The Neglected Wife's Secret: Genius Designer Aria

Chapter 6 No.6

Word Count: 507 | Released on: 22/01/2026

hroat. She washed her face with a bottle of wa

a white Volkswagen Beetle, sat under a tarp. It took t

pplies. She pulled up to "Maison Luxe," a high-end ho

was scented with lavender. Sarah, a sales associate

see you. We just got the ne

tly. "Just the essen

heavy-duty cleaning supplies, a coffee maker, and several

e counter. Sarah

thousand, five hundr

Amex Centurion-the black

wiped i

She wiped the chip on h

ed red. DECLINED

at's odd. Do you h

shifted. A woman in a ten

neck. She pulled out a Visa. It

DECL

e water. Garold. He had frozen everythi

at the screen, then at Felicity. His smile

security hold? Maybe you should

her: "Isn't that the one from P

Humiliation, hot and sha

s steady, though her hands were s

of luxury goods. The so

e said. "Except the ble

ing supplies?" Sar

er purse. She had f

e, leaving the cart full of comfort behind. She walked

the steering wheel. She squeezed

r banking app. Account Frozen. Action a

ion. She slammed her hand against the steering wheel,

Chapter End

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The Neglected Wife's Secret: Genius Designer Aria

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“I sat in the sterile silence of a VIP fertility clinic, clutching my Chanel purse and praying for good news after three years of trying for a baby. But as the doctor told me my body was "pristine," my phone lit up with a Page Six headline: "Garold Chandler Spotted with Mystery Woman at OB-GYN-Heir on the Way?" The "mystery woman" was Jenilee Shaw, and the man in the charcoal suit was my husband. That night, I waited up to show him the news, but he didn't even offer an apology. When I asked if he ever wanted children, he pried my hands off him and looked at me with cold, dead eyes. "Not with you," he said, before walking away to take a shower. I packed my bags and left a divorce agreement on his nightstand, but Garold wasn't about to let his "perfect" wife go that easily. He shredded the papers and froze every one of my credit cards, leaving me stranded with forty dollars and a crumbling family estate. He even mocked me when I accidentally texted him for a loan, telling me to come home and beg for my allowance like a child. He thought he had me cornered, but he forgot one thing: I wasn't just his trophy wife. Years ago, I was "Aria," the anonymous design genius the fashion world had been hunting for. I didn't need his money-I had a secret offshore account and a lead designer job at his biggest rival. As I walked into Twelve Bridges for my first day, I ran into his mistress and smiled. "Keep him," I told her. "I'm bored of the three-minute disappointments."”