Part 3Sorry Ex He Married Me

The ambient air in the boutique froze solid.

At the entrance, two burly security guards in dark blazers shifted into position, their broad shoulders blocking the heavy glass doors. Their eyes were locked on me, waiting for Brandon’s command.

Danielle tugged softly at Brandon’s sleeve, her voice honeyed and soothing.

"Brandon, please. Don't let a minor misunderstanding ruin your mood. It isn't worth it." She looked toward me, letting out a breathy sigh. "Grace, why must you make things so difficult for yourself? Is lowering your head really that painful? Brandon has an unforgiving temper; didn't you always know how to smooth him over?"

I stood rooted to the spot, a sharp, bitter chuckle bubbling up from my chest until it slipped past my lips.

"Smooth him over?"

I lifted my chin, meeting her gaze with an unhurried, razor-sharp smile.

"Miss Ross, I smoothed him over back then because I was under the impression that the role came with a professional duty of care. Now that I’ve resigned from that position, what on earth makes you think Brandon Crawford is worthy of me lowering my head?"

A sharp intake of breath hissed through Mrs. Walsh’s teeth. The onlookers browsing the display cases stopped their hushed murmurs, their eyes wide.

Brandon’s expression turned black as thunder.

"Grace." He ground my name between his teeth, pronouncing each syllable with murderous precision. "Three years apart haven't just made you greedy; they’ve completely rotted your brain."

He closed the distance between us until barely two feet separated our faces. That suffocating, suffocating dominance he used to rule over me came rolling off him in waves.

"Do you honestly believe spitting a few defiant words can hide how utterly destitute you are?"

His gaze swept over my attire, calculating and dismissive.

I had dressed casually this morning—a taupe cashmere wrap coat, devoid of visible monogramming or metal logos. It was completely bespoke, hand-stitched by an Italian master tailor whom Gabriel had flown into Manhattan specifically to take my measurements.

To Brandon Crawford, an absence of loud luxury logos simply meant off-the-rack clearance.

"Without my sign-off, which top-tier firm in this city would ever dare hire you?" Brandon laid out his delusion with cold certainty. "For three years, you scraped together a semblance of dignity by selling off the trinkets I gave you. Now that the closet is empty, you've graduated to grand larceny?"

He raised his hand, his fingers reaching toward my chin as if to grip my face.

I tilted my head sharply, stepping back.

His hand caught empty air. His eyes darkened dangerously at the evasion.

"I am giving you one last chance," he said, smoothing his cuff with practiced control. "Tomorrow morning at nine, report to Danielle’s fashion studio. She needs a personal assistant, and you're familiar with her preferences. With Danielle keeping an eye on you, I won't have to worry about you causing embarrassments on the street."

He spoke as if handing down an imperial pardon.

To him, serving his saintly muse, fetching her lattes and carrying her fabric samples, was the highest honor a discard like me could hope to receive.

Danielle clapped her hands together in performative delight. "Really, Brandon? You'd let Grace come work with me?" She turned to me, her smile gleaming. "Grace, you took a few design electives in college, right? It may have only been foundational, but you're more than qualified to handle odd jobs around the studio. Don't worry, with me protecting you, nobody will ever treat you poorly."

Watching their perfectly synchronized routine, a wave of pure nausea washed over my throat.

Three years ago, I had held a brilliant offer in my hands: a coveted management-track residency at an elite architectural firm.

Brandon had made a single phone call to the senior partner and had the offer rescinded overnight.

Then he had locked me away in his soundfront manor.

"Why subject yourself to the misery of a corporate desk?" he had told me, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear with careless affection. "Stay home. I’ll deposit fifteen thousand into your allowance account every month. Isn't that enough?"

Back then, I was foolish enough to mistake his smothering possessiveness for love.

It was only later that I discovered the truth: he simply couldn't stomach the idea of me appearing in public circles, where someone might notice that my features mirrored those of Danielle, who was studying abroad.

I was never a partner. I was merely a placeholder, an uncredited stand-in to be kept in the dark until the original returned.