Inheritance Of You

HUBBY DEAREST

"Ah, look who decided to grace us with her presence!" his voice rang out, cutting through the hum of sewing machines and the low thrum of a hip-hop track. He stood by a half-dressed mannequin, one hand planted on his hip, the other waving a measuring tape like a conductor's baton. "I thought something happened to you."

"Sorry," I said, dropping my oversized leather tote onto the distressed velvet couch, "I got stuck in traffic."

He gave me a slow, head-to-toe assessment, his keen eyes missing nothing. They swept from the halo of my freshly fluffed curls, down the sleek lines of my brown and gold camo-print set that hugged every curve and caught the light with a subtle, metallic sheen. "Okay, first of all, this look? Stunning. But second of all-" His expression shifted from appraisal to concern. "-where have you been? You look like you've seen a ghost. Or worse, your father."

I let out a short, humorless laugh, moving toward my cluttered desk as if I could find solace in the organized chaos. "Close. My husband."

Ezra froze mid-gesture, the measuring tape falling limp in his hand. His dramatic gasp was audible even over the music. "Oh, no. Not him."

"Yep," I confirmed, powering on my tablet and pulling up the mood board for the upcoming collection. I stared at the vibrant swatches without seeing them. "He's back."

He abandoned the mannequin and leaned against a rack of delicate, hand-beaded garments, his lips pursed in thought. "Define 'back.' Is this a 'making an appearance to maintain the facade of a caring husband' back? Or the full, terrifying 'I live here now' back?"

"The full monty," I muttered, zooming in on a fabric texture until it pixelated. "He was just... there. In the kitchen this morning like he'd never left. And then he had the audacity to bring up the gala."

Ezra's eyes widened. "The Carter Foundation Gala?"

"The very one."

He gasped again, this time clutching a handful of sequined fabric to his chest as if for support. "Sweetheart, that's in, like, twelve hours! Please tell me you're going. The networking alone is insane. And if you're not, I'll go in your place. I can wear a veil, pretend to be the mysterious, newlywed Mrs. Malhotra. I'd find myself a richer husband by dessert."

I rolled my eyes, finally looking up from the screen. "Ezra, you don't want to mingle with those people, trust me. It's a den of vipers in couture. You can find a better, and frankly, less emotionally stunted husband literally anywhere else."

"Aish, not all of us have a daddy who procures handsome, wealthy men for us, okay?" he retorted, fluttering his eyelashes. "Some of us have to seize every gala-invitation-shaped opportunity that flutters our way."

I ignored his theatrics, my focus returning to the blank screen of my tablet. "I told him I'm not going."

Ezra let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a shriek, drawing the attention of a few interns hovering nearby. "You what!? Aisha Jhenè Carter, sometimes I think you are actively trying to fail the game of life. You cannot miss out on one of the biggest PR and networking events of the year just because your brooding husband has decided to re-enter your life!"

"Watch me," I muttered, the defiance in my voice feeling hollow even to my own ears.

"Girl, don't you dare tempt me-I will physically drag you there myself," he declared, snapping his fingers pointedly at a wide-eyed intern. "You! Get Aisha some cold brew and a croissant. Stat! She clearly has a fever that's frying her logical thinking skills."

I couldn't help the small, genuine laugh that escaped me. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm hilarious and absolutely right," he corrected, shooing the interns back to work before leaning in closer, his voice dropping. "Now, for real. Start talking. What did the husband of the year do this time?"