Chapter 8
396words
By chance, supermodel Jane Jewell needed a gown for her first TV drama awards ceremony, so her team reached out to borrow a dress.
I remembered Jane Jewell all too well. In my previous life, Blake had spent our wedding night with her.
Paparazzi constantly caught them entering hotels and Blake's private villa.
With Blake's connections, Jane had quickly climbed the entertainment ladder, landing major film and TV roles.
Whenever reporters questioned their relationship, she'd smile mysteriously, saying nothing.
Her silence spoke volumes, and tabloids would run "Jane Jewell: Future Mrs. Hayes?" headlines the next day.
I'd stormed his office like a madwoman, only to find my husband devouring Jane on his executive desk.
Blake wouldn't even face me; his lawyers delivered divorce papers stating I'd leave with nothing.
I'd gone home and destroyed everything in sight until glass shards sliced my palms open.
That's when Jane had appeared at my door, handing me a pregnancy test showing she was three months along.
She'd explained that Blake hated clingy, controlling women—which was why he despised me.
She'd admitted she didn't love Blake—she just needed his influence to boost her career.
She'd revealed that because I'd "clung to Blake," my parents' breakfast shop had been shut down for "health violations."
And all I could do was self-destruct in my gilded cage.
She'd said she pitied me.
Not just her—I'd pitied myself too.
After she'd left, I'd stared at my bleeding hands and the positive pregnancy test.
Already drowning in depression, I'd finally chosen to end it all.
"Emma! Earth to Emma!"
Lena's voice snapped me back to reality.
"This dress—yes or no? I vote yes. It's major exposure for the brand."
To avoid drama if Blake discovered I owned the brand, I'd made Lena the public face.
"Let's do it. If it makes us coin, I'm in."
I added: "Which design does she want?"
"Your first wedding gown—the one called 'Self-Love.'"
I shot up from the sofa. This was the same design I'd worn to marry Blake in my previous life, when I still believed in happily-ever-afters.
Back then, drunk on love for Blake, I'd named it "To Love."
"Fine. Let her have it."
With that, I collapsed back onto the sofa.
In this life, nothing matters more than the bag.
