His Unwanted Wife Is A Genius Designer

Arianna walked rapidly down the hospital corridor. Her ruined heels clicked sharply against the polished marble, the sound echoing with finality. She pushed through the glass exit doors. The freezing pre-dawn wind of New York hit her face, instantly stripping away the sterile, suffocating smell of hospital bleach. She stepped off the curb and raised her hand. A yellow Ford taxi with its roof light on swerved and stopped in front of her. She pulled open the heavy door and slid into the cracked leather backseat. The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "Upper East Side, lady?" She shook her head. "Red Hook, Brooklyn. The old industrial park." The taxi merged into the empty city streets. Arianna leaned her head against the cold glass window. She watched the blurred neon lights streak by, the emptiness in her eyes slowly sharpening into something hard and dangerous. She unlocked her phone. She opened her contacts. She blocked Francis's private number. She blocked his work number. She opened Instagram and WhatsApp and blocked his accounts. Then, she dialed a secure, unlisted number. "Manager," she said when the line connected. "Activate the security protocols for the Brooklyn studio. Wipe all exterior camera footage from the last twenty-four hours." The taxi pulled up to a massive, weathered red-brick building in a desolate industrial zone. Arianna handed the driver a wad of cash and stepped out. She walked up to a heavy, rusted iron door. Hidden beneath a metal flap was a sleek digital keypad. She rapidly punched in a complex twelve-digit code. The heavy deadbolts retracted with a loud, mechanical clunk. She pushed the door open and stepped inside the massive, open-concept loft. She hit the master breaker switch on the wall. Row by row, industrial track lights slammed on, flooding the cavernous space with brilliant white light. In the center of the room sat several massive objects draped in thick, gray canvas dust covers. They looked like sleeping beasts. She walked up to the largest one, grabbed the edge of the canvas, and ripped it off. A cloud of fine dust exploded into the air, catching in the bright lights. Beneath the cover sat a top-of-the-line custom sewing machine, a massive drafting table, and three professional dress forms. She walked to the far corner of the room and slid back a fake brick panel, revealing a flush-mounted wall safe. She pressed her thumb against the scanner and leaned in. A red laser scanned her retina. The heavy steel door popped open. Resting on the velvet shelf was a solid brass wax seal stamp. Carved into the metal was a sharp, aggressive emblem: Ember.J. Beside the stamp sat a thick stack of design sketches. They were bold, avant-garde, and dripping with raw, unapologetic power. She ran her fingertips over the rough paper. The ambition she had suffocated for six years flared to life in her chest, burning hot and bright. She walked into the attached bathroom and flipped on the harsh vanity lights. She stared at the woman in the mirror. The soft, gentle, cascading waves of hair-styled specifically to meet the Castro family's conservative standards-looked entirely foreign to her now. She opened the drawer and pulled out a pair of heavy fabric shears. She grabbed a fistful of her hair right at the nape of her neck. Without a single flinch, she squeezed the shears shut. The thick lock of hair hit the floor. She kept cutting until her hair was a sharp, blunt bob that hit right at her jawline. The transformation was instant. The soft, submissive wife was gone. The sharp angles of her face made her look lethal. She stripped off the ruined gown and pulled on a crisp, black silk button-down shirt. She walked back to the drafting table and pulled out a sheet of heavy, textured paper. She picked up a charcoal pencil. Her hand flew across the page, slashing dark, aggressive lines that completely shattered her old aesthetic. Outside the massive skylight, the sky began to turn a bruised purple as the sun rose. The morning light hit the stunning, violent silhouette taking shape on her paper. She picked up her phone and dialed Eleonore Powers's private number. The line connected. "Who the hell has the audacity to call me at this hour?" the legendary fashion godmother rasped, her voice thick with sleep. Arianna stared at the rising sun. "Ember is back," she said softly.