All Chapters of EX-HUSBAND MISTAKE: FROM SUBSTITUTE TO BELOVED. : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

One by one different work houses reached out to me. Although majority claimed to be sent by Levi, a small amount of them said they were from the uprising of my Safyra account. A date was also set for my big day. While I did finally have the resources to effectively run my Atelier it was unfortunate when ten days before the debut runway showcase, I stepped through the loading bay of my dye-house partner facility and stopped cold. The air hit me first—thick, acrid, chemical. It was not the controlled sharpness of professional dye work, but something sour and wrong, like bleach mixed with rotting flowers. Rows of stainless-steel vats stood open under the industrial lights, their contents no longer the precise, luminous shades I had spent weeks perfecting. Instead the liquid sat murky and gray-green, film already forming on the surface. Rails of hanging silk and technical organza dripped steadily onto the concrete floor, the once-vivid custom colors bleeding out into dull, blo

The first light outside the venue hall was still thin and gray when the morning broadcast cut to Fiona Stone. She stood under studio lights that flattered every angle, the gown on her body a near-perfect echo of the flagship piece Yilena had named Phoenix—deep V back, architectural shoulders, the same liquid fall of ink-black silk, even the irregular crystal beading that caught the light like shattered glass. Fiona turned slowly for the cameras, one hand resting lightly at her waist. “This is the opening look for my new independent line,” she said, voice warm and practiced. “I designed it myself over the past six months. Original sketches, original concept. Fashion should speak for itself, right?” The clip looped across every major fashion feed before most of the buyers had finished their first coffee. Outside the venue the air already shimmered with heat and noise. International buyers clustered in loose groups along the red carpet approach, voices overlapping in rapid French, I

Morning hit like a second spotlight the next day. Every major fashion feed ran the same story under different headlines: SAFYRA TAKES CHICAGO YILENA STONE’S RAVEN COLLECTION REWRITES THE SEASONS Critics called the redone change “ferocious.” Buyers called the pre-orders “unprecedented.” One editor in Paris simply posted a photo of the gown under the runway lights with the caption: This is what happens when you take the spotlight. Carter's bail hearing made the tabloid front pages too. The words “corporate theft” and “injunction” in bold. Fiona’s name appeared in smaller type, already sliding toward the footnotes. I read none of it at first. Sitting at the small table in the loft kitchen, both hands wrapped around a wide ceramic mug. Steam rose in thin, crisp curls, carrying the clean sweetness of elderflower. The heat soaked into my palms. My body still hummed with leftover adrenaline and the deep ache of too many hours being on my feet. The phone on the counter vibrated

The production log glowed too clean on the screen. I sat at the long worktable in the loft, coffee gone cold beside my laptop, scrolling the same line three times. The French mulberry silk—organic, limited run, the exact weight and hand I needed for the next three hundred gowns—had left Lyon on schedule. Tracking showed it cleared the Atlantic without issue. Then, at Chicago, the status flipped to a single red word: HELD. There was no further update. No estimated release. Just held. I refreshed the page. Same result. Reza appeared at my shoulder, tablet already open to the same screen. “Customs flagged it at 04:12 this morning. No reason listed yet. I called the broker. They’re saying it’s under ‘active dispute.’” Closing the laptop with a soft click. I let out a very long sigh. “Get the car,” I said firmly. “We’re going to the docks.” The lakefront wind hit like a slap the moment I stepped out of the vehicle. Cold, wet, relentless. It whipped across the pier in hard gusts th

The fake inventory log sat in the exact center of my worktable, slightly angled, as if I had left in a hurry. One page. Clean formatting. A second silk shipment listed in bold: downtown freight depot, Bay 14, arrival window 02:40–03:10. High-value organic mulberry, same grade as the held French cargo. Destination codes that looked real. I had even added a small handwritten note in the margin—priority unload, do not delay—in my own handwriting. I climbed the narrow iron stairs to the higher loft office and left the door cracked. From the glass wall I could see the entire main floor: the long tables, the dress forms, the open laptop still glowing on the inventory station. The wall clock above the cutting tables ticked with quiet, even rhythm—each second distinct in the empty studio. The faint scent of my own perfume, chocolate oil and something warmer, lingered on my wrists and in the air around the desk chair I had just left. I waited. Exactly twenty-three minutes later Solen