All Chapters of THE WIFE HE CHOSE FOR REVENGE: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

CELESTE POVThe rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass of my studio didn’t sound like water; it sounded like money running out.I stood before the dress form, a strip of charcoal silk pinned against its linen torso, my hands shaking so violently I couldn’t slide the needle through the seam. Down on the street below, Fifth Avenue was a blur of yellow cabs and black umbrellas, moving fast, moving forward, entirely indifferent to the fact that the House of Vance was suffocating in real time.My phone on the marble cutting table buzzed. Once. Twice. The third time, the vibration rattled against a brass tape measure, producing a thin, harsh ring that made my jaw tighten.I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. The banks don’t sleep when they smell blood."Celeste."I didn't open the line—my assistant, Maya, had picked up in the outer lobby. Her voice bled through the cracked wooden door, pitched an octave higher than usual, tight with the kind of terror that only comes fro

Celeste povThe leather in Arthur Vance’s office smelled like expensive bourbon and decades of bad news.I sat on the edge of the mahogany chair, my fingers digging into the smooth wooden armrests until my knuckles turned porcelain white. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city was drowning in a gray September rain, the water streaking down the glass like tears I refused to shed."Read it again, Celeste," Vance said softly. He didn't sound like a lawyer who charged eight hundred dollars an hour. He sounded like a man laying a sheet over a corpse. "Slowly this time. Make sure your brain processes what your heart is trying to ignore."The paper between my hands trembled. The heavy parchment was crisp, elegant, and completely lethal.Clause 12B: Non-Compliance and Default Remedies."He can't do this," I whispered. My voice was a thin, threadbare thing, stripped of all the poise I’d spent twenty-six years cultivating. "The house is in my mother's name. The bakery, the land in the v

POV: CelesteThe smell of tailor’s chalk and steam-pressed linen always hung thickest near the front window when the sun went down.I stood in the center of my workroom, my palms resting flat against the scarred mahogany of my cutting table. The silence in the room was almost physical, broken only by the steady, rhythmic ping of late-September rain striking the iron fire escape outside.Under the sickly amber glow of the streetlamp below, the studio looked stripped down, naked. Scraps of crimson silk, discarded threads, and rolls of unbleached muslin littered the floorboards—the messy, chaotic remnants of the only life I had ever built for myself.My fingers trembled slightly as I smoothed down the edge of a heavy parchment sheet. It was a gown design I’d spent three weeks perfecting: a stark, high-collared silhouette cut with sweeping, unforgiving lines, anchored by a spine of raw pearl buttons. It was bold. It was dangerous. It was the exact opposite of what the fashion houses in Mi

POV: CelesteThe silver fork in my right hand felt like a lead weight, so heavy my fingers trembled against the polished stem. I forced my posture straight, digging my fingernails into the meat of my palm beneath the linen napkin on my lap. Pain was useful. Pain kept the tears locked behind my eyes where they belonged.Across the long mahogany dining table, Victor Vance hadn't touched his wine.The dining hall of his estate was suffocatingly quiet, save for the rhythmic tick of a grandfather clock in the corner and the soft clink of his knife against the porcelain plate. Everything about this room screamed ancient, untouchable wealth—from the intricate crown molding to the flickering crystal chandelier above us. But to me, it felt like a gilded execution chamber."You aren't eating, Celeste," Victor said, his voice smooth, low, and devoid of any warmth.He didn't look up from his plate. He cut his pan-seared sea bass with clinical, terrifying precision, as if performing surgery rather

Celeste’s POVThe silence in the penthouse wasn’t just quiet; it was heavy. Suffocating. It pressed down on my chest like a physical weight, making every breath feel shallow and stolen.I stared at the ceiling of the master bedroom, tracking the faint, distorted shadows cast by the city lights filtering through the bulletproof glass. Three hours. I had been lying in this massive, cold expanse of a bed for three hours, the Egyptian cotton sheets feeling more like a shroud than comfort.Sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford anymore. Not since the ink dried on the marriage contract. Not since I was forcefully folded into the dark, violent world of a man who looked at me not as a wife, but as a calculated acquisition.My fingers twitched against my thighs. An anxious, restless energy buzzed under my skin, starting at my wrists and climbing up my throat. I needed to move. More than that, I needed to create. Whenever my life spiraled out of my control, I turned to the only thing I could dict