Inheritance Of You

HUBBY DEAREST

"Pretending?" I managed a weak smirk.

"Okay, being," he corrected, winking as he swept out of the office, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The silence rushed in, thicker and more profound than before. It was just me, the faint, persistent buzz of the fluorescent lights, and the familiar, comforting smell of fabric dye, fresh coffee, and my own perfume.

I leaned back in my chair, the leather groaning in protest, and let out a long, shaky breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. My eyes drifted across the room to the large corkboard on the wall-a chaotic tapestry of my life. Fabric swatches pinned like captured butterflies, show notes scrawled in frantic handwriting, polaroids of models mid-laugh, and a single, faded photo of me and Ezra at our graduation from FIDM. Our arms were slung around each other, faces smushed together, eyes blazing with a future that felt limitless, ours for the taking.

It was from before. Before the gilded cage. Before my last name gained a hyphen and my life became a contract.

My phone buzzed, a violent vibration against the polished wood of my desk. The screen lit up with a notification from my father's executive assistant, Cynthia. The message was crisp, efficient, and left no room for negotiation.

CARTER FOUNDATION ANNUAL GALA - TOMORROW TONIGHT, 8 PM. The Getty Center. Attendance required. Formal attire. RSVP confirmed for you and Mr. Malhotra.

Required.

The word was a shackle. Of course. In Julian Carter's world, appearances were the highest form of currency, and my marriage-this beautiful, broken thing-was an investment he refused to let depreciate. It needed to be displayed, polished, and presented to the world, like a rare diamond in a vault, its value determined by the envy it inspired.

I stared at the message until the bright letters blurred into a single, glaring eye. Two months of silence. Two months of building my own empire in the shadow of his. And now I had to stand beside him, my hand on his arm, my smile a carefully crafted lie, pretending the distance between us wasn't a canyon slowly carving its way through the foundation of everything.

I pushed the phone away, face-down on the desk, as if I could hide from its command.

"Perfect," I muttered to the empty, echoing room. The word tasted like ash.

....

By the time I guided my car-a sleek, pink Porsche that was a wedding gift from my father, a bribe I'd happily accepted-into the underground vault of our building, Los Angeles had folded into that dusky, in-between hour. The sky was a watercolor wash of bruised lavender and fading tangerine, the city lights just starting to bloom like distant, artificial stars.

My building, a sleek glass monolith in the heart of Beverly Hills, pierced the smoggy haze, its sterile perfection a stark contrast to the messy, creative chaos I'd left behind at the studio.

The doorman, Charles, offered a smile that was all polished professionalism. "Good evening, Mrs. Malhotra." It was a smile that knew the outline of my life-the penthouse, the name, the car-but nothing of its texture, its hollowed-out silence. I gave him a tight nod, the weight of the impending gala already a stone in my stomach.

The private elevator hummed its seamless ascent, a sound so quiet it only amplified the thrum of my own pulse. I caught my reflection in the polished brass doors: my two week old silk press was still impeccable, my gold nose jewelry catching the light. I looked good. I always looked good.

When the doors slid open into the foyer, the first thing that hit me was the smell.

It wasn't the usual, clean hush of empty air conditioning and the bergamot candles I'd left burning days ago in a futile attempt to scent the silence. This was something else. Faint, but unmistakable. A crisp, expensive cologne, lingering in the air like a ghost. His ghost.