All Chapters of He Chose my Cousin, so I Chose Revenge: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

The morning air carried a kind of stillness that didn’t belong to any ordinary day. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t calm. It was the pause before consequence, the breath before something irreversible. I arrived at the boutique before the sun had climbed past the rooftops, before traffic stirred or the city exhaled into routine. I came alone, needing to stand inside this space, to trace the curves of the walls that once shaped the best and worst of me, and ask whether it could truly be mine again. Not by memory. Not by force. But by reclamation.The floorboards creaked faintly beneath my boots, but the silence held.These walls weren’t just beautiful anymore. They were scarred. The corners still held the scent of jasmine from Claudia’s last shipment. A single mannequin stood bare near the window, as if waiting to be dressed in something that wasn’t a lie. I didn’t look away. I didn’t flinch from the marks left behind. This time, I didn’t want to erase them. I wanted to acknowledge them out

The news didn’t arrive all at once. It came in slivers, each one sharper than the last. First, a subtle shift in the media narrative. Headlines no longer praised our bold unveiling or the depth of the investigative article. Instead, they questioned the timing. Asked whether the exposé had been coordinated to distract from “growing rumors of internal mismanagement.” Words like “financial desperation,” “leadership gamble,” and “fractured legacy” bled across articles like a slow leak, deliberate and insidious. Then the calls began. A few vendors hesitated to confirm delivery schedules. One of our dye houses in Portugal sent a carefully worded email requesting “additional reassurances of stability.” A boutique in Paris that had previously requested an exclusive pre-season capsule quietly withdrew interest. There was no outrage, no accusation. Just retreat. By noon, the worst of it arrived. Simone came into my office with her tablet pressed tight to her chest. Her expression gave e

I watched the light shift across the boutique floor as the sun moved higher in the sky. Morning bled into noon without fanfare, but the weight of the day pressed against my shoulders as if it knew what I was about to do.Simone’s heels clicked softly from the back hallway. She’d been organizing the guest list for hours, her posture tense but focused. Claudia had taken over press logistics. Lena was on the phone with someone from The Seasoned Edit, weaving another thread of quiet invitation. Everyone was working like the air itself had thickened into urgency.But I stood still.Not frozen. Not unsure. Just still.I was wearing white. A soft silk blouse tucked into slate trousers, no jewelry except the delicate ring my mother once wore. My hair had been pulled into a low twist, no makeup but a single stroke of color on my mouth. The look wasn’t armor. It was invitation. And I needed it to feel honest.Julian stood by the window near the street, arms folded, his gaze unreadable. He had a

The boutique was quiet again. Not still, not truly silent, but quiet in the way a body is when it’s holding something in. The air carried the scent of steamed fabric and jasmine tea. Somewhere in the back, Simone was finishing a late call with the Zurich vendor. I could hear her pacing lightly, her words clipped and professional. But I stayed where I was, fingers curled against the smooth grain of the atelier’s main table. The one Julian had restored with his bare hands. The one I had bled on when I first came back.I didn’t want to move yet.My skin still held the memory of his touch from last night. Not rushed, not demanding. Just present. His hand had lingered at the base of my spine like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go. But he had let go. And I had walked away. Not because I didn’t want him. Because I did. So much that it terrified me. But I needed to face this storm without leaning on anyone else’s strength. Even his.Especially his.

The day began with a stillness that unsettled me more than any storm could have. The boutique was quiet, too quiet, like the silence that comes right before glass shatters. I stood in the fitting room hallway, fingers trailing lightly along the grain of the wall, trying to ground myself in the physical space I had fought so hard to reclaim. It felt surreal, this calm, as though the walls themselves were bracing for something they already sensed coming. Claudia was the first to arrive. She didn’t speak right away, just handed me a folder with tight lips and eyes that avoided mine. I opened it slowly, already knowing I would not like what I saw. Inside were printed screenshots of a thread spreading quickly across the industry’s internal forums, the kind usually reserved for suppliers, PR firms, and event coordinators. Someone had leaked partial financial records. Not current ones, but old enough to be misleading and carefully selected to suggest mismanagement, overspending, and a cash