All Chapters of He Chose my Cousin, so I Chose Revenge: Chapter 181 - Chapter 190

The city looked different when you entered it slowly. I had been to Milan before, but always in the blur of shows and deadlines, always rushing from one venue to another, barely noticing the streets between. This time I stepped out of the car at my own pace, carrying nothing more than a small suitcase and the sketchbook I had brought from Kyoto.The air was warm but not heavy, the late afternoon light casting soft gold against the pale stone of the buildings. Julian walked beside me, our driver already taking our luggage to the small boutique hotel I had chosen instead of one of the larger ones the organizers had suggested. I wanted space that felt personal, not a lobby full of names and cameras.Inside the hotel, the reception was quiet. The woman at the desk welcomed us with a gentle smile and handed over a single key. The room upstairs was simple — white walls, wooden floors, a single vase of fresh flowers on the desk. I set my sketchbook there before looking out the window. From h

The evening air in Milan was warmer than I expected for this time of year. The city stretched out below our hotel balcony, lights beginning to glow in the distance while the last traces of daylight lingered against the pale sky. From this height, the streets looked calm, though I knew they were still alive with movement. Cars slipped through narrow lanes, people walked home with shopping bags swinging at their sides, and the low hum of voices rose every now and then when the wind shifted toward us.Julian had brought out two glasses of wine, setting one in front of me before leaning against the railing. Neither of us had spoken much since returning from the gallery. The day had been full, from meeting with the organizers to carefully packing each piece for shipment, but it was not the busyness that kept us quiet. It was something heavier, not unpleasant, but weighted in the way certain moments stay with you long after they pass.I sipped the wine slowly, letting the taste settle befor

The email came in just after nine on a Tuesday morning. I had been at the boutique for less than an hour, the scent of fresh coffee still drifting from the back room, when I saw the subject line: Delay in Shipment – Urgent. At first, I scanned it quickly, expecting a short delay, a matter of a day or two. Then I read it again, slower this time, letting each line settle. Our primary silk supplier had run into a production issue—something about a machine failure combined with a backlog from another client—and the shipment scheduled for this week would not arrive for at least another month. There was no mention of an alternative solution, only a neatly worded apology and the promise to “update you as soon as the situation changes.” I set my coffee down without drinking it. The Kyoto silk was meant for the spring jackets, a centrepiece of our upcoming line. Without it, the timeline would unravel. Claudia was refolding scarves near the window when she noticed my expression. “Bad news?”

The email came in just after opening, but I did not read it until nearly eleven. Mornings at the boutique often moved in a rhythm of their own—checking displays, greeting customers, adjusting fabrics in the light. It was only when Claudia stepped out to take a call and the shop was quiet that I sat at the counter with my tea and opened my inbox.The subject line read: Invitation to Join the National Sustainability Council for Fashion.I read it twice before leaning back in my chair. The council was a coalition of designers, manufacturers, and policymakers who were supposed to set guidelines for sustainable practice in the industry. I had followed their work over the years, sometimes agreeing with their positions, sometimes frustrated by their compromises. Being invited to join them was unexpected.Julian came in from the back room just as I was scrolling to the second paragraph. “Something has your face doing that thing,” he said.I looked up. “What thing?”“The thing where you look l

The week had been full of noise, the kind that did not come from hammers or sewing machines but from conversations, emails, and headlines that seemed to follow me into every quiet corner. By the time Sunday arrived, I wanted nothing more than a day without demands.Julian suggested the river. It was late morning when we left the apartment, the air just warm enough to walk without a coat. The city was slower on Sundays, as if even the traffic had decided to take a softer route. We stopped at a bakery along the way for coffee and small pastries wrapped in brown paper. The warm scent of butter and sugar drifted up as we walked, mingling with the faint sharpness of roasted coffee.The riverbank was only a fifteen-minute walk, but by the time we reached it, the pace of the city felt far away. The water moved in an unhurried rhythm, catching the light in shifting patterns. Boats passed now and then—some small and private, others carrying families or tourists who leaned over the sides to tak