Betrayed By Husband And Son: Rise Of A Billionaire Wife novel Chapter 12

That night, I sat on my bed with Mark's laptop in front of me. The lit screen displayed my portfolio – a collection of sketched dresses, shoes, bags, men's wear, all gathering dust in my portfolio like dreams I was too scared to chase.

I'd thought I lost them, considering what Ryan had done to cut me down.

Did he forget about this? Or he didn't think I'd need this one day? Or maybe he underestimated me too much, believing I wouldn't last up till now without him.

A soft chuckle escaped my lips. “Arrogant bastard,” I mumbled.

Scrolling through, I couldn't help but marvel at my own creations. They were spectacular. Then, I was the best in my department. My lecturers had only praises for me. I'd grabbed awards upon awards for innovation, for craftsmanship, for vision.

A few brands had reached out to be their designer, but Ryan made me turn them down. Then, they begged for a few pieces of my designs, which I sold to them under his strict conditions – no credits, no recognition, just a fat paycheck that Ryan controlled.

My pieces made it to the runway and freaking won awards! Awards I couldn’t even claim. I watched from the TV as other people paraded my work, smiled for the cameras, gave speeches they hadn’t earned. Meanwhile, I clapped for them like a fool, my heart splitting in two.

Ryan would just squeeze my hand and whisper, "Patience, Adele. Our time will come."

But it never did.

At the time, I told myself it didn't matter. I convinced myself that the world knowing my name wasn't as important as building a future with him.

God, how wrong and stupid was I.

I took a deep breath, going through the collections. There were tens of thousands of designs. It was my hobby. And now, it would be this resort’s savior… hopefully.

My hands moved before my mind could catch up, clicking through folders, selecting the best sketches, the most polished designs. Each one was a reminder: I was never the failure he painted me to be.

I was still the woman who could light up a runway.

Grabbing a notebook from the nightstand, I flipped it open and started jotting down phone numbers of those same companies I sold my designs to.

After that, new ideas came into mind and I began sketching once more.

By the time the clock struck two in the morning, my bed was littered with papers, rough sketches, notes scribbled in every margin. I leaned back against the headboard, exhaustion tugging at my limbs, but there was a fire in my chest that no amount of fatigue could smother.

Knock!

It was soft, almost hesitant knock… like whoever stood on the other side wasn’t sure they should be here.

I frowned, who would be here by this time? Maybe the girls couldn't fall asleep, just like me.

I swung my legs down from the bed and wrapped my cardigan tighter around myself, before padding barefooted across the floor.

When I opened the door, I was dazed at who I saw.

Detroit.

My breath hitched. It had been a month since that night. A month of trying to forget him. A month of aching silence and unanswered questions. And now… here he was. Tall, composed, and cloaked in power like it was stitched into his skin.

But he wasn’t the man I remembered.

Gone was the intoxicated haze, the crumbling edges. Tonight, he was all sharp lines and cold steel. His jaw was clenched, his eyes unreadable.

Still, I stepped aside. “Come in.”

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