All Chapters of My Statue Husband: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

VIVIAN POVThe first sign that something was deeply wrong wasn’t a phone call, or a knock on the door, or even the familiar, distant rumble of a city waking up. It was a flash of white light through the blinds—a harsh, flickering strobe that sliced through the dim calm of my bedroom at six in the morning.I sat up, the sheets pooling around my waist, my heart suddenly thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird. Next to me, Stan didn’t move, but his breathing shifted, losing its heavy, rhythmic pulse. He was awake. He always woke up fast, a habit from a life he rarely talked about, but today he just lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening.Then came the voices. Not the usual muffled chatter of my neighbors down the hall, but a dull, rising roar from the street below."Is this the building?" "Check the third floor. Mailboxes say V. Miller." "Get the telephoto lens ready. If he comes out, don't miss the shot."A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. I slid out of bed

VIVIAN POVThe notification pinged at 2:00 AM, a bright, unforgiving square of blue light piercing the dark sanctuary of my cramped apartment. I didn't reach for my phone immediately. Instead, I let my thumb trace the rough, frayed edge of the measuring tape draped around my neck. The plastic had grown warm against my skin over the last three hours of restless pacing, absorbing the anxious heat radiating from my skin.Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the viral video.It was supposed to be a quiet victory—a single bespoke tunic, hand-stitched during a feverish forty-eight-hour blitz, draped over Stan’s broad shoulders as he walked past a cluster of street-style photographers. I had poured every ounce of my frustration, my pride, and my aching need to exist into those tailored lines. The cut was sharp, the seamwork deliberate, built to hold a man who seemed to carry the weight of a world I didn't fully understand. But watching the view count climb into the millions hadn't brought relie

VIVIAN POVThe blue light from my cracked phone screen illuminated the dark, damp corners of my temporary workspace—a rented, windowless basement room off 5th Avenue that smelled perpetually of bleach and old wool.My thumbs trembled over the screen as I refreshed the page.@VivianVance_Official: 142,000 followers.Twelve hours ago, before the Grand Conservatory doors opened, that number had been barely eight hundred. Now, every second brought a fresh cascade of notifications. Who designed Genevieve’s dress? Is Vivian Vance related to Arthur Vance? Where can we buy her pieces? The digital world was devouring my name, transforming my father’s tragic, murky legacy into pure, intoxicating hype.I leaned my forehead against the edge of my heavy wooden cutting table, taking a slow, shaky breath. My knuckles were still swollen and stiff, the small scabs from seven days of frantic, desperate stitching catching on the rough grain of the wood. Julian Rhys’s parting words at the gala still echo

VIVIAN POVThe air at the southern border of the lower district smelled of rotting damp and cold stone, a stark contrast to the sterile, ash-choked courtyard of the main forge. I pulled my cloak tighter around my collar, my heels digging into the slick gravel as Stan forged ahead. His shoulders were hunched against the twilight fog, carrying a worn leather satchel that clunked with every heavy step he took.My hands were still trembling, the faint crimson residue of ruined synthetic dye dried beneath my fingernails from yesterday’s failure. I had spent sixteen hours at the vats, watching three months’ worth of silver-tier commission silk curdle into grey sludge because the imperial guild had quietly monopolized the supply of pure alum. They wanted me to break. They wanted me to crawl back to Julian, hand over my remaining workshop deeds, and accept whatever scraps of pity he saw fit to throw me."If you're leading me into an ambush to collect the guild's bounty, Stan, at least have th

Vivian povThe dew had already soaked through the knees of my trousers, but I couldn’t stop digging. The Silver-Spur root only opened its pale, star-shaped blossoms during the three hours before midnight, and if I didn't harvest five intact bulbs before the moon crossed the western ridge, the apothecary’s shelves would sit empty by dawn.My knuckles scraped against a subterranean rock, sending a sharp, stinging jolt straight up my forearm. I bit back a curse, wiping sweat off my brow with the back of a mud-stained sleeve."You’re going to tear the root tap if you keep muscling it like that."Stan’s voice was too quiet for how loud it sounded in the stillness of the ravine. He appeared from the shadow of an ancient weeping willow, his boots sinking soundlessly into the wet moss. In his left hand, he carried a lightless lantern; in his right, a slender, curved trowel meant for delicate extractions.I didn't look up at him. "I’ve been harvesting botanicals since before you knew the diffe