My Husband's Father Wants Me

Chapter 6

6

The morning heat beat down on the pavement as I walked out of my fifth jewelry house of the day, my feet aching and my arms heavy from clutching my leather portfolio.

Every single door had closed in my face.

Without a recognized brand or a prominent backer, the luxury brand managers barely glanced at my sketches. One boutique owner in the fashion district, one of Ethan's associates, had offered me a meager two thousand dollars for the entire collection—an insulting sum that wouldn't cover even a fraction of a single ICU dose for my mother.

She hadn't even bothered to hide her contempt. Somehow, I felt that offer came from Ethan.

By two in the afternoon, exhaustion settled deep into my bones. I slumped into a chair at a small corner cafe near the commercial district, ordering a cheap black coffee just to earn a few minutes of air conditioning.

I set the black portfolio on the table and pulled out my phone, staring at the growing list of missed calls from the hospital billing department.

‘One hundred thousand dollars.’

The figure mocked me.

For a terrifying, weak second, Ethan’s cruel offer echoed in my mind.

“Confirm those statements to the press, and I’ll wire $100,000 to your account immediately.”

My fingers hovered over Ethan's contact number. I could swallow my pride. I could surrender to the humiliation, sign the papers, and take his money to save my mother’s life today.

“I’m an addict who has repeatedly refused rehab.”

A cold shiver ran through me, snapping my mind back into focus.

If I accepted those terms, I wouldn't just be walking away from a dead marriage—I would be signing my own social and professional execution order.

A public confession of drug addiction and infidelity would permanently erase any chance of making a comeback.

No reputable brand would ever hire me. No investor would ever touch my designs. I would be completely ruined, trapped under the shadow of Ethan's narrative for the rest of my life.

I pulled my hand back from the phone and took a deep breath, steeling my resolve. I couldn't do it. There had to be another way.

"Did you hear about the new acquisition group on the ninth floor of the Grand Apex building?" a sharp voice caught my attention from the neighboring table.

Two well-dressed women in tailored blazers were sipping iced lattes, discussing open files spread across their table.

"The luxury brand group?" the second woman asked, looking up. "I thought they were still in stealth mode before their official autumn launch."

"They are, but my source says their creative director is quietly buying up high-end, uncredited original concepts today," the first woman whispered, leaning in. "They aren't looking for famous names—just raw talent. And word is, they’re paying top-tier market rates on the spot for exclusive rights."

My heart gave a sudden, violent thump against my ribs.

‘Grand Apex building. Ninth floor.’

I didn't hesitate. I shoved my phone into my purse, gathered my portfolio, and bolted out of the cafe before the women even finished their drinks.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in the spotless, glass-walled lobby of the Grand Apex tower.

The ninth floor belonged to a newly registered luxury venture called “Vanguard Atelier."

Unlike the chaotic corporate offices I had visited earlier, the space was quiet, elegant, and radiated understated wealth.

An elegant woman in a gray silk suit greeted me at the reception desk. "Welcome to Vanguard. Do you have an appointment, Miss?"

"I don't," I admitted, standing tall and holding my portfolio tightly. "But I was told your acquisition team is evaluating high-end jewelry concepts today. I only need five minutes of your evaluator's time."

The woman looked at me, taking in my exhausted eyes and simple dress, before sighing softly. "Our chief acquisitions manager has ten minutes before his next briefing. Follow me."

She led me down a sleek corridor into a private evaluation office. A middle-aged man with sharp eyes and spectacles sat behind a glass desk, reviewing digital rendering files.

"Mr. Ross, this young lady is asking for a brief concept evaluation," the assistant said before bowing out.

Mr. Ross looked up, adjusting his glasses. "You have five minutes, miss. Lay out your work."

My hands trembled slightly as I unzipped the leather binder and laid the hand-drawn renderings across his desk. The collection—titled “The Eclipse Series”—featured intricate platinum bands, sharp diamond cuts, and raw, dark sapphires set in geometric patterns.

Silence stretched across the room. One minute passed. Then three.

Mr. Ross didn't speak. He picked up a jeweler’s loupe, leaning close to examine the delicate shading and technical proportions of the necklace rendering.

"These designs..." Mr. Ross finally murmured, his tone shifting from polite disinterest to absolute concentration. "The symmetry is flawless. The metal settings are aggressive yet elegant. Who designed these?"

"I did," I answered, my chest tightening. "Every piece is completely original and unproduced."

Mr. Ross pulled off his glasses, looking at me with newfound respect. "We've been vetting concepts for three weeks, and nothing has come close to this level of craftsmanship. How much are you looking to sell the complete portfolio rights for?"

I swallowed hard, taking a leap off the edge of a cliff.

"One hundred thousand dollars," I stated firmly, my voice unwavering despite the panic inside me. "Not a penny less. And I require a cashier's check or wire transfer immediately upon signing."

I braced myself for the laughter, the counter-offers, or the inevitable rejection.

Instead, Mr. Ross simply lifted the receiver to his ear and dialed a number.

The next minute, he said three sentences.

"Sir, she named her price, $100,000."

"Okay, Sir."

"Right away, sir."

He dropped the receiver and pulled out a pre-drafted contract from his desk drawer and signed his name at the bottom without hesitation.

"Consider it done," he said smoothly, sliding the paper toward me along with a corporate draft receipt. "The funds will be cleared to your designated account within the hour."

Relief washed over me so fast my knees nearly buckled. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as I signed my name on the line.

‘I had done it. I had saved my mother without selling my dignity to Ethan.’

"Thank you," I breathed, clutching the duplicate receipt. "Thank you so much."

"Don't thank me yet, Miss Morgan," Mr. Ross said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. He gestured toward a set of heavy mahogany double doors at the far end of the office. "Our CEO personally authorized all top-tier purchases for this division today. He requested to meet the artist behind the winning portfolio in his office before you leave."

"Oh," I paused, smoothing down my dress. "Of course."

I followed Mr. Ross across the room. He knocked once on the heavy wood, opened the door, and stepped aside to let me enter.

"The designer is here, sir," Mr. Ross announced softly before pulling the door shut behind me, leaving me alone in the sunlit corner suite.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire city skyline. Behind a massive black marble desk sat a tall figure, his dark suit crisp and his broad shoulders silhouetted against the bright afternoon light.

He slowly turned his leather chair around, his intense, dark eyes locking onto mine with quiet triumph.

Damian Sterling set his gold fountain pen on the desk.

"Impressive work, Arabella," Damian said, his low, commanding voice filling the room. "Though I expected nothing less from you."