Bought A Stripper Husband

Chapter 06 : Evalyne’s Manhunt

Regret tasted like stale champagne and expensive lipstick.

Evalyne stared at the ceiling of her bedroom and tried to locate the exact moment, the precise sentence, where she could have shut her mouth and let the night pass without detonating her own life.

There were several candidates.

There is someone.

We’ve been together for two years.

We’re getting married next month.

Any of those would do.

The morning light leaking around the blackout curtains was pale and thin, the particular shade Manhattan wore when it hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to be. Evalyne lay still, her head clear, the memory of last night sharp in a way she couldn’t blame on alcohol.

She hadn’t drunk that much. That was the problem. She hadn’t even had the decency to be drunk when she’d lied.

Her phone, face down on the nightstand, vibrated once. Then again. Then again, a persistent little insect of anxiety.

She did not reach for it.

If she picked it up, there would be messages. Her PR team sending her coverage of the launch. Investors congratulating her on another successful campaign. Celine or Vivian, already starting a group chat titled something nauseating like Wedding Countdown.

Her stomach rolled.

The launch had gone perfectly. Sales would spike. Her face in that velvet dress was probably already on three fashion blogs. One more flawless evening in the saga of Evalyne Delaire, Fashion Tyrant, Queen of Cold.

And yet, all she could hear were Lucia’s words.

It’s hard to call it success when your family fell apart.

She exhaled, slow and controlled, and sat up.

Her reflection in the mirrored wardrobe doors looked like a stranger’s: hair mussed, mascara faintly smudged under her eyes, lips bare. Without the armor, she looked less like the woman on magazine covers and more like someone who had stayed up too late thinking about things that wouldn’t pay dividends.

She pushed to her feet and crossed to the bathroom, the cool marble grounding under her bare soles. Hot water, cold serum, the ritual of containment. By the time she stepped out again, her face was blank, hair slicked back, robe knotted tightly at her waist.

Her phone buzzed again.

“Coward,” she muttered at herself, and picked it up.

Thirty-two unread messages. She scanned the previews.

Mina: Good morning, Madam Eva. Incredible coverage already. Sending you a compiled file shortly—

Harper’s Bazaar: Loved tonight’s launch. Would love a quote on—

Celine: We are still talking abooutt itt

Vivian: Still screaming over the news!! Congratulations!! Need DETAILS.

Unknown Number: This is Harper News. Can you confirm reports you are engaged?

Evalyne’s grip tightened.

There it was. One lie and the machine had already chewed it into a headline.

She opened the message from Lucia.

Brunch today. 1 p.m. Céline’s. No excuses. We’re celebrating.

A stream of emojis followed. Champagne, diamonds, a bride.

Evalyne stared at the words until they blurred, something hot prickling at the back of her eyes.

She could tell them. She could show up at brunch and say, I panicked. He doesn’t exist. I lied, you cornered me, and I used the only weapon I know: narrative.

They would laugh, maybe. They would feign understanding. And then, in the quiet hours of their lives, they would talk.

Did you hear? She made up a boyfriend. She’s gone mad with work. Desperate. Pitiful.

Investors read gossip. Stock prices could tremble on the back of a narrative. Reputation was a commodity, and she had just painted a target on her own.

She set the phone down.

She could not afford to be pitiful.

“Okay,” she said into the empty room. “Fine. We adapt.”

She walked to her closet and pushed back the rails until she reached the hidden door at the far end, the one that opened into the smaller dressing room she almost never used. The place she went only when she felt like she was wearing her own life too publicly.

She stepped inside and shut the door.

Inside, it was quiet. No mirrors. No windows. Just a bench and a row of hooks with plain, soft clothes: jeans, sweaters, sneakers. Clothes no one ever saw her in.

She sank onto the bench, resting her elbows on her knees.

She could handle this. She had three, maybe four weeks. Enough time to solve a complicated supply chain issue. Enough time to pivot an entire marketing strategy. Enough time to find one man willing to stand beside her in public and pretend he’d been doing it all along.

She had resources. Connections. Money.

The problem was that she had no idea how to date.

She had skipped that phase. With Harris, it had been quick and ugly and fueled by adrenaline. She had been twenty-six, working hundred-hour weeks and fighting off older men in suits who wanted to pat her head and tell her she was “adorable” for thinking she could run her father’s company. Harris had appeared at a charity gala in a tux and a smirk, charming enough, interested enough, persistent enough. He had known the right words to say.

He had known how to make her feel like she wasn’t a machine.

She had barely dated him. They had collided. They had crashed. They had burned.

Now, the idea of sitting across from a stranger in some restaurant and trying to persuade him she was a desirable human being and not an acquisition felt… humiliating.

You built a multi-billion-dollar company, she told herself. You can manage a simple conversation.

She wasn’t so sure.

The office looked different when she knew half the people in it were now picturing her in a wedding dress.

The New York flagship headquarters of Delaire Atelier occupied the top floors of a glass tower in Midtown. The lobby was all white stone and black accents, the logo gleaming above the reception desk. Interns in monochrome scurried like overcaffeinated penguins.

Evalyne strode through the doors at 8:43 a.m., coffee in hand, sunglasses hiding the faint shadows under her eyes. As she passed, conversations dipped, then rose back up at a carefully normal volume.

They were trying not to stare.

Her assistant, Mina, was waiting by the private elevator, tablet clutched to her chest.

“Good morning, Madam Eva,” she said. “Congratulations again. The press is—”

“Later,” Delaire said. “Meeting first.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

In her office, Evalyne set her purse down, shrugged out of her coat, and gestured to the chairs facing her desk.

“Sit,” she said.

Mina sat. Carefully. Like she was afraid the chair would explode.

“I need your assistance with something personal,” Evalyne said.

Mina blinked. “Of course.”

“You know I am not engaged,” Evalyne said. “Despite what the internet seems convinced of.”

Color rose up the assistant’s neck. “Yes, Madam Eva.”

“And you know I told certain people last night that I was,” Evalyne went on.

Mina hesitated. “There are… videos circulating. Of the toast.”

“Of course there are,” Evalyne muttered. “There are always videos.”

“I’ve already had PR draft responses,” Mina said quickly. “We can say we don’t comment on rumors about your personal life, keep it vague. That should buy you some—”

“I don’t want vague,” Evalyne said. “For once, vague is the problem.”

Mina’s brows drew together. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I said I had a boyfriend,” Evalyne said patiently. “I said we were getting married next month. And unfortunately, I said it in front of people whose opinions I cannot afford to have weaponized against me.”

“Yes,” Mina said slowly. “I gathered that much.”

“So,” Evalyne said. “I need someone to fill that role.”

It hung between them for a beat.

Mina’s eyes widened. “You mean… like… an actual boyfriend?”

“A man willing to present as one,” Evalyne said. “For a limited period of time.”

“You want me to… hire you a fiancé,” Mina said.

“Yes,” Evalyne answered. “Discreetly. No agencies that haven’t been vetted. I don’t want some aspiring reality star leaking NDAs to TMZ.”

Mina pressed her lips together, thinking. “We could… I mean, I know people. That is, I know people who know people. Discreet people. But…” She shifted, clearly wrestling with her own curiosity. “Why not just… tell them you were joking? Or that things didn’t work out?”

“Because things like that spiral,” Evalyne said. “It becomes a story. The woman who lied about being loved. The ‘crazy’ CEO. They would enjoy that narrative far too much.”

Mina grimaced. “Yeah. The headlines would be brutal.”

“Exactly,” Evalyne said. “So. We find a candidate.”

Mina nodded, mind already whirring. “All right. Criteria?”

Evalyne opened her mouth, then closed it.

She hadn’t thought about criteria. Not properly. Her brain had been stuck on existence, not specifics.

“He needs to be… presentable,” she said. “Able to handle public events. Cameras.”

“So he can’t be a complete social disaster,” Mina said, deadpan. “Got it.”

“I can handle that part,” Evalyne said. “I just need him to not faint on red carpets.”

Mina’s mouth twitched.

“He should be comfortable around wealth,” Evalyne continued. “Otherwise he’ll either flinch at everything or… perform.”

“Perform?”

“Overcompensate,” Evalyne said. “Loud, bragging, trying to prove he belongs. I don’t have patience for that.”

“Okay,” Mina said, typing quickly. “Comfortable around rich people, not a cringe monster.”

“And he has to be okay with Theresa,” Evalyne said, more quietly.

Mina looked up.

“She doesn’t talk to me much right now,” Evalyne admitted. “But she notices everything. Whoever I bring into her life, even temporarily, can’t… scare her. Or treat her like a prop.”

“Understood,” Mina said softly.

“And he has to be willing to lie,” Evalyne finished. “Convincingly.”

“Right.” Mina hesitated. “So… basically we’re looking for an emotionally stable actor with no ambition to be famous, who’s good with kids, comfortable with rich people, and willing to keep his mouth shut for money.”

Evalyne thought about that, then nodded. “Yes.”

Mina blew out a breath. “I’ll start a shortlist.”

“And in the meantime,” Evalyne said, feeling the weight settle heavier on her shoulders, “we try the old-fashioned way.”

“The… old-fashioned way?” Mina asked.

“Dating,” Evalyne said. The word felt foreign in her mouth. “Set something up. Quietly. No one from the industry. Someone… normal.”

Mina’s eyebrows climbed. “You want me to get you a blind date?”

“Not one of those app things,” Evalyne added quickly. “I am not putting my face on… whatever they’re called. Swipe places.”

“I would pay money to see your Hinge profile,” Mina muttered, then cleared her throat when Evalyne’s eyes narrowed. “Sorry. Yes. Okay. Blind date. I think I can… arrange that. I have friends with friends. We can keep your name out of it until the last minute.”

“Tonight,” Evalyne said. “If possible.”

“Tonight.” Mina swallowed. “Okay, I’ll… see what I can do.”

As the assistant left, Evalyne opened her laptop and tried to focus on something she understood: numbers, projections, a new fabric supplier in Italy who claimed to have invented a stain-resistant silk.

Well, s**t.