After My Husband Chose the Faker Over Me

The hospital room had become my prison—white walls closing in with each passing day, the antiseptic smell a constant reminder of what I'd lost. Three weeks since I'd lost our baby. Three weeks since my husband had chosen Elodie over me. Three weeks of emptiness that no pain medication could touch.

I was arranging the few flowers Mae had brought—the only ones I'd received—when the door creaked open. My heart stopped when Elodie's face appeared, her expression a perfect mask of contrition.

"What are you doing here?" My voice was hoarse from disuse.

She slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"How I'm doing?" I laughed bitterly, the sound scraping my throat raw. "I lost my baby. My husband publicly humiliated me. I was locked out of my own home."

Elodie approached the bed, her steps hesitant. "I know things have been... difficult."

"Difficult?" I clutched the bedsheet to keep from lunging at her. "You stole my designs. You destroyed my reputation. And somehow, you've convinced Maddox that I'm the villain."

"I thought maybe we could make peace," she said, her voice trembling with practiced vulnerability. "For Maddox's sake."

"Get out." I pointed to the door, my hand shaking. "Get out before I call security."

She didn't move, her eyes filling with tears that looked almost genuine. "Please, Arielle. I never meant for any of this to happen."

The door opened again, and Maddox stood in the doorway. His eyes darted between us, narrowing with suspicion when they landed on me.

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

Before I could answer, Elodie's expression changed—fear replacing the false remorse. She backed away from my bed, her movements jerky and exaggerated.

"I just wanted to apologize," she whispered. "I thought maybe we could find some understanding."

"Understanding?" I echoed incredulously. "After what you've done?"

In one fluid motion, Elodie grabbed the water pitcher from my bedside table and splashed it down her front. The water darkened her silk blouse, plastering it to her skin as she let out a shocked gasp.

"Arielle!" Maddox rushed to Elodie's side, his arm wrapping protectively around her shoulders. "What is wrong with you?"

"I didn't—" I began, but Elodie's theatrical sobbing drowned out my protest.

"I just wanted to make things right," she cried into Maddox's chest. "But she hates me so much."

Maddox's eyes were cold as he stared at me over Elodie's head. "I knew you were jealous, but this is pathetic, Arielle. She came here to make peace."

"She's lying!" I struggled to sit up straighter, ignoring the pain that shot through my ribs. "She did that herself!"

"I've seen enough." Maddox guided Elodie toward the door. "This proves everything I've been saying. You need help, Arielle."

As they left, Elodie glanced back at me, and for just a second, her mask slipped. The triumphant smile that curved her lips chilled me to the bone.

* * *

"I found something." Mae burst into my new apartment without knocking, her face flushed with excitement. She'd been helping me settle in for the past week—a modest one-bedroom that was all I could afford now that the divorce proceedings had frozen my access to our joint accounts.

I looked up from the small workbench I'd set up in the corner of the living room. It wasn't much, just a lamp and basic tools, but designing was the only thing keeping me sane these days.

"What is it?" I asked, setting aside the silver wire I'd been shaping.

Mae dropped her bag on the counter and pulled out her laptop. "Remember those dinner parties at your place last year? The ones where Elodie always insisted on taking group photos?"

I nodded, the memory bitter. "Maddox thought it was sweet that she wanted to document our 'friendship.'"

"Well, it wasn't friendship she was documenting." Mae opened her laptop and turned it toward me. "Look at this."

On the screen was a series of photos from various social gatherings at our penthouse. In each one, Elodie was positioned differently, but the pattern was clear—she was always angled toward my sketchbooks or design notes that I'd foolishly left out.

"I went through her social media posts and matched the dates," Mae continued, clicking through to another screen. "Three days after this dinner party where she's clearly photographing your open sketchbook, she posts about her 'creative breakthrough' with the constellation design."

My hands trembled as I scrolled through the evidence. "She's been planning this for months."

"It's not just the designs," Mae said grimly. "I think she orchestrated everything—the rumors about you trading favors, the 'accident' on the roof. She's been systematically destroying you while positioning herself as the victim."

I closed my eyes, the confirmation of what I'd suspected bringing no satisfaction, only hollow vindication. "Maddox will never believe this. He thinks I'm crazy with jealousy."

"We'll make him believe it," Mae insisted, squeezing my hand. "We'll take this to your lawyer."

But when we presented the evidence to Catherine Walsh the next day, her expression remained carefully neutral.

"This is circumstantial at best," she said gently. "Mr. Stone's legal team has already characterized your claims as 'desperate fabrications' from a woman scorned. Without direct proof of plagiarism, this won't help your case."

"So she gets away with it?" Mae demanded, her voice rising. "She steals Arielle's work, destroys her marriage, and walks away clean?"

Catherine sighed. "I'm sorry, Arielle. The best we can do is focus on getting you a fair settlement in the divorce."

I nodded numbly, gathering my things. The fight was draining out of me, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion.

Back at my apartment, I stood in the center of my makeshift studio. The small space felt both confining and exposed, nothing like the security of the home I'd shared with Maddox. But it was mine—a place to start rebuilding.

I picked up a sketchpad, my fingers tracing the outline of a new pendant design. The movement was familiar, comforting, even as my mind replayed the rooftop scene for the thousandth time.

My hand jerked involuntarily, a jagged line cutting across the page as panic seized my chest. The memory was so vivid—the feeling of falling, the betrayal in Maddox's eyes, the emptiness afterward.

I sank to the floor, my breathing shallow and rapid. The sketchpad fell from my hands as I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to anchor myself in the present.

"You're okay," I whispered to myself, the words Mae had taught me to repeat during these attacks. "You're safe now. You're rebuilding. One day at a time."

Slowly, my breathing steadied. I picked up the sketchpad again, tore out the ruined page, and started fresh.

One design. One day. One piece of myself reclaimed from the wreckage Elodie had made of my life.