Dear Ex, You Missed a Fashion Icon의 모든 챕터: 챕터 21 - 챕터 30

MARISSAThe air in the underground car park was stagnant, smelling of oil and old exhaust, but it was nothing compared to the rot I felt coming from Tristan. I had been standing in the shadows for minutes, my back pressed against a cold pillar, listening. Every word out of Tristan’s mouth was a needle under my skin. My eyes were burning not with tears, but with a thick, inky rage that felt like it was staining my very soul.I watched the way Tristan leaned into Asher’s space. I saw the way he used Asher’s past, his family’s rejection, like a serrated blade. Tristan has done nothing but take. He takes space, he takes peace, he takes dignity. And now, he was trying to take the one good thing that had happened to me in this entire, miserable saga: Asher.I couldn't contain it anymore. The bridge of my patience didn't just crack; it disintegrated.“And who the hell do you think you are to threaten him like that, Tristan?”My voice didn't sound like mine. It was low, vibrating with a letha

MARISSAThe air in the private dining hall was thick with the scent of aged wagyu and the even heavier smell of desperation disguised as success. This reunion was more of a gathering to show off. “I’m telling you, the Singapore merger was a nightmare, but the commission? Let’s just say my wife is getting that villa in Tuscany for our anniversary,” Marcus boomed, swirling his cognac. He looked around the table, hungry for the envy of his peers.“Tuscany? Nice, Marcus. But did you see the Wall Street Journal this morning?” Sarah, a woman draped in enough gold to sink a ship, leaned forward. “My firm just closed the Thorne account. Seven figures. I think I’ve forgotten what a weekend even looks like, but the view from the penthouse makes it worth it.”The table erupted into a chorus of "Humble Bragging." Each person was a hunter, laying their trophies—cars, watches, titles—on the mahogany table for inspection. They weren't friends; they were competitors in a game of who could hide their

MARISSAThen Richard gave him another slap before I could finish thinking.The second slap was louder than the first. It wasn't just a strike; it was a rhythmic assertion of ownership. Asher’s head whipped in the opposite direction, a thin trail of blood blooming at the corner of his mouth. He didn't even raise his hands to protect himself. He simply stood there, a hollowed-out version of the man I knew, accepting the violence as if it were his birthright.My vision went white. I didn't think; I lunged. I was halfway to Richard, my fingers curled into claws, when the air was suddenly ripped from my lungs.Two shadows moved with professional efficiency. Richard’s bodyguards—men I hadn't even noticed standing by the velvet curtains—grabbed my arms, wrenching them behind my back. They didn't just hold me; they pinned me, my toes barely touching the carpet."Let go of me!" I screamed, the sound tearing through the suffocating silence of the room. "You coward! Richard, look at me!"Richar

MARISSA The air in the room didn't just feel cold; it felt clinical. The transition from physical violence to legal execution was a shift I had planned with Marcus for weeks. As Richard stood there, nursing his jaw and his bruised ego, he had no idea that the walls were already closing in. Asher leaned toward me, his voice a frantic whisper. "Marissa, what are you doing? What did you mean by making them pay? You can’t fight my family. I told you about the kind of power they wield.” I looked at him, my expression softening only for a second before hardening into a mask of iron. "I’m not fighting them blindly, Asher. I’m fighting them with the truth." I turned to Marcus and gave a single, sharp nod. "Proceed." Marcus stepped forward, the fluorescent lights of the hotel reflecting off his glasses. He didn't look like a lawyer at that moment; he looked like an executioner. "Mr. Brown," Marcus said, addressing the patriarch while ignoring the fuming Richard. "I took the liberty of

MARISSA The tip was delivered at 3:00 AM. By 8:00 AM, the fashion world was in a state of cardiac arrest. "Queen," the mysterious powerhouse of the industry who had recently collaborated with Vance Fashion House, had leaked a statement through a secondary agency: The Silver Silk Collection 2 is on the verge of cancellation. The reason? A toxic and unsustainable environment within the leadership of Vance Fashion House. The damage wasn't in the withdrawal of the clothes. It was the word toxic. In an era of brand accountability, that word was a death sentence. Monday morning. The executive boardroom felt like a funeral parlor. "The stocks opened five points down," one executive barked, slamming a tablet onto the mahogany table. "The rumors are spreading like a virus. If we don't send a public denial today, the collection is dead in the water." All eyes turned to me. I sat at the end of the table, my hands folded neatly, my face a mask of calm. Tristan sat at the head, lookin