Alle Kapitel von My Statue Husband: Kapitel 41 – Kapitel 50

VIVIAN POVThe air in the warehouse smelled like damp concrete, dried chamomile, and the sharp, metallic tang of an upcoming deadline. It was 11:00 PM. The preliminary round of the Heritage Cosmetics Grant opened its doors at nine tomorrow morning, and I was still knee-deep in glass jars, measuring out batches of my signature herbal base.My back throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that reached all the way up to my temples. I wiped my forearm across my forehead, pushing away stray hairs that had escaped my clip. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to lie down, to sleep, but sleep was a luxury reserved for people whose entire futures weren't riding on a single morning.This grant wasn't just a business opportunity. It was my oxygen. After Kelvin cleared out our shared accounts, took credit for my formulas, and left me with a pile of eviction notices, this tiny, rented warehouse bay was the only place in the world where I still existed. If I won the preliminary round, the seed capi

VIVIAN POVThe air backstage at the Grand Atelier tasted like burnt silk and ozone, heavy with the hum of industrial steamers and the underlying stench of desperation. I smoothed my palms down the hips of my skirt, feeling the coarse weave of the fabric—fabric I had bought with the last of my savings while Zara carried bolts of imported French lace into her private dressing room."Thirty seconds, Vivian," the floor manager barked, not even looking up from his clipboard. "If your models aren't lined up, you're disqualified.""They're ready," I said, my voice holding a calm I didn't feel.Behind me, Maya stood rigid in the indigo evening gown, the hand-embroidered silver thread catching the overhead halogen lights. It was a masterpiece of restraint, born from three weeks of sleepless nights, raw fingers, and a heart shattered into too many pieces to count.Every stitch was a refusal to bleed out.I glanced across the crowded aisle. Zara was watching me through the illuminated bulbs of h

Vivian povThe heavy, gold-embossed cardstock felt like lead in my hands.The Board of Directors cordially invites Vivian Vance and Stan Miller to the Annual Mid-Summer Designers’ Ball.I stared at the looping calligraphy, the raised foil catching the dim light of our shared studio, and felt a cold, familiar knot tighten in my chest. Beside me, Stan leaned back against the clutter of fabric swatches and sketchbooks, a lazy, triumphant grin stretching across his face."We did it, Vivian," he said, tossing his pen onto the drafting table. "Raymond’s parent company doesn't just hand these out to nobodies. This is it. Our ticket out of the minor leagues."I wanted to share his excitement. God, I wanted to so badly. Five years of working seventy-hour weeks, surviving on cold coffee, and sleeping on the cutting room floor should have made this moment feel like a victory. But all I could focus on was the way my name looked printed beside his—a tiny, fragile tag attached to a man who was slow

Vivian povThe low rumble of camera shutters was a sound I used to hear in my dreams, but tonight, it felt like a firing squad.I smoothed the silk of my deep emerald gown, feeling the sharp contrast between the cold fabric and the feverish heat flush across my skin. Beside me, Stan adjusted his cuffs. His silver cufflink caught the moonlight streaming through the tinted glass of our limousine, throwing a needle-sharp beam of light against the dashboard."You’re breathing too fast, Vivian," Stan said softly. His voice wasn't unkind, but it carried the chilling precision of a man who didn't allow variables to mess up his math. "If you breathe like that, the lenses will catch the pulse in your throat. They'll know you're terrified.""I am terrified," I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the hum of the idling engine. "Look at them out there."Through the dark tint of the window, the entrance to the Grand Regency Ballroom looked like a tear in the night sky, blinding and chaotic. Pa

Vivian povThe velvet seats in the green room were supposed to feel luxurious, but sitting on them felt like waiting on an electric chair.My fingers trembled as I smoothed down the silk of my gown—a dress I’d spent three months of my rent money on, altered by hand in my cramped apartment until my thumbs bled. Tonight was the semi-finals of the National Culinary Vanguard. Tonight was supposed to be the moment my life finally stopped being a series of overdue notices and second shifts.Then the door clicked shut, cutting off the muffled hum of the studio audience outside.I looked up, expecting a stage manager. Instead, Zara stood against the heavy wooden door, slipping the deadbolt into place with a sickeningly quiet thud.She didn't look like a woman about to tear someone down. She looked immaculate. Her crimson gown clung to her like liquid fire, her dark hair pinned back in an icy, flawless chignon. She carried the scent of expensive jasmine and old money—the kind of money that bou