"Custom-Made" Lies

Early the next morning, Marc drove me to the hospital.

When I pushed open the ward door, I froze.

Vivienne had lost an alarming amount of weight; she looked like a shadow of herself.

"Vera, you're back," she said weakly, offering me a faint smile.

Guilt surged through me so hard it almost choked me. I walked over, patted her shoulder, and put the gift basket I'd gotten her on her bedside table.

"You silly girl, why didn't you tell me you were sick? Rest well. If you want anything to eat, just tell me."

Vivienne grinned. "Only you spoil me like this."

Seeing how loosely her clothes hung on her made shame wash over me again. Right now, even an S would be too big for her.

Relief finally loosened my chest.

Just then, Marc's phone rang. He stepped into the hallway to answer it. I faintly heard him say, "Got it. I'll take care of it right away," before hanging up.

"Who was that?" I asked casually. "Something wrong at the company?"

He came back in, gathering his things as he replied, "My secretary. Some work issue."

My heart skipped.

I remembered his secretary as a steady middle-aged man. But the voice on the call had clearly been a young woman's.

My pulse tightened, though I kept my expression neutral.

"You changed secretaries? I thought Brandon was doing a good job."

"Oh, we're preparing to expand into women's wear," Marc explained naturally. "So I thought it'd be better to hire a female secretary—someone who used to model and actually understands the market. Last month you were away, and Vivienne was sick. She filled in and helped fit the samples."

A mischievous smile tugged at his lips. "What, are you jealous? If you don't like her, I'll tell her to leave right away."

With him putting it that way, pressing further would only make me look petty.

"It's not that." I waved him off. "It's work. I get it."

But despite the calm front, a small thorn lodged itself quietly in my heart.

That afternoon, I found an excuse to visit his company as an investor.

The moment I stepped into the design department, I saw the new secretary. She was young, beautiful, and tall. She radiated that effortless, youthful energy.

A few senior employees spotted me and greeted me warmly.

"Vera, welcome!"

I smiled and exchanged a few casual words.

"How's everything at the company lately? I heard we got a new pretty secretary for the women's line?"

A seasoned female designer chimed in with a laugh.

"Oh yes, Vera. That girl, Amy Wynwood, is sharp. She's helped Marc with plenty of things. And her figure's incredible, practically a walking mannequin. We've used her to try on a ton of samples. Saved us so much time."

Another chimed in, "Marc has a good eye. Ever since she joined, the women's line has been progressing much faster."

The more they praised her, the more uncomfortable I felt.

Still smiling, I walked into Marc's office and discreetly placed a small astronaut figurine with a hidden camera on his desk.

For the next few days, whenever I had a spare moment, I checked the surveillance feed. Everything appeared perfectly normal.

Amy rarely entered his private office. Most tasks were handled through the internal phone system.

Even when she did walk in to report something, she stood properly in front of the desk and left within minutes.

There was nothing inappropriate between them.

And in one sudden moment, shame crept up my spine.

At work, he was a decisive, intimidating CEO. At home, he was thoughtful, always telling me his schedule without needing to be asked.

His desk was covered with our wedding photos—him standing on my left, smiling brightly. He called whenever he had a spare moment, always checking in.

Was I really being too suspicious? Too insecure?

Yet the blouse kept circling in my mind like a weight I couldn't shake.

A fashion designer with an eye so sharp he could guess someone's measurements at a glance—

would he really mistake a size?