Ex-Lover's Design Theft

I stood in our walk-in closet, methodically sorting through Darius's suits for dry cleaning. Three years of marriage had taught me his precise preferences—which suits needed pressing, which ties complimented which shirts. My fingers moved automatically, checking pockets before sending each garment to the cleaners.

That's when I felt something unexpected in the pocket of his charcoal Armani—something small and delicate that shouldn't have been there.

My hands trembled slightly as I pulled out a pair of lace panties. They were exquisite—fine black lace with tiny pearl details along the waistband. Beautiful, expensive, and definitely not mine.

I stared at them, my heart pounding against my ribs. The lace was so delicate I could almost see through it, the kind of underwear a woman would wear when she wanted to feel beautiful. Wanted to be noticed.

"They're not yours, are they?" I whispered to myself, though no one was there to hear.

I knew my own underwear—practical cotton briefs in neutral colors, comfortable rather than provocative. These weren't just different; they were the opposite of everything I would choose.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. Darius was having an affair.

I sank onto the closet bench, the panties still clutched in my hand. Three years of marriage. Three years of sacrificing my career, my dreams, my identity—all for him. And this was how he repaid me?

---

Two nights later, the Hilton Hotel ballroom glittered with the city's elite. The annual charity gala was Darius's favorite social event—a chance to network with potential clients while appearing philanthropic.

I wore the midnight blue gown he'd once said made my eyes look like sapphires. Tonight, though, he barely glanced at me as we entered, his attention focused on scanning the crowd.

"Darling, I see James Morrison by the bar. We should say hello," I suggested, trying to engage him.

"Later," he dismissed, his eyes suddenly locking on something across the room.

I followed his gaze and felt my stomach drop. A young woman with honey-blonde hair stood near the champagne fountain, her white dress ethereal and innocent-looking. She laughed at something someone said, and the sound carried across the room like wind chimes.

"That's Gracie Hawkins," someone whispered nearby. "Stone Industries' newest designer. Darius mentored her personally."

Mentored her personally. The words echoed in my mind as I watched Darius make his way toward her, cutting through the crowd with single-minded purpose.

I followed, my heels clicking against the marble floor with determination. When I reached them, they were standing close—too close—their heads bent together in intimate conversation.

"Darius," I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your colleague?"

He straightened, surprise flickering across his face before it hardened into something cold. "Clare, this is Gracie. Gracie, my wife."

Gracie's eyes widened with practiced innocence. "It's so nice to meet you! Darius has told me so much about you."

"I'm sure he has," I replied, extending my hand. "Though somehow he neglected