Inheritance Of You

HUBBY DEAREST

He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded. "Excuse me? Him and I shared a connection."

"You don't even remember his name."

"I remember his technique," Ezra purred, waggling his eyebrows. "That's basically the same thing."

I gagged, laughing despite myself. "Please do not put that image in my head right now." I turned and pushed open the door to my private office. Ezra followed, his energy filling the quieter space.

"You're just jealous you haven't gotten any in a year," he teased, but the glint in his eyes had softened into something more genuine, more concerned.

"I'm busy," I deflected, sinking into the plush embrace of my desk chair. It was the truth. The first year of my marriage had been a special kind of hell, a slow suffocation under the weight of expectation and loneliness. But this second year? I'd poured every ounce of that frustration into my brand. Carter Studio was no longer just a dream; it was catching fire in LA's underground fashion scene, a direct "fuck you" to everyone who thought I'd be content as a decorative wife.

"I mean, come on, you need to let loose. Let someone fuck that tension out of you, because no offense, you've been kinda bitchy lately," he continued, perching on the edge of my sprawling desk, littered with mood boards and spools of thread.

My gaze flickered up to meet his. "I'm married."

He kissed his teeth, a sharp, dismissive sound. "I would hardly call it a marriage. It's a business merger with a really, really nice apartment. I mean, he's barely home, and you don't even wear your ring." He gestured pointedly at my left hand.

I looked down. My fingers, adorned with several bold, artistic rings, were bare on the one that mattered. The skin there was unmarked, a ghost of a promise I never made. The phantom image of my husband surfaced in my mind-Naveen Malhotra, all sharp suits and sharper silence, probably in a boardroom in Singapore or closing a deal in Dubai. I didn't know. We didn't talk. We coexisted. For the first few months, I'd tried. I'd left dinner waiting, asked about his day, attempted to build a bridge across the chasm our fathers had created. He'd met every attempt with a polite, distant wall. So I'd stopped trying. His absence had become a relief. But lately, the quiet had begun to echo. It felt... empty.

"Anyway," I said, the word too sharp, too final. I shook off the thought, reaching for a stack of fabric swatches-velvets and raw silks in violent jewel tones. "Some of us actually use our hands for work, not just for-"

Ezra snatched a charcoal pencil from my cup and threw it at me before I could finish. I caught it on reflex. "You're deflecting."

"Obviously," I muttered, giving him a look.

He hopped off the desk, his expression shifting from playful to piercing. He studied me with that unnerving clarity, the one that saw past the mask I put up. "You love your work, Aish. I get it. It's your blood. But you can't just live in this studio forever. The mannequins might start talking back."

"They already do," I said dryly, twirling the pencil in my fingers. "And right now they are saying 'leave Aisha alone'."

Ezra burst out laughing, a rich, full-bodied sound that warmed the cool, air-conditioned room. "God, I missed this version of you."

"Which one?"

"The one who smiles without pretending she's fine."

The words landed, quiet and precise, and for a moment, I had no retort. The facade I wore so expertly-the unbothered boss, the polished wife-felt thin, transparent.

He sighed, reading my silence. "Alright, moody muse. I'll go start the margaritas without you. If you change your mind, you know where to find me-pretending to be easy at the bar."