Bought A Stripper Husband

Chapter 01 : Evalyne’s Life

Delaire Atelier was quiet in the way of high-end places that ran on pressure instead of noise.

The showroom was a long stretch of polished concrete and glass, mannequins frozen mid-stride in gowns worth more than some cars. Assistants floated along the edges like frightened birds, clutching tablets to their chests. Somewhere, the hum of sewing machines murmured behind thick doors.

At the center of all of it, Evalyne Delaire stood in white.

Not soft white. A structured blazer, cream silk blouse, trousers with a knife-precise crease. Her platinum hair was twisted into a low chignon that did not move when she turned her head. The only color on her was the deep maroon on her lips, the same shade that appeared in half the brand’s campaign photos.

“Numbers,” she said, lifting her gaze to the projector screen.

Her CFO clicked to the next slide with a hand that shook almost imperceptibly. The chart displayed a steep upward curve, the kind most people would kill to see.

“Fourth quarter projections show an increase of twelve percent after the Paris launch,” he said. “Our online conversion rates have improved, but we are still underperforming in the Southeast Asian market. The competitors are undercutting on price.”

Evalyne’s eyes traced the curve.

Twelve percent. Good, but not enough. Nothing was ever enough.

“If they cannot beat our quality, they will always try to beat our prices,” she said. “So we do not play their game. We adjust the story.”

“Story?” one of the junior executives echoed.

She turned her head, her gaze slicing toward the woman who had spoken. The room tensed.

“Our marketing is still pushing exclusivity,” Evalyne said. “That worked when aspirational was enough. It is not anymore. People want to feel chosen, not rejected. Rework the language for that region. Less ‘limited collection’, more ‘created with you in mind’. Keep the price. Change the feeling.”

The junior executive nodded too quickly. “Yes, Madam Evalyne. Of course.”

Madam Evalyne.

They never called her Eva, Evie or Evalyne at work. Not to her face.

Her phone lit up on the table beside her laptop. A cartoon pink rabbit danced on the lock screen next to the words:

Theresa's School

The notification preview read: Pick up at 3.00 p.m. Early dismissal today.

The corner of Evalyne’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. She locked the screen without opening it.

“Continue,” she said.

The meeting spilled into the next hour, then the one after that. They discussed supply chain issues, a factory delay in Italy, an influencer scandal that had to be navigated without getting Delaire Atelier’s name too close to the tabloid mess. Evalyne moved through it all with soft, decisive commands, the kind that sounded almost gentle until you realized they did not leave room for refusal.

By the time the presentation ended, half the room looked like they needed to sit down. Evalyne did not.

“Email me the revised projections by tonight,” she said, gathering her laptop. “No later than ten.”

“Tonight?” someone echoed, then caught her look and added, “Yes, of course.”

They filed out, a little too fast, like the room had been starved of air and she had finally released it.

Only when the door clicked shut behind the last of them did Evalyne let her shoulders relax a fraction. She glanced at her phone again.

3.47 p.m.

The pink rabbit notification stared back at her, bland and unforgiving.

For a second, something like panic flared in her chest. Then she crushed it and pressed speed dial.

“Madam Evalyne,” the receptionist at Theresa’s school answered, smooth and professional.

“This is Evalyne Delaire,” she said. “I am on my way. The traffic held me up.”

There was no traffic. There had been projections and a board member who wanted to argue about the cost of a new sustainability campaign.

“Of course,” the woman replied. There was a tiny pause. “Theresa is waiting in the front office. She has been very patient.”

Evalyne closed her eyes. Guilt was a small, sharp thing behind her ribs.

“I will be there in fifteen minutes,” she said, and hung up before the receptionist could say anything kind.

She walked through the atelier, heels tapping a steady rhythm on the floor. People parted for her without realizing they did, like water avoiding a blade.

“Cancel my four o’clock,” she told her assistant without breaking stride.

“But that was the call with the New York investors,” the assistant blurted, then blanched. “I mean, I will reschedule. Yes. I am sorry.”

“It can wait an hour,” Evalyne said. “My driver, now.”

Outside, her car waited at the curb, black paint gleaming. The chauffeur opened the door, eyes politely lowered.

“The school,” she said, sliding in.

As the city smeared past her window, Evalyne checked her reflection in the glass. No mascara smudged, no lipstick out of place. Perfect. Always perfect.

She tried to remember the last time she had not looked like this. Hair loose, makeup gone, wearing something that did not have a logo or a cut designed to say something about power.

It was easier to think about profit margins than it was to remember that.

The school was small and neat, the kind that came with uniforms and brochures that promised “holistic excellence.” The receptionist gave Evalyne a too-bright smile as she entered.

“Madam Delaire,” she said. “So good to see you.”

Evalyne nodded once. “Thank you.”

Theresa sat on a plastic chair by the wall, feet swinging, toes not quite touching the floor. Her navy uniform was immaculate, her pale hair brushed back into a small ponytail. She clutched her backpack strap with one hand, a book with the other.

Her eyes, the same soft blue as Evalyne, flicked up as the door opened.

They did not light up. They did not narrow.

They just looked. Quiet, assessing, as if Evalyne were a stranger.

“Theresa,” Evalyne said.

“Hi, Mommy,” Theresa replied, polite and even.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Evalyne said, crossing the room. She meant to kneel in front of the chair, reach for her daughter’s hand, but something in her body hesitated. Standing felt safer. Less vulnerable.

“It’s okay,” Theresa said. “Miss Emily gave me biscuits.”

The receptionist smiled. “She was very good. She was reading while she waited.”

Evalyne glanced at the book. Some children’s novel with a cartoon dragon on the cover. She had never seen it before. Had she bought it? Had Annalyne? Had the nanny?

“Thank you,” Evalyne told the receptionist. “We have to go.”

In the car, Theresa sat with her backpack on her lap, fingers tracing the seam of the strap. The silence between them was not heavy, just familiar.

“How was school?” Evalyne asked.

“Fine.”

“What did you learn?”

“Maths.”

“What kind of maths?”

“Subtraction.”

Evalyne groped for another question and found only empty air.

She knew exactly how many factories she owned, down to the square footage. She could recite her top ten clients from memory, along with the last three orders they had placed. She could list every country where Delaire Atelier had launched in chronological order.

She did not know what subtraction worksheet her daughter had done that day.

“Did you play with your friends?” she tried.

Theresa’s fingers stilled.

“They are not my friends,” she said. Her voice was still flat. Only the barest wrinkle appeared between her brows.

Evalyne opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her throat felt tight.

“You will make friends,” she said finally. It came out like a command.

Theresa did not answer.