I Made His Wife’s Dress Now I’ll Marry Another Chapter 04
“Clara.”
Sabine was standing in the doorway, a pale gray shawl draped around her shoulders. I had no idea how long she’d been listening.
She stepped outside and rose on her toes to wrap Adrian’s scarf properly around his neck, her hands moving with a practiced ease that needed no guidance. A fashion reporter was waiting beyond the gate, and a camera flashed through the iron bars.
Sabine didn’t flinch. Instead, she said softly to me, “I already spoke to Nathan for you. When he comes to the hospital tomorrow, all you have to do is be polite. Cross will give all of next year’s window displays to Whitmore. It’s a win for everyone.”
“Who gave you the right to answer for me?”
“I’m worried about Mom.” She pressed a hand to her chest, her breathing quickening. “You have your own life in Paris. You don’t understand how hard things have been for the family these past few years…”
Adrian immediately steadied her, his voice turning sharp. “That’s enough. You know you can’t take the stress.”
“She can’t take stress, so everyone else is supposed to hand over their lives to her?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“When I was thirteen, a model tore up one of my patterns. In front of everyone, you picked up every last piece and told me that if anyone ever stole from me again, you would get it back for me.” I looked straight at him. “Now the person who stole from me is standing in your arms.”
The color drained from Adrian’s face.
I turned and went back inside. In the living room, my father was arguing with Grandfather about the transplant costs.
“If Adrian hadn’t come to us himself back then, saying Sabine was pregnant and the engagement to Clara had to be called off, none of this would have happened,” my father said in a low voice. “If we push her now, she really will cut the family off for good.”
I stopped at the edge of the foyer rug.
Adrian walked in behind me.
“So it was you who insisted on marrying Sabine?” I turned and asked him.
He was silent for a long moment.
“Yes.”
“Not Grandfather? Not the Vail family forcing you?”
“No.”
The last thread of hope I’d held onto snapped.
I didn’t ask anything else. I went back to my hotel alone.
At one in the morning, I found a private number in my encrypted contacts, one I hadn’t called in six years.
It rang once.
“Clara?” The man’s voice was rough with the early Paris morning.
“Julien.” I stared out at the New York night. “I need a husband.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line.
“Send me the address,” he said. “We’ll talk on the way.”