Todos os capítulos de EX-HUSBAND MISTAKE: FROM SUBSTITUTE TO BELOVED. : Capítulo 31 - Capítulo 40

“They’re selling my bodice weave for forty euros.” My voice cut across the loft, flat and cold. Reza looked up from the pattern table. Sofie froze with a pin still between her teeth. On the open laptop in front of me, a viral fashion blog filled the screen: side-by-side images of my signature internal bodice construction next to nearly identical pieces listed under a new pop-up label—Fiona Stone Atelier. Again, the copies were crude, the fabric cheap, the finishing uneven, but the weave pattern was mine, down to the exact angle of the reinforcement channels I had developed for the Raven collection. This was the second time Fiona was doing something like this. “Forty euros,” I repeated. “And the comments are already calling it ‘the real version at a real price.’” I turned the laptop so the others could see. The harsh blue glare of the screen washed across the glass cutting table, throwing cold light over scattered pins and a half-draped toile. Hostile comments scrolled in real

The press room at Reinhardt Corporation Headquarters had been cleared of its usual long table and replaced with a single raised platform, two dress forms, and a bank of lights harsh enough to strip color from skin. I stood at the center of it in a black column dress, hair pulled back, the moonstone ring the only soft thing on me. Fifty photojournalists packed the first three rows. The moment I stepped into position the blinding flashbulbs erupted in rapid-fire rhythm—white, white, white—leaving sharp afterimages across every surface. I waited until the first wave of shutters slowed. “Thank you for coming on short notice,” I said. My voice carried cleanly through the microphone. “Over the past forty-eight hours, listings have appeared across multiple European marketplaces selling garments that copy a proprietary bodice construction developed exclusively for La Perle Noire. Alongside those listings, anonymous claims have circulated that our upcoming Paris capsule relies on stolen la

The marble foyer still carried the faint chemical edge of melted polymer when the federal agents closed in.Fiona’s arms were pulled behind her back. The cold metal snap of the handcuffs cracked across the polished floor, sharp and final.“This is a mistake,” she said, voice rising fast. “You can’t do this here. Do you know who I am?”“Fiona Stone,” the lead agent answered, calm and practiced, “you’re under arrest for international trademark forgery, trafficking in counterfeit goods, and customs tax evasion. You have the right to remain silent.”She twisted hard against the cuffs. “Silent? Those were my designs. She’s the one who stole everything. The whole industry knows it.”Carter stepped forward from the edge of the onlookers, hands lifted just enough for the cameras that were already turning.“I had nothing to do with this,” he said, loud and clear. “Whatever my sister arranged, she arranged alone. I’ve been cooperating with the authorities since my own charges began. I distance

Sixteen days later.The city dropped away in slow layers of light.I sat by the wide window of Levi’s private jet, watching Chicago’s grid dissolve into cloud. The skyline blurred, then vanished completely. Only the wing and the dark blue altitude remained. Keeping one hand on the cool glass, and the other resting around a crystal flute that still held its first pour of champagne.The cabin was quiet except for the low, steady hum of the engines. Soft leather, low lighting, the faint scent of the fresh coffee the attendant had left earlier. Across from me Levi sat with his jacket off, sleeves rolled, watching me more than the view.“You’re suspiciously quiet,” he said, his voice deep with concern.“I’m cataloguing.” I didn’t turn from the window yet. “Three weeks ago I was fighting frozen silk and fake lace patents. Now we’re over the Atlantic with a locked Syndicate slot and a finished capsule in the hold. My brain hasn’t caught up.”He reached for the bottle, refilled both flutes.

The Palais Garnier held the evening like a stage that had never forgotten its purpose.I waltzed through the grand foyer under the glittering chandelier light that spilled across golden opera balconies and mirrored walls. Silk gowns rustled around me in soft, expensive waves—old money, older names, the quiet confidence of houses that measured time in generations rather than seasons. Levi walked half a step behind, present but not leading. The European capsule had arrived intact. The Vogue cover was already circulating. The smear editorial had landed that morning and done less damage than its authors intended. Tonight was the first real test of presence.A cluster of veteran couturiers parted just enough to let me pass. Conversations in French and Italian dipped, then resumed with sharper interest. I kept my posture open and my expression calm. I had not come to perform deference.Madame Geneviève found me near the base of the grand staircase.The older woman stood with a crystal glas