When My Husband Chose His Real Wife

Briella arrived at my Fifth Avenue boutique on a bright Tuesday morning.

She was glowing. Her wedding was only three months away, and today was the day she chose her gown.

My staff greeted her at the door with flutes of chilled champagne. The boutique was my pride and joy. It had high ceilings, soft ivory silk drapes, and my name, *Vienna Edwards*, engraved in gold across the front window. I built this atelier from nothing. Every stitch, every marble tile, and every crystal chandelier came from my own sweat.

Briella walked toward the fitting suites. She paused by a beaded ballgown on a mannequin, running her fingers over the lace bodice. She laughed and sent me a quick text: *Vivi, this one is magic.*

She was happy. She was completely off guard.

Then a girl stepped directly into her path.

Her name tag read *Kyla Peterson*. Staff records listed her as a newly hired intern.

Kyla crossed her arms, blocking the suite door. "Fitting rooms are closed," she said. Her tone was flat and sharp.

Briella blinked, assuming it was a misunderstanding. "I have an appointment. I’m Briella Edwards."

"Doesn't matter," Kyla said. "Policy changed today. There is an advance fitting fee of five thousand dollars. Cash or wire only. Pay it, or leave."

Briella frowned. "Five thousand? That’s absurd. Vienna Edwards is my sister. I don't pay to try on gowns in her store."

At the mention of my name, Kyla’s face twisted. The fake corporate act vanished. Pure venom took its place.

"Her sister?" Kyla sneered.

Before Briella could step back, Kyla lunged.

She grabbed Briella by the hair and yanked backward. Briella let out a sharp cry. Then Kyla drew back her fist and punched Briella hard across the jaw.

The strike threw Briella off balance. Kyla shoved her with both hands into a display rack.

Metal screeched against metal. Three handmade couture gowns crashed to the marble floor in a heap of white tulle. Briella hit the ground hard.

Blood welled from a split on her lip, dripping down her chin.

The entire boutique went dead silent. High-end clients froze mid-step. A seamstress dropped her pins.

Kyla stood over my sister, her chest heaving. She didn't look afraid. She looked like she had practiced this moment in front of a mirror.

She turned to the room, raising her voice so every customer could hear.

"Listen up!" Kyla screamed. "I am the real wife of Noel Sanchez! The legal wife! Briella Edwards and her pathetic sister are nothing but filthy thieves and homewreckers!"

Briella lay on the cold floor, dizzy and shaking. She looked up, searching for help.

Maggie Hicks was standing ten feet away.

Maggie had been my store manager for five years. I gave her bonuses. I promoted her. I trusted her with keys, contracts, and confidential books.

Briella reached out a trembling hand. "Maggie... call the police..."

Maggie did not move toward Briella. She didn't pick up the phone, and she didn't call security.

Instead, Maggie walked straight to Kyla.

She took a chilled glass of water from a silver tray and handed it to Kyla. Then Maggie reached out with gentle, practiced hands and smoothed a stray lock of hair behind Kyla’s ear. It was the same fawning hospitality she usually reserved for royalty.

"Don't upset yourself, Mrs. Sanchez," Maggie whispered softly. "Take a sip. Don't waste your energy on garbage like her."

Briella watched from the floor. Her stomach dropped. The physical pain faded behind the cold horror of betrayal. Maggie had picked a side.

With shaking fingers, Briella pulled her phone from her purse and dialed my private line.

***

Across town in Midtown, I was sitting with a private client, reviewing silk swatches.

My phone buzzed on the dark wood desk. When I saw Briella’s name, I picked it up right away.

"Briella? Did you like the ballgown?"

"Vivi..." Her voice cracked. It was tiny, wet, and breathless. "Please come. She hit me. She's saying... Maggie is letting her..."

She choked on a sob. In the background, I heard the sharp, shrill screech of an unfamiliar woman’s laugh, followed by the clink of glass.

Ice shot straight down my spine.

I didn't ask what happened. I didn't apologize to my client. I snatched my purse and keys off the desk. My heels struck the floor like gunshots. I was running for the elevator before the call even cut off.

I blew through three yellow lights on Fifth Avenue. My knuckles turned white against the steering wheel.

When I pushed through the heavy glass doors of my boutique, the brass bell gave a dull chime.

The boutique was wrecked.

Months of hand-stitched lace lay trampled on the white floor like dirty rags.

My sister sat curled against the base of the register. Her lip was swollen and split. Fresh blood stained the front of her collar.

And standing beside the champagne counter was Maggie Hicks.

Next to Maggie stood a young woman drenched in heavy perfume and cheap, flashy gold jewelry. She was holding a crystal flute, smirking down at the floor, looking around the room as if she owned every single brick.

The air in the boutique dropped ten degrees. Every set of eyes locked onto me.

I stood in the center of the doorway.

I didn't yell. I didn't drop my bag.

I just stared at the blood on my little sister’s face.