I Made His Wife’s Dress Now I’ll Marry Another Chapter 51
Then Julien produced a long, narrow wooden box.
“It’s not a ring,” he said immediately. “And this is not a proposal.”
Inside was a brand-new pair of shears. Black steel blades, a brass pivot, and a handle custom-molded to fit my right hand. There was no Moreau Foundation insignia, only a single, tiny line engraved on the blade:
*Clara Whitmore.*
I tested the movement. The weight settled perfectly in the heel of my palm, putting no strain on my old wrist injury.
“Six years ago, you were making clothes for other people with borrowed tools,” Julien said. “These belong only to you. How you use them, who you cut for, when you put them down—that’s all for you to decide.”
I looked down at my own name.
Not hidden in a lining.
Not left blank at the bottom of a contract.
“This isn’t an investment,” Julien added. “The receipt and the custom draft are in the bottom of the box. If you don’t want them, you can return them to the maker.”
Even his gift came with an exit.
I didn’t return it.
For the first time, I let myself accept something good without immediately calculating how much labor I would owe in return.