LUSH.
I stepped into the office like a redefined woman.
They say heartbreak makes women do wild things—chop off all their hair, dye it blonde, start lifting weights, pierce something, get a new tattoo, pick up a reckless habit. Anything to claw their way out of the ache and feel... different and in control.
Today, I joined that tribe.
And, no, I didn't shave my head or run a marathon. But I did something far more satisfying.
I stopped doing the things Maven liked.
This life? It's mine now.
When I met Maven, I was just 23. A nobody. An underpaid barista in a noisy little coffee shop he passed through every morning. I smiled at him over the counter, wiped the same smudges off the same glass, and tried to ignore the constant ache of being a failure.
I had fought tooth and nail to see myself through school by working two jobs while in school. But after graduation, real life greeted me with closed doors and tighter ceilings. There were no actual jobs, and there was no backup plan.
My parents were long gone. And the only inheritance they left me was poverty.
Maven didn't really care about my social status. He picked me from down there and polished me, giving me the life I had become used to today.
Throughout my five years with him, I got used to doing everything he wanted me to do, almost without objection. He decided how I dressed, made decisions for me, controlled the dreams I was allowed to dream, and even the company he was building for me was meant to be a subsidiary of his own!
As a professional Luxury Brand Architect, I had all it takes to have my own company. But I could never. Maven never wanted me to rival him or even outgrow his shadow.
But now I look back and wonder...
Why did he insist I go out with a bare face while he couldn't stop staring at women with lashes and lips painted red?
Why did he buy me loose, modest dresses, yet he stole glances at women with tightly fitted dresses?
Why deceive me that he liked my hair in a bun, yet a woman's flowing hair swept away his attention?
He broke me gently. Tamed me. Trained me. Turned me into an obedient pet who was always too eager to please.
But here's the thing about pets:
Even the quiet ones eventually learn where the door is.
I knew this divorce was coming.
His heart had left the house long before his words caught up.
I guess you can never keep a man who doesn't want to be kept. And that taught me a lesson and prepared me for this moment.
This morning, I had turned the volume up on my playlist, slipped into that tight white dress he always hated, painted on the lipstick he said was "too loud," and walked into this office with my head held high.
I didn't miss the subtle glances from people who were surprised to see me looking different this morning.
"Are the clients here yet?" I asked flatly, setting my Balmain tote on the table with a soft thud. This meeting was too important. I couldn't afford even a hairline crack in today's armor.
"They're on their way," Hattie, my PA, replied, not lifting her eyes as she flipped through my schedule. "Also, you'll be visiting the new office site at noon today."
I nodded. That gave me butterflies.
"You also have an appointment with Calover Events to finalize Mr. Presley's surprise anniversary party."
I paused, willing myself to stay composed.
"Cancel it," I said coldly, powering on my laptop.
Our wedding anniversary was in four days, but what was the point? We were no longer married. And that would be the day he brings in his pregnant mistress.
What a pleasant anniversary gift.
I'd been a fool.
I didn't bother looking up, but I knew Hattie was hesitating, unsure if she'd heard me right.
"Should… do you want me to reschedule it instead?" she asked carefully.
I looked up slowly, my gaze pinning her in place. "Do you need me to explain what the word cancel means?" She visibly flinched.
"I'm sorry, ma'am." She quickly dropped her eyes and resumed flipping. "You also have a meeting with the cake designer at 3 PM and—"
"Is there anything on today's schedule that isn't tied to that party?" I cut in.
She skimmed through, fingers trembling slightly. "No, ma'am. Today was mostly cleared for surprise prep…"
"Then scrap everything else. Get the meeting room ready. I'll join you the moment they arrive."
"Right away." She disappeared like smoke.
I was done listening to how stupid my life was. I literally lived for this man. If I wasn't flying across the country to close brand deals or flipping strategies upside down to land multi-million-dollar clients for his firm, I was researching new ways to please him—body, mind, ego... Always searching for ninety-nine thousand ways to keep a man happy.
I almost scoffed, taking a deep breath to drown the pain that was trying to take root in my chest.
I won't shed a tear for him anymore. He didn't deserve it.
I walked into the meeting hall with high expectations. This was a huge deal, and I couldn't wait to kill it.
Mr. Jared North owns one of the biggest fashion brands in the country and beyond.
He is the founder and creative director of a globally renowned luxury fashion house, The House Of North – clothes, bags, jewelry – think a hybrid of Tom Ford, Balmain, and Bottega Veneta.
He is not just a businessman – he's a visionary. The type who sketches designs on flight napkins and can recognize real diamonds by touch.
Who wouldn't want to have such a man as their client? Everyone wanted him. But today, he was ours to impress.
I heard he recently severed ties with his brand strategist, citing "creative misalignment" and lack of vision.
I hadn't had the opportunity to ever meet him face-to-face, but today would be my lucky day.
"Good morning, gentlemen. Apologies for the wait." I said with a polite smile, rounding the table to take my seat.
My eyes scanned the table of four well-suited men whose presence alone screamed old money. But... Someone was missing...
"Forgive me for paying attention to little details," I began lightly, even though my pulse had just dropped a note, "but... won't Mr. North be joining us for the meeting today?"
One of them—lean build, early to mid-thirties, dark brown suit with a slate-blue tie that probably cost more than my assistant's monthly rent—offered a diplomatic smile.
"Mr. North had other matters to attend to," he said smoothly, "This is Mr. Ken Bellamy, his attorney. And we are his appointed representatives."
A heavy stone of disappointment dropped in the pit of my stomach, sinking down my enthusiasm.
I blinked once, just to steady the shift in my expression. My heart had been galloping toward this moment. I had imagined every angle—what he'd say, how he'd react, how I'd lock in his attention and pitch The Paragon as the only strategic firm worth his genius.
My presentation was for him. Solely him. His vision. His aesthetic. His reputation.
I hadn't stayed up all night tweaking the pitch deck for a panel of substitutes—no matter how expensive their cufflinks were.
And yet here I was, smiling like it didn't bruise.
"Of course," I said, nodding with faux ease, though my fingers tensed slightly on my tablet. "I do hope he'll get a chance to review the full scope of the proposal. I curated every part of it with Mr. North's brand philosophy in mind."
Mr. Ken Bellamy—the attorney—offered a tight, polite smile that gave nothing away.
And then, the meeting began.