All Chapters of EX-HUSBAND MISTAKE: FROM SUBSTITUTE TO BELOVED. : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

At first, I didn't know how to react. My mask came back on. The one I had built for three years. A mask made with three years of pretense, and deep down, I knew something had changed as I read that message again. My mask had gotten cracked, and it was huge. Cheating. As I walked back into the ballroom, my mind couldn't put it together. Carter was cheating on me. Despite how unloved I felt in this marriage, it didn't come to my mind to cheat. Or find a man so I can leave this place. Anger raged in me, and then I exhaled, my eyes fixated on Carter, as he gave his speech. “Calm down Yilena. It could be a joke.” I thought about it. Carter was always busy with work, and trying to raise opportunities for his business, there was no way he would have time to visit another woman. I bit my lips, it was something I did when I was overthinking and a wound was starting to fester. Even as I sat in the car, and he talked on the phone, I couldn't stop the thoughts while we drov

Fiona’s smirk vanished instantly. Her jaw tightened, and she looked as if she wanted to lash out. And I was glad. For a fleeting moment, my eyes caught Carter staring at me, before he turned away. We arrived at the large mansion, but then a large company of cars blocked our view. “Do you have some kind of bigshot in your family, Carter?” Fiona was the first person to ask him. I couldn’t be bothered as my phone rang with a ding. It was another text message, accompanied with a picture. I don’t know why I always opened it, but it was compelling. Did I need more proof to strengthen my resolve? I bit down on my lips. The picture this time showed Carter’s face in a state of ecstasy with his eyes closed. A chuckle left my lips, and my eyes went down to the text. ‘I’m the only one who can make him feel this way, Yilena. I’m back and I’m taking my husband back.’ Looking up, Fiona wasn’t on her phone. Did she schedule all these messages in spite of it. I never replied t

Carter's expression went from livid to liveless in a matter of seconds. Even though I wanted to savor more of that moment I was determined to make sure this was the last time I suffered humiliation in the hands of Carter, his family, and Fiona. That damn Fiona. Curling my fingers on the silverware I gazed straightway at Levi then my face hardened in disgust when I turned to Carter, “I am leaving,” I mouthed at him. He laughed, "You do not have my permission to do so,” he said in a very harsh tone. "Disregard everything that was said here and just be the “perfect" wife you've always been. Besides, every valuable woman knows how to take a dash of disrespect or two” he added. Not only was he belittling my emotions, he was making mockery of me. It wasn't a new occurrence but this time I was done. I slammed the silverware on the table and smiled sheepishly, "I don't remember asking for you to allow me to leave, I was telling you and if you didn't understand me I'll be honored to s

I thought. And thought. And thought. My pen pressed against my lap as I didn't know whether it was reasonable to go all out and use him for his resources, or act the meek sacrificial lamb and play safe. All is fair in love and war, or how was it said? "There are three things I can think of that are needed," the motivation seeping through the cracks of my beaten down morale. Firstly he would give complete seed capital and operational backing from Reinhardt Corporation to establish an independent fashion house under my sole creative control. Secondly, top-tier corporate legal protection to crush any retaliatory traps Carter attempts to spring when he realizes I’ve left him. Because knowing Carter it was as though I was signing up for my death sentence. And lastly, complete studio autonomy was a must too. No board member, no middle executive, and no Reinhardt will ever dictate my collections, my branding, or my business decisions. I smiled at my finished work. "I hope he doesn't t

The numbers climbed while I watched. 100,000 views. Then 112,000. Then 127,000 before the counter stopped refreshing long enough for me to breathe. Safyra’s first post—the single black-and-white sketch of a shoulder and the suggestion of a skirt—had been live for six hours. Comments stacked underneath in languages I only half-recognized. Fashion accounts with blue checks were already tagging each other. One Chicago editor she had followed for years simply wrote: "Who is this?" Seating on the low stool in La Perle Noire, the tablet balanced on my knees, the clean linen scent of the studio still strong even after dark. The overhead lights cast a soft pool across the cutting table. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows the city glowed in hard orange and white, but inside the loft the only movement was the slow scroll of her thumb. My phone lit up with an unknown number. I ignored it. Then another. Then a text from Ruby, the silk supplier who had already failed me: A cer