When My Groom Chose His Mistress Over Me

The morning after the Fashion Week revelation, my phone hadn't stopped ringing. I sat in my new studio space—a sleek, minimalist loft in Chelsea with floor-to-ceiling windows and pristine white walls—watching Marcus Chen field calls from interested investors and journalists.

"We need to capitalize on this momentum," Marcus said, setting down his phone after another call. "The media is calling you the 'mystery designer' behind the Ocean's Whisper. Everyone wants to know who Kennedy Collins really is."

I traced my fingers over the drafting table where my newest designs lay scattered. "Kennedy Designs," I said quietly, testing the name. "It has a certain ring to it."

Marcus grinned. "I'll get the paperwork started. We'll need a website, social media presence, the works."

By afternoon, we had a plan. Marcus would handle the business side while I focused on design. We'd launch with a small collection of pieces that had been locked away in my notebooks for years—creations born from stolen moments of creativity during my marriage.

"Kennedy Designs will be more than just jewelry," I told Marcus as we finalized our business plan. "It'll be about transformation. Pieces that women can wear as armor or as celebration."

---

"Darling, this is exquisite," Victoria Ashford murmured, holding up one of my pendant designs against the light. She'd arrived at our studio precisely at ten, as scheduled—the first major client I'd booked since launching.

The studio had transformed overnight. My designs were displayed in glass cases along one wall, while the other showcased our brand concept boards. Marcus had worked miracles with our limited budget.

"Thank you," I replied, watching Victoria carefully. She was studying the piece with genuine interest, not the dismissive curiosity of someone slumming it.

"I must confess," Victoria said, setting down the pendant, "I came partly out of spite for that arrogant husband of yours. But this..." She gestured to the collection. "This is extraordinary."

I smiled slightly. "I appreciate your honesty."

"Skyla's career is in free fall," Victoria continued, examining another piece. "Three endorsement deals canceled already. The Ocean's Whisper incident was the final nail."

"That wasn't my intention," I said truthfully.

"Perhaps not." Victoria's eyes met mine. "But it was inevitable. Now, about these earrings..."

By the end of the appointment, Victoria had commissioned a complete set of jewelry for the upcoming Met Gala—a validation that would cement Kennedy Designs' position among Manhattan's elite.

---

"Mr. Powell is here," Marcus announced, poking his head into my office. "Right on time."

I glanced at my watch. 9:00 AM exactly. Rowan Powell stood in the doorway, carrying two cups of coffee.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, offering one to me. "Black, correct?"

I accepted the cup, surprised. "You remembered."

"I make it a point to notice details," he replied, his smile genuine. "Especially when it comes to brilliant minds."

Rowan Powell had been on my radar since a business conference two years ago. Self-made billionaire, ethical investor, known for supporting women entrepreneurs. What I hadn't expected was his direct approach.

"I've been following your work," he said as we settled into the consultation room. "Not just the jewelry design. Your strategic approach to the Marshall Group's recovery was remarkable."

I tensed slightly. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"The anonymous consulting firm that saved them from bankruptcy." His eyes held mine steadily. "It was you, wasn't it?"

I didn't confirm or deny, but something in my expression must have given me away.

"I'm proposing a collaboration," Rowan continued. "Not an investment or takeover. A partnership between equals."

He slid a folder across the table. Inside was a proposal for a joint venture—a luxury retail concept combining his business acumen with my designs.

"We'd need to work closely together," he added. "Weekly meetings, shared decision-making."

I studied the proposal carefully. Unlike Soren's casual dismissal of my talents, Rowan was offering respect and recognition of my value.

---

Two weeks later, after several productive meetings with Rowan, we emerged from a restaurant near his office. The collaboration was progressing better than expected—his insights complementing my vision perfectly.

"The storefront on Fifth Avenue would be perfect," I said as we paused on the sidewalk. "High visibility but not ostentatious."

"Exactly what I was thinking," Rowan agreed, his smile warming his features.

Neither of us noticed the paparazzi until the flashes started.

"Is it true you're dating?" someone shouted.

"Kennedy! Rowan! Look this way!"

Rowan's hand found the small of my back protectively as cameras surrounded us. "Just business," he called to the photographers, though his eyes met mine with something that suggested otherwise.

The next morning, our "romance" dominated the business section of every major newspaper. "Power Couple Alert: Kennedy Collins and Rowan Powell Team Up" read one headline.

I was reviewing the coverage when my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

"Enjoying your fifteen minutes of fame?"

I didn't need to see the name to know who it was from. Soren was watching.