I did, he would say exactly what he had been saying for days — that it was better not to engage, better to let the whispers burn out on their own. He wasn’t wrong. But silence didn’t always feel like strength. Sometimes it just felt like holding your breath.I thought back to Paris, to standing under the stage lights. When the applause had filled

The next morning, I didn’t wake up with a plan. I woke up with a heaviness that wasn’t sharp enough to call pain, but deep enough that it felt like it was sitting in my chest. Julian had already left for the boutique, and the apartment was silent except for the faint hum of the fridge. I made coffee and sat at the kitchen table, not rushing to get dressed.The conversation from the night before kept turning over in my mind. The investor, the labels, the shadows they kept alive — it was the kind of problem that would eat up weeks if I let it. And for what? To stand in front of the press again, swearing that I was telling the truth? To start another cycle where the defense becomes its own performance? I had done that before, and the truth had always ended up buried under the noise.By the time I finished my coffee, I knew I wasn’t going to fight them in their way. If someone was determined to keep their hands busy pulling at my edges, then I would make sure my hands were busy with somet