The next morning, I pretended like I didn't see the message.
I smiled at Aiden across the breakfast table. Kissed his cheek when he handed me coffee. Nodded when he asked if I wanted to come to the studio with him later.
But inside, I was quietly folding the photo Nova sent me into a mental envelope. Storing it. Sealing it. Labeling it:
"For when I forget what this world really is."
Because this wasn't love the way the movies sold it. This was survival. This was fame, thick and sticky like syrup. And no one prepared me for how it would feel to be the target of a fantasy that didn't include me.
Aiden didn't know about the photo.
Not because I was keeping secrets. But because I was starting to realize something I didn't want to admit:
There was no space in his world for how much I was hurting.
Not really.
And telling him would either make him feel guilty, which he'd avoid or make him defensive, which would make me feel small.
So I did what every woman who marries power learns to do.
I smiled. And started making space for myself in private.
We went to his studio later that afternoon.
The walls were covered in gold records and velvet acoustic panels. The lighting was low, and the speakers pulsed with a beat that made my ribcage vibrate.
Aiden was in his zone, hoodie on, head bobbing, bouncing from engineer to producer like he was made of music. And I?
I sat on a velvet couch, sipping green tea and trying not to scroll.
But curiosity is a quiet thief.
I opened Twitter.
Nova was trending again.
#NovaUnfiltered
#WhenLoveWasReal
#WeMissNovaAndAiden
This time, it wasn't just fans. Celebrities were jumping in.
An actress tweeted:
"You don't realize what you have until she's gone. Nova Lane deserved better."
It had over 200k likes.
A well-known YouTuber posted a "then and now" comparison, Aiden and Nova glowing and wild with youth versus Aiden and I in a photo from last night, me in a black slip dress, head slightly tilted, eyes half-closed.
His caption read:
"From fire to furniture."
Furniture.
That was the word that stuck.
It echoed in my chest while Aiden freestyled behind a mic.
Furniture. As in, I wasn't alive. I wasn't a person. I was a prop in his life.
I dropped my phone face-down and stared at the ceiling.
There had to be more to me than this.
More than silk gowns, diamond rings, filtered photos, and cold marble floors.
I had thoughts, Visions.I had spent years in rooms most women only dreamed of, not as a guest, but as an observer. Fashion shows, Campaigns, Billion-dollar branding meetings. I'd seen the real power behind beauty.
And suddenly, I craved it.
I wanted to create something that couldn't be taken from me.
Something mine.
Later that night, as Aiden snored beside me, I opened a blank note on my phone.
PROJECT MONROE
Beauty redefined. Skin, scent, soul.
I didn't know what it was yet.
A brand. A vision. A rebellion.
But it felt like the first real inhale I'd taken in weeks.
The next day, a tabloid ran a story titled:
"Nova Lane: Still Heartbroken or Just Brilliantly Strategic?"
They called her brave. Vulnerable. A genius at harnessing heartbreak.
They called me nothing.
Not even a villain this time.
They had simply… removed me.
I was cropped out of my own marriage.
It was like the world had neatly cut around me, like I was a sticker that no longer fit on the page.
Even my name was becoming a whisper.
It should've hurt more. But strangely, it felt freeing.
Because when no one's watching you, when they stop pretending to care, you're free to move without permission.
That afternoon, while Aiden took a call in the backyard, I pulled out an old journal from a moving box I hadn't touched.
Inside were pages of sketches from my modeling days, Moisturizer ideas, Notes from product testing, An old pitch deck I made for a facial mist I dreamed up in Paris.
Monroe Skin.
That had always been the name.
Simple. Clean. Classy. My legacy, not my label.
And now? Now it was my only way out.
I called my old friend Simone, a skincare chemist I'd met on set years ago in New York. We hadn't talked in a while, but she picked up on the third ring like no time had passed.
"Leah Monroe," she said, her voice thick with sleep and excitement. "Tell me you're finally launching your line."
I paused.
Then said: "Yes. I am."
By the end of the week, I had a meeting scheduled with a small indie lab, three branding samples mocked up on my iPad, and a logo draft I'd made at 3 a.m. when Aiden was asleep.
The hate didn't stop.
Nova posted a new teaser of an acoustic version of her song "Stay Longer". The lyrics were clearly about Aiden. The comments were worse than ever.
But I didn't open them this time.
Instead, I stared at the words on my screen:
MONROE SKIN: Beauty that silences the noise.
I smiled to myself.
Let them scream.
I was building something too loud to ignore.