Alle Kapitel von My Statue Husband: Kapitel 51 – Kapitel 60

Vivian povThe polished marble of the Apex Grand ballroom reflected the crystal chandeliers like a frozen lake, but to me, it felt more like thin ice about to crack.I smoothed the front of my tailored blazer, my hands trembling just enough to make the fabric rustle. Four years of working as the lead event coordinator for Vane Enterprises, and tonight was supposed to be my crowning achievement. The annual Global Tech Gala was packed with billionaires, venture capitalists, and press. Everything was going according to my meticulously color-coded schedule.Until I saw Stan.He stood near the rear entrance, looking entirely out of place amidst the sea of tuxedoes and silk gowns. He wore a faded denim jacket, dark jeans, and boots that had seen better days. But it wasn’t his clothes that made my heart violently slam against my ribs—it was the stark, undeniable exhaustion carved into his face. My elder brother, the man who had walked away from our family five years ago without a word, was s

VIVIAN POVThe high-strung hum of the sewing machine was the only thing keeping me grounded, its rapid, rhythmic thrumming echoing off the cold brick walls of the studio. It was two in the morning. My eyes burned, raw and bloodshot, as I guided a strip of charcoal silk under the dancing needle.Just one more seam, I lied to myself. Just one more stitch.If I stopped moving, the silence would swallow me whole. The unpaid rent notices piling up by the door, the cancelled showroom bookings, the rumors whispered behind my back by people I used to call friends—all of it was waiting in the shadows, ready to drag me under the second I dared to breathe. I had built my design house from nothing, thread by thread, only to watch it unravel in a matter of months.I paused, easing my foot off the pedal. The silence instantly rushed back, suffocating and heavy.With a ragged exhale, I rubbed my temples, leaning back against the wooden stool. My gaze drifted across the dimly lit workshop, past the s

Vivian povThe moonlight didn't fall on Stan’s skin as it did on mine; it pooled in the cracks.I sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, my fingers trembling around a silver etching tool I hadn’t used since my last fashion line flopped. Across the room, Stan stood motionless near the French doors, bathed in the pale glow of the midnight sky. From a distance, he looked like a masterpiece—chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, a man carved by gods. But up close, if you dared to touch him, his flesh felt like cold marble.And tonight, the silence between us felt heavier than stone."You're hiding something," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, cracking under the weight of the dread that had been pooling in my chest all evening. "Stan, look at me. You haven't looked at me since the sun went down."He didn't turn around. His gaze remained locked on the sky outside, where the moon hung like a suspended crescent, sharp and unforgiving."Vivian," he began. His voice sounded lower than usual, carryi

Vivian povThe fluorescent lights of the studio hummed with a low, grating vibration that seemed to settle right behind my teeth. On the cutting table before me lay six yards of midnight-blue raw silk, smooth as liquid shadow, beside a tangle of weathered metallic thread—the few scraps of my grandmother’s estate I had managed to drag across borders and through years of desperate starting over.TIMELESS HERITAGEThe theme was etched onto a glass display board at the front of the hall, glowing in sharp, unforgiving white LED light. To the twenty-one other designers sweating through their linen shirts in the arena, it meant archives, antique lace, and clever reinterpretations of Victorian corsetry. To me, it felt like an invitation to dig up a grave.Around me, the frantic scraping of heavy steel shears against oak tables and the sharp clack-clack of tailor's chalk filled the cavernous room. Across the main aisle, Julian—the golden boy whose family owned half the silk mills in Lombardy—w

Vivian povThe scent of scorched lavender and scorched silk was the first thing that warned me something was wrong.In high fashion, fabric didn’t just carry a color—it carried a soul. The Charmeuse silk I had sourced from the Lyon mills for the Final Showcase of the Apex Design Competition was supposed to feel like liquid glass, heavy enough to drape like water, light enough to breathe with a woman’s pulse.What lay spread across my cutting table did neither.I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly as I pinched a swatch of the ivory bolt between my thumb and forefinger. I didn’t even need to burn a scrap thread to test it. The texture was static, artificially slick, emitting a subtle, acrid chemical odor that set off an immediate alarm in the back of my mind.It was a synthetic blend. A cheap, highly flammable polyester-nylon compound that looked identical under the harsh fluorescent lights of the contestant prep hall, but would melt under the heat of a runway spotlight—or worse