Bought A Stripper Husband

Chapter 03 : Evalyne‘s Gala

The gallery glowed.

Light poured from its high windows in clean, white sheets, spilling across the street like something deliberate. It wasn’t an accident, of course. Nothing about tonight was. From the branded step-and-repeat outside to the exact bluish tint of the ice sculptures along the walls, every piece of it had been chosen and approved by Evalyne Delaire.

Her name glittered in chrome letters across the entrance wall.

DELAIRE ATELIER

WINTER / WHITE NOIR LAUNCH

Cameras flashed as a pop star stepped onto the carpet in a bias-cut satin slip Evalyne’s team had fitted to her last week. Her hair cascaded down her back like liquid ink, all of it perfectly designed to drape over the “RA” logo on the bodice.

“Who are you wearing?”

“Delaire, obviously.”

That was the answer Evalyne liked to hear.

From the mezzanine, she watched it all unfold. Guests moved through the gallery like they were on a circuit: greet the wall of photographers, accept a crystal flute of champagne from a gloved server, pause to admire the dress suspended in the center under a spotlight, post something to their stories and tag her brand.

Below, her PR team moved like sharks in silk, nudging people toward the right angles, whispering the right hashtags. Her staff wore shades of black. Her guests wore her.

This, here, was easy.

“Madam Eva?”

Her trusted assistant, Mina, hovered at her elbow, tablet in hand. She looked as if stepping too close might cause frostbite.

“Yes?” Evalyne said.

“The Forbes photographer is asking if you can spare five minutes for a shot with Ms. Marchetti. She insists on getting you both together.”

“Of course,” Evalyne replied. “Tell them three minutes. I’ll go down now.”

She adjusted the line of her dress, a column of midnight velvet that bared her shoulders and fell in a clean line to the floor. Diamonds glittered at her wrist when she smoothed the fabric, then disappeared under the edge of her wrap.

Her shoes clicked against the polished stairs as she descended. The room shifted when guests noticed her, a subtle reorientation, faces turning toward her like flowers toward a sun.

“Eva!” A tall woman in a sequined blazer air-kissed in her direction. “You look lethal, darling.”

“Thank you for coming,” Evalyne answered, a faint smile at the corners of her mouth. She touched the woman’s arm exactly once, just enough to register warmth before moving on.

It was a choreography she knew well: nod, smile, answer, redirect. Let them feel seen without ever letting them too close. She wove through a constellation of people whose faces she’d seen on magazine covers and quarterly reports.

“Madam Evalyne, if I may,” a French accent called out. “Just one photo?”

Elisa Marchetti, fashion editor, stood with the Forbes photographer, already half turned toward the camera. Evalyne joined her, angling her body to flatter both of them. The flashes went off in a brief, controlled flurry.

“Perfect,” Marchetti said. “You are going to break the internet with this campaign. It’s the most cohesive work I’ve seen from you yet.”

“Thank you,” Evalyne said. “We’ve worked very hard.”

“You make it look easy.”

Because this part was. Not that anyone realized the difference.

She excused herself from the editor with a promise to email some rare behind-the-scenes shots, then let Mina steer her toward the brand’s newest ambassador, a rising Korean actress wearing an architectural white blazer dress that made her look like she’d been sculpted rather than stitched.

“Miss Eva,” the actress said shyly. “Your designs… it is like wearing a spell.”

Evalyne's smile softened a fraction. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

“She insisted on this piece,” the actress’s manager said. “Her followers are already going crazy online. #DelaireAtelier is trending.”

“As it should,” Evalyne said.

Numbers, metrics, reach. All of that was tangible. Comprehensible.

“Evaaa!”

The vowel stretched, sugar-coated and loud.

Evalyne turned.

Here they came.

Three women approached like a perfectly curated ad for old money: glossy hair, diamonds that weren’t borrowed, gowns tailored within an inch of their lives. They each wore Delaire Atelier, but not tonight’s collection. They didn’t need to. They had vintage pieces from the first years, the kind that screamed we’ve known her from the beginning.

“Is that Harper’s new cover girl?” one of them asked, as if she hadn’t just watched the actress move away. “You are spoiling the children, Eva.”

“Brand synergy,” Evalyne said smoothly. “Thank you for coming, Lucia.”

Lucia Valdez looped an arm through hers. The contact was warm, edged with champagne and perfume.

“We wouldn’t miss it,” crooned another, Margot de Vere. Her husband, Laurent, hovered behind her, one hand on her waist, the other wrapped around a glass of whisky. “You feed us, dress us, and give us somewhere to be seen. It’s practically a public service.”

“And you keep talking about me in all the right circles,” Evalyne replied. “We all have our roles.”

They laughed, delighted to be acknowledged as useful.

“Speaking of roles,” Lucia said, her voice dropping into something conspiratorial, “my twins got into St. James. Top of the waiting list. They said it helped that their mother is ‘publicly involved in philanthropy.’”

“We all know it helped that you donated an entire library wing,” Margot said, bumping Lucia’s shoulder.

Lucia pressed a hand to her chest. “Who, me? I just like to see children reading.”

Laurent chuckled. “She likes to see the plaque with her name on it, you mean.”

“And what is wrong with that?” Lucia demanded, faux scandalized. “Evalyne understands. She has a plaque on every other building in this city by now.”

“Not every building,” Evalyne said mildly. “There’s room for expansion.”

They laughed again. It was easy, at first. This was the ritual: boasts disguised as updates, compliments disguised as daggers, all of them shining under gallery lights.

Margot swiveled her glass, watching the bubbles rise. “We came straight from Amélie’s recital, you know. Her piano teacher says she has perfect pitch. Obviously from my side.”

“Obviously from my wallet,” Laurent muttered.

“We videoed the whole thing,” Margot went on, ignoring him. “I’ll send it to you. You’ll cry.”

“I don’t cry,” Evalyne said.

“Oh, right. You’ll… what do you do, Eva?” Lucia tapped her chin. “You’ll nod quietly and then send the teacher a bonus.”

“That sounds accurate,” Evalyne answered.

They tittered, but Lucia’s eyes were sharp.

“Where is Theresa tonight?” she asked. “We haven’t seen her in ages.”

“At home,” Evalyne said. “It’s a school night.”

“Of course,” Margot said quickly. “So responsible. Although my mother always said children should see what their parents do. Show them the empire you’re building.”

“We had Amélie wave at the photographers,” Lucia added. “Start them young. That way they don’t get stage fright.”

“Theresa knows what I do,” Evalyne said.

Does she? a small traitorous voice asked. Or does she just know that your phone is always in your hand?

“Does she, though?” Lucia mused, like she’d heard it. “You are always here or jetting off to Paris or Milan. That poor little thing must only see you in campaign photos.”

“Lucia.” Margot nudged her. “Don’t be catty.”

“What?” Lucia said, blinking innocence. “I’m just saying, it’s hard to call it success when your family fell apart.”

The words hung in the air, soft as silk and twice as cutting.

Evalyne’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the stem of her glass. The champagne didn’t so much as ripple.

Laurent shifted, uncomfortable. “Lucia.”

“No, I mean it,” Lucia went on, emboldened by the way the others leaned in. “Look at us. We juggle both. Business, family, charity. It’s a lot. But our husbands show up, our kids have both parents. Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to be working for? Not just bigger stores and more headlines.”

“Careful,” Margot murmured, but there was no real warning in it. Only curiosity. How would Evalyne respond?

“You’re assuming everyone wants the same things you do,” Evalyne said. Her voice was cool, even. She didn’t look at Lucia; she looked past her, at the new campaign centerpiece: a series of massive photographs of models in white tailored coats against an ocean of night.

Lucia perched on the edge of a display plinth, unconcerned. “Come on, Eva. You can’t tell me you never picture it. A complete family. Theresa with a father who’s present. Someone to share the load, at least.”

“Poor Theresa,” Margot added softly. “You know how cruel other children can be. No father figure, that must be tough at school. They ask so many questions at that age.”

The words landed like small, precise stones.

Evalyne thought of Theresa in the car, fingers worrying the strap of her backpack. They are not my friends.

“Children survive,” Evalyne said. “She has everything she needs.”

“Things aren’t everything,” Lucia replied. “Love is.”

Evalyne took a sip of champagne to keep from saying something she’d regret. The bubbles scratched her throat.

“That sounded corny even for you,” Laurent muttered.

“Well, someone has to say it,” Lucia huffed. “You all talk about quarterly growth like it can tuck you in at night.”

“If you’re tired of talking about my quarterly growth, we can talk about my expansion into Seoul,” Evalyne said. “I hear there’s a new building that needs a plaque.”

Laurent barked a laugh. Margot smiled, but the tension coiled tighter under the banter.

Lucia slid off the plinth and stepped closer, the diamonds at her throat catching the light. “I’m just saying, you’ve built an incredible brand, Eva. You’ve proven yourself. You have nothing left to prove in business. But in… other areas… people wonder.”

“People?” Evalyne repeated softly. It was almost funny: the way they always hid their own curiosity behind some invisible chorus. People wonder. People talk. People say.

Lucia’s mouth curved. “Don’t pretend you don’t hear it. Ice queen, untouchable, frigid, all of that nonsense. You could shut them up so easily. Just… settle down. Show them you can do both.”

“And yet, she’s not obligated to prove anything to ‘people," a new voice interjected.