My Fiancée Married My Sister

Chapter 8

Diana pulled out a folding table from her closet and set it up near the window. "This can be your workspace. Job applications first. Then portfolio updates. You are methodical, Jasmine. That is your strength. Quietly getting things done even when the world falls apart. I have seen it before."

I sat at the table and opened my laptop, the screen light hitting my face. "Methodical. Yes. That is what I am doing. Updating my resume. Listing the branding work for Lancaster's first collection. The pattern collections. The client files I fixed for free. But I cannot say much because of the agreement. It feels like starting over with my hands tied."

Diana brought over coffee and sat across from me. "Tell me what you are typing. Read it out. We will make it strong."

I cleared my throat and read from the screen. "Fashion designer and pattern maker with experience building brand identity from the ground up. Developed mood boards, wholesale strategies, and collections that increased client engagement. Specialized in inclusive sizing that celebrates all bodies."

Diana nodded. "Good. Add the Parsons application you turned down. Mention your vision. You are the one with the eye. Not Ryan. Clients asked for you specifically on draping issues and fabric choices."

I typed more, my fingers steady even if my mind raced. "I am keeping it quiet. No crying in front of you or anyone. Not after that first night in the car. I sat there until dawn talking to myself about the sacrifices, the late nights, the way I loved him completely.”

We worked side by side for hours. Diana helped sort the sketches from the box. I scanned some and added them to a digital portfolio. "Look at this one," I said, turning the screen. "The capsule collection idea for plus-sized women. Bold cuts. Fabrics that move with the body. I wanted to celebrate curves like mine, warm brown skin, natural hair, and the way clothes can make you feel seen instead of hidden."

Diana leaned in. "That is powerful. Send that to boutiques and small manufacturers. You do not need Lancaster. Your talent is yours. Mom tried to make you shrink, Ava took the spotlight, Ryan took the credit, but here you are, methodical and quiet, building anyway."

I applied to three design jobs that afternoon, entry level pattern roles, assistant positions… anything that let me create. "One says they want someone with branding experience. I have that because I built Lancaster's aesthetic identity and flagship collection framework, but I have to be careful what I claim because of the IP."

"Claim what you can," Diana said, refilling my coffee. "Clients loved your patterns and said you had something special. That matters. Put it in the cover letter. 'Chose to build with a partner instead of formal study. Hands-on experience shaping a startup brand.'"

I typed it, reading it back to her. "How does that sound? Not too bitter? I am trying to function with ordinary motions. Just updating my portfolio, sending emails, making food when my stomach reminds me… and no tears in front of you."

"You are doing it," she replied. "Quiet discipline. I admire that. But remember, it is okay to feel it with me. That first night in the car you made that sound. Between crying and screaming. I know it is still there under the surface."

The day moved on like that. I cooked simple rice and vegetables for us while Diana checked more job boards. "Another opening at a small label. They want inclusive sizing. Perfect for you. Your work always celebrated bodies. Not like Lancaster pushing slim fits only."

I served the plates and sat down. "Eating. Functioning. That is the goal. Mom called earlier but I did not pick up. Probably wants to check if I am being gracious. Ava texted once and said the announcement went well. Ryan has not contacted me since the studio."

Diana took a bite and pointed her fork at me. "Good. Let them spin their story. You focus on this and take it one step at a time. You are not broken. You have decided… and that quiet way you move through this? It is a strength."

After dinner, I went back to the table, sorted more sketches, and updated my online portfolio with what I could show. "This mood board here had fabrics I sourced myself, and colors that work for different skin tones like mine. I did that for free as help. Now it belongs to them. But I remember every choice."

We talked late into the evening. Diana shared funny stories from design school to lighten it and I told her about specific client wins. "One buyer said my patterns made their plus-sized line sell out. Ryan took the meeting credit but I did the work. Now I do it for myself."

“Yes, girl,” Diana cheered.

By bedtime, I had sent five applications, updated the portfolio, and unpacked the one box completely quietly. No crying. Just the ordinary motions of someone whose world ended trying to build a new one.

Diana gave me the spare room. "Sleep. Tomorrow more of the same. You got this."

I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. The discipline held. But inside, the questions turned. How long could I keep this up? Job rejections might come. I was money tight and the public comments from the announcement were still popping up when I checked once with careless tags. "What happened to the sister?"

I did not cry, maybe not out loud. But the ache stayed.

The next morning Diana shook me awake gently. "Another day. More applications. I found a boutique that might take samples. Get up. We keep moving."

I got up, made coffee, and sat at the table again quietly, sending more emails. "This one asks for experience with wholesale strategy. I created that for Lancaster and framed it carefully."

Diana read over my shoulder. "Strong. You are doing the work. Go girl… I see the discipline. It is impressive... Hmmm… And a little scary how well you hold it together."

We kept at it. Lunch. More portfolio tweaks. A walk around the block to clear my head. Talking about future ideas. "My own label one day. Reed something. Celebrating what my mom called problems."

By afternoon, I had sent three more applications. I got one reply already with an interview possibility next week. That was my small win.

I told Diana while we folded laundry. "They want to see my patterns. I can show what I kept in the box. I don't have everything. But that should be enough."

"Sure," she said.

The day ended with me at the table again, sketching new ideas on scrap paper. But the discipline felt thin in places. Like it might unravel if someone truly saw me.

Then my phone dinged with an unknown sender. A physical letter mentioned in the email notification with a cream envelope, and no return address, waiting at the front desk of the building.

Diana looked at me. "What now?"

I stared at the message. Who would send me a physical letter here?

My hands stayed steady as I replied to the email for pickup details. But the questions came fast. What information could someone have for me now?