Revenge With My Ex‑Fiancée’s Brother

"Read it again," I told her, sliding the embossed cardstock across the glass table.

Mia Gallagher picked up the letter. Her eyes scanned the text, stopping at the bold print. "The Vanguard Design Exhibition. Center pavilion."

"I got the spot, Mia."

She dropped the letter. A sharp, high-pitched squeal escaped her throat as she threw her arms around my neck. "Oh my god! I knew you would! I told you, didn't I?"

I hugged her back, ignoring the stiff way her shoulders sat under my hands. "You did. But I didn't actually believe it until the courier dropped this off an hour ago."

Mia pulled away. She smoothed down her skirt, her gaze drifting to the drafting board behind me. "So, they accepted the entire 'Autumn Veil' collection?"

"Every single piece."

She walked over to the board. Her fingers hovered over my master sketches, the ones I had guarded for six months. "Even the finale gown? The one you struggled to figure out the bodice for?"

"I fixed it last week." I stepped up beside her and pulled out the underlying blueprints. "I swapped the heavy tulle for a silk-organza blend and used a hidden wire lattice. Look here."

I pointed to the intricate margin notes. Mia leaned in close.

"That is really clever," she murmured. Her phone was already in her hand. The screen lit up.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Taking photos for the archive." She snapped three pictures in rapid succession, making sure the technical specs were perfectly framed. "When you are famous, I want proof I was here from the beginning."

"You are my best friend. You are part of the beginning."

Mia pocketed her phone, but her eyes lingered on my laptop. "Did you finalize the fabric suppliers too?"

"Yeah, I signed with the Italian mill we visited last year. The exclusive rights for the organic silk."

Mia's eyes flicked up. "Exclusive? How did you manage that?"

"I showed them the portfolio. They loved the vision."

"Wow." Mia's voice went entirely flat for a fraction of a second. Then the bright, plastic smile returned. "That is incredible. You have to send me their direct contact. I might need them for my capsule collection next spring."

"I will email it to you tonight," I promised, completely missing the cold calculation in her eyes.

I trusted Mia with everything. We had shared a tiny dorm room in design school, surviving on instant noodles and big dreams. I thought we were still on the same team.

"Perfect." Mia grabbed her designer handbag. "I really have to run. Client meeting across town. But we are celebrating this weekend. Drinks on me."

"Deal."

She grabbed her coat and walked out. The door clicked shut.

I spent the next four hours finalizing the exhibition contracts. By the time I returned to the apartment I shared with Thorne, the London fog had turned into a freezing drizzle.

The hours dragged. I sat on the velvet sofa, reviewing my sketches one last time. The pride in my chest felt warm, solid. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was standing on secure ground.

Midnight passed. Then one in the morning.

At two-fifteen, the front lock disengaged.

Thorne Mercer stepped into the foyer. He did not turn on the lights. He kicked off his shoes, the thud echoing in the empty hallway.

"You are awake," he said, noticing me on the sofa.

"I was waiting for you."

He shrugged off his tailored suit jacket, tossing it over a chair. He did not ask why.

"Long night?" I asked, standing up.

"Endless." He loosened his tie and unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt. "The investors would not stop talking. I need a drink."

He walked past me toward the bar cart.

That was when the smell hit me.

It was not the crisp pine cologne I bought him for his birthday. It was heavy, sweet, and suffocating. Vanilla and crushed roses. Women's perfume.

"Who were you with?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Thorne paused, a crystal glass halfway to his hand. He turned his head just enough to look at me out of the corner of his eye. "I just told you. Investors."

"Investors who wear cheap vanilla perfume?"

He let out a short, harsh laugh. "Are we really doing this right now? I work fourteen hours a day to keep us in this penthouse, and you are going to interrogate me over a smell?"

"I am not interrogating you. I am asking a question."

"And I answered it." He poured two fingers of scotch and swallowed it in one go. "Someone spilled a drink near me at the gala. A woman bumped into me. End of story."

I stared at his collar. A faint, reddish smudge stained the white cotton near his neck. It looked suspiciously like lipstick.

"She bumped into your neck?" I asked, pointing at the mark.

Thorne rubbed a hand over the spot, smearing the red further into the fabric. He did not even flinch. "It is wine, Cher. Stop acting like a paranoid housewife. It is not a good look on you."

"I am not paranoid. I am observant."

"You are exhausting," he shot back, walking into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. "I do not have the energy for your drama tonight. What do you want me to say? I was at a party. People drink. Things get messy."

"Did things get messy for you?"

He slammed the fridge door shut. "I am going to bed."

"Wait." I stepped into his path. "I stayed up because I had news today."

Thorne set the water bottle down with a sharp clink. "Can it wait until morning? I have a headache."

"No. It has to be now." I stepped closer, refusing to back down. "I got the Vanguard Exhibition. They gave me the center pavilion."

He looked at me. His expression remained completely blank.

"Vanguard," he repeated, his tone flat. "That is the art thing, right?"

"It is not a 'thing'. It is the most prestigious design showcase in Europe. It means my label is finally launching."

Thorne rubbed his temples. "Great. Congratulations. How much is this one going to cost me?"

The words felt like a slap.

"Cost you? I secured my own funding, Thorne. I won a grant."

"Right. The grant. The fifty-grand handout." He walked past me, heading for the bedroom. "Just do not let it distract you from the charity gala next month. I need you on my arm for that. My partners want to see us together."

"Did you hear a word I just said? This is my career."

He stopped in the doorway and turned around. His eyes were cold, sweeping over me with blatant exhaustion. "Cher, let us be real. It is a hobby. A cute little project to keep you busy while I do the actual heavy lifting. I am glad you are having fun with it, but do not expect me to throw a parade at two in the morning."

My chest tightened. "A hobby. I have worked on this for years."

"And I have closed three multi-million-pound deals this week." He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "When your dresses pull in those numbers, then we can talk about a career. Until then, keep it in perspective. You make pretty clothes for rich women. I build the buildings they live in."

The arrogance in his voice made my stomach turn.

"You smell like another woman," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "You come home with lipstick on your collar, and you stand there belittling everything I have built."

Thorne rolled his eyes, a gesture of pure contempt. "You are acting crazy. Go to sleep, Cher. I am not doing this tonight."

He walked into the bedroom and shut the door in my face.

The lock clicked.

I stood in the silent living room. The heavy scent of vanilla and roses still hung in the air, thick and undeniable.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table.

A text from Mia lit up the screen.

*So proud of you, bestie! Eager to see what happens next.*

I stared at the glowing letters. They mocked me in the dark.

My boyfriend was sleeping with someone else. My best friend was collecting my blueprints.

The life I thought I had was a fragile illusion. And the glass was just starting to crack.