Skip to content 
PART 4 — The teacher wearing my dress
That afternoon, I returned home with three newborns, still-painful stitches, milk soaked on my blouse, and a team of lawyers on my trail like a silent storm.
The house was exactly the same.
White stone.
Glass walls.
Hydrangeas line the path.
A magnificent prison that I had mistaken for a home.
Celeste’s red convertible was parked outside.
My mother watched her through the car window. “How audacious!”
My father remained silent.
Dorian adjusted his handcuffs. “Miss Whitmore, you don’t need to come in.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes.”
The front door opened before we arrived.
Celeste stood there, barefoot.
I am wearing my champagne-colored silk dressing gown.
My dress.
The one my mother gave me the morning after my wedding, embroidered with my initials before I changed my last name.
For a moment, the pain disappeared.
The fatigue has disappeared.
Even the babies seemed distant.
All that remained was anger.
Celeste smiled. “Oh. There you are again.”
Behind her, boxes were lined up in the corridor.
My books.
My photographs.
My grandmother’s porcelain lamp.
The framed ultrasound that Adrian had once kissed, tears in his eyes.
In my sons’ room, shopping bags covered the changing table.
Designer shoes.
Scent.
A glass of wine that was half empty.
I watched Adrian as he left the living room, phone glued to his ear.
He froze.
“Evelyn,” he said. “This isn’t the right time.”
I went in.
“No,” I said. “This is the perfect time.”
Celeste crossed her arms. “Adrian said you were moving out.”
“Adrian says a lot of things.”
My mother walked past Celeste and stopped at the entrance of the nursery.
She stared into space.
When she turned around, her expression was frighteningly calm.
“Did you put your shopping bags next to the newborn diapers?” she asked.
Celeste blushed. “I didn’t know they were coming here.”
“They live here,” I said. “You don’t.”
Adrian let out a small grunt. “Actually, legally…”
Dorian raised a single finger.
Adrian fell silent immediately.
Two women from Dorian’s team started photographing everything.
The boxes.
The dress.
Wine.
The nursery.
My Birkin bag sits proudly on my kitchen island.
Celeste noticed. “Why are they taking pictures of my bag?”
Dorian smiled politely. “Because it might have been bought with stolen money.”
She suddenly turned her head towards Adrian.
He looked away.
This small movement has caused more damage than any accusation.
Celeste murmured, “You said it came from your bonus.”
“That was the case,” he retorted curtly.
Dorian opened a file. “A bonus paid through Monroe Lifestyle Holdings, which received funds from a fraudulent consulting service provider linked to ValeArc Development.”
Celeste gripped the counter for support.
I almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
She wanted my husband.
My house.
My life.
She was now discovering that she had inherited nothing but his lies.
My mother approached her. “Take off my daughter’s dress.”
Celeste’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”
My mother’s smile remained delicate. “You heard me perfectly.”
Something in his voice convinced Celeste to give in.
She disappeared upstairs and returned dressed in her own clothes, her face red and her eyes shining. Her dress was badly folded in her hands.
My mother accepted it reluctantly.
Adrian glared at me. “You think humiliating him gives you power?”
“No,” I replied. “I find it pathetic to see you defending her when your children are only three days old.”
His expression darkened.
A baby started to cry.
Then another one.
Then the third one.
The sound spread through the house like a verdict.
I bent down to pick Leo up, but a searing pain pierced my abdomen. My knees buckled.
My father grabbed my elbow.
For a moment, the room wavered.
Adrian was watching.
No, not with concern.
With calculation.
“You see?” he said quickly. “She can barely stand. How is she going to take care of three infants?”
That was his next weapon.
Not money.
Not the house.
My body.
My exhaustion.
My motherhood.
Dorian’s voice echoed in the room. “Thank you, Mr. Vale. We will add this attempt to exploit the postpartum period to the custody file.”
Adrian abruptly closed his mouth.
I still took Leo in my arms.
He snuggled up to me, small and warm, searching for my collarbone.
I looked at Adrian over my son’s head.
“You will never use my weakness against me again.”
He laughed bitterly. “You’re making a mistake.”
“No,” I replied. “I made one five years ago. Today, I’m correcting it.”
We left with the essentials.
Babies.
My documents.
My grandmother’s lamp.
And the dress.
As I was leaving, Adrian called out to me.
“Evelyn!”
I turned around.
He stood on the threshold of the house he had tried to burglarize, next to a mistress who no longer trusted him, clutching legal documents he could not escape.
“You’ll come crawling back,” he said.
I smiled.
“Adrian,” I said, “you couldn’t even afford the floor I’m crawling on.”
read more in next page