HIS STRIPPER, HIS WIFE novel Chapter 101

Chapter 101

Bianca

The studio was on the fourth floor of a building with big glass windows that let in so much light I almost forgot it was still early morning. Lens and Vale wasn’t loud or flashy from the outside, but the moment I stepped in, I understood why people talked about this place the way they did.

Racks of fabric samples lined one wall, sketches pinned up everywhere, half finished mood boards taped to every surface that could hold tape. My chest tightened a little from nerves, but in a good way, the kind that comes before something exciting, not something scary.

Mrs Gina, the creative director, met me at the entrance herself. She is tall, with short grey hair and reading glasses pushed up on her head, and she shook my hand softly.

“So you’re the one with that beautiful portfolio,” she said, looking me over, not in a judging way, more like she was trying to place my face with my work. “The layered pieces, I liked those a lot. Come, let me show you where you’ll be sitting.”

She walked fast, talking the whole way, pointing at different sections of the studio, explaining who worked where and what they were currently developing. I tried to take it all in, but my head was spinning a little from how much information was coming at once. Still, none of it felt like too much, it felt like the kind of overwhelm that comes from being somewhere you actually want to be.

By midmorning, I was already seated with a stack of reference material in front of me, sketching out ideas for a client project Mrs Gina wanted my opinion on. She stopped by my desk twice within the first two hours, not to check if I was doing things right, but to actually look at what I was coming up with and ask questions about my choices.

“Why did you curve the sleeve this way,” she asked once, tapping the page with her pen.

“I wanted it to move differently when the person walks,” I said. “Something that catches the light instead of just hanging flat.”

She nodded slowly, like she was actually turning the answer over in her head. “Good. Keep going with that.”

Nobody had asked me a question like that in a long time. At my old place, my ideas mostly disappeared into files, buried under whatever Adrian needed that day. Here, it felt like my work actually mattered to someone besides me.

The hours moved fast after that, I worked through two more concepts, sat in on a short meeting about an upcoming showcase, and even got pulled into a quick conversation with two other designers about fabric sourcing. Nobody looked at me like I didn’t belong, nobody treated me like I needed to prove anything before I could just exist in the room.

I didn’t have to put up any kind of wall here, I could just be a person doing her work, and that alone felt strange in the best way.

By six in the evening, I packed up my things and walked out into the cool evening air, heading toward the subway station. My legs were tired, my eyes a little strained from staring at sketches all day, but I felt fulfilled, I’m finally doing something I enjoy doing.

My phone rang just as I stepped onto the bus, Amanda’s name flashing across the screen.

“So,” she said the moment I picked up, not even bothering with a hello, “how did it go?”

I found a seat near the window and let out a long breath. “It was good, Amanda. Really good and I actually enjoyed myself.”

“See, I told you,” she said, sounding pleased with herself. “New job, new energy. You sound different already.”

I laughed, watching the city lights pass outside the window as the bus picked up speed. “It’s just one day.”

We talked a little more about nothing in particular after that, her weekend plans, some drama happening with one of our old coworkers, until the bus got to my bus stop and I told her I had to go.

When I got home, I dropped my bag by the door and didn’t even bother turning on all the lights. I just walked straight to my bed and lay down on it fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling while my mind, without my permission, drifted straight back to him.

His voice when he asked me why I wanted to resign. The way his face changed slightly when I said better job offer, like the words physically annoyed him. I turned onto my side, pulling a pillow closer, and somewhere between all those thoughts circling in my head, I fell asleep.

The next day at the studio was a lot more stressful than the first. Mrs Gina wanted me to spend the day moving between departments, sitting briefly with textiles, then with the pattern team, then with the small in- house marketing unit that handled how each collection got presented to buyers.

The idea was for me to see where I fit best long term, but by early afternoon my head was spinning from all the different processes and personalities I had to adjust to every hour.

By the time I made it through half the departments, I was mentally worn out. I walked back to my temporary desk near the main studio floor and sat down, letting my shoulders drop for the first time since morning. I stared at the pile of notes I had scribbled throughout the day, trying to decide whether I had enough energy left to push through the remaining departments or if it made more sense to pick it back up tomorrow.

I rubbed my eyes, took a slow breath, and reached for my phone just to check the time.

That was when I saw one unread notification sitting at the top of my screen, from a number I didn’t even need saved under a name because I already knew it by heart.

“How are you?”

I stared at those three words for a long moment, my thumb hovering just above the screen. My heart was doing something complicated, beating a little too fast for such a simple message but I didn’t open it.