All Chapters of MY HUSBAND'S HIDDEN TRUTH : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Quinn’s POV I’ve spent three hours preparing for Leander’s birthday dinner, and my feet ache. Braised short ribs rest in the oven, roasted vegetables are ready to serve, and the chocolate lava cake, I practiced twice to get it right sits on the table. I looked at myself in the mirror, wearing the dress he once said made me stunning. I know he’d like it. I wanted everything to be perfect. Because tonight, I’m going to tell him I’m pregnant. The positive test is in my clutch, wrapped in paper like it’s a precious gift; not just two pink lines that have changed everything. We’ve been married two years. His grandfather arranged the union to save my family’s small business, but we tried to build something real between us. We weren’t passionate, but things were steady like a house with strong walls that hadn’t been painted yet. I always thought we’d decorate it together someday. My phone buzzes. It’s Sam, a colleague I worked with on a fashion spread last year; we keep in touch to ta

I don’t sleep much that night. I lied in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sound of Leander’s car pulling into the driveway. It never comes. When morning light starts to seep through the curtains, I got up and made myself a brewed coffee, it is what I used to drink it before I met him and he taught me to take it with cream and sugar. It tastes bitter on my tongue, but it matches the way I feel. My phone buzzes on the counter, it was Maya, of course. She texted me five times last night, asking if I was okay, if I needed her to come over, I told her I was fine, that I just wanted to be alone. But this morning, I need her more than anything. “Come over,” I text back. “I need to tell you everything.” She arrived here in twenty minutes, bursting through the door with a grocery bag full of donuts and wine. She doesn’t said anything when she sees my red eyes or the lilies that are still floating in the bathtub. She just pulls me into a hug, so tight that I can barely

The sound of police sirens fades down the driveway as they lead Leon away in handcuffs. Wren sits slumped in the armchair by the window, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Mr. Ivanov Sr. places a steady hand on her shoulder. “We’ll get your family safe,” he says, his voice gruff but kind. “But first, you’ll need to tell us everything he made you do.” Leander stands at the edge of the room, his eyes fixed on the empty doorway where Leon was dragged out. His jaw is tight same as when he gripped the desk earlier when I first showed him the files on Leon’s takeovers. Back then, he’d accused me of spying. Now, his hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white with the weight of what we’ve uncovered. I went into the hallway to catch my breath, my hand resting on my stomach. The baby flutters against my palm, a tiny reminder of why I started digging in the first place. Sam follows me out, her face tight with regret. “I’m so sorry, Quinn,” she says, handing me my phone. “I have no idea

I am so happy that my mother's studio is now a part of Ivanov industries. I run my hand over the drafting table, where sketches for Roots and Blooms are spread out in neat rows. The blue fabric we’d admired sits in a bolt at the corner, already cut into panels for the first batch of dresses. “The weavers just called,” Wren says, walking in with a mug of tea. Her arm is out of the sling now, though she still winces when she moves it too fast. “They’ve finished the test runs for the lily embroidery—exactly how your mom’s notes describe it.” She sets down a folder on the table—legal documents from the case against Jake and Leon. “The courts ruled in our favor,” she says, sliding the papers toward me. “All the fake records are being expunged, and Harris-Rossi is being forced to sell back every share they bought illegally. Mr. Ivanov Sr. says we can use the funds to open the design school your mom planned.” I flip through the pages, my eyes landing on a line that makes me pause: “Ivanov

Quinn’s POV The design school’s blueprint is spread across my mom’s drafting table—Leander’s additions are in pencil, mine in ink. The small workshop space he suggested for plant dyeing sits right next to the garden, just where she would have wanted it. I run my finger over the lines, tracing the path from the classroom to the gallery we’re naming after her. “New beginnings,” she’d said about yellow fabric. I’ve painted the school’s entrance in soft gold her color, the one she wore the day she signed the partnership agreement. It’s two days before the groundbreaking, and the factory is buzzing. Weavers are finishing the first batch of Roots and Blooms dresses each one stitched with a small note inside the pocket: “Made with care, built to last.” Wren is coordinating with local schools to enroll the first class of students, while Sam handles the paperwork for our organic fabric suppliers. Everything is falling into place, just like we’d planned back before the lies, before the pain.