The Ghost He Couldn't Keep

I married Wall Street's golden boy, Spencer Pierce, and put my own design career on hold to support his rise.

But after the wedding, the novelty wore off. He started a string of affairs with women who all, coincidentally, shared my artistic flair.

I chose to turn a blind eye, until he repeatedly crossed the line for an intern named Kimberly.

When I finally confronted him, he admitted that Kimberly reminded him of the reckless, spirited woman I was when we first met. In his eyes, I had become a pale shadow of the woman he fell for.

I decided to divorce him and fly to Paris, to make my name shine in the design world once again.

Later, after losing everything, Spencer came crawling back, begging for a second chance.

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1

I stared at the three-star Michelin reservation on my phone, waiting for my husband, Spencer Pierce, to get home. Tonight was our wedding anniversary.

Just then, his phone rang.

A woman's voice came through the phone—urgent and whining, her pout almost audible.

His expression instantly softened, and he whispered a few words of comfort.

Then, he grabbed his suit jacket and prepared to leave.

I couldn't remember how many times this had happened.

Whenever I wanted some time alone with him, that woman always found a way to call him away.

What was the excuse this time?

"Do you know what day it is, Spencer?" I asked coldly.

He didn't even look at me, the excuse rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. "An urgent deal, honey. We'll celebrate properly next time, I promise. Something's come up with Kimberly."

From dating anniversaries to wedding anniversaries, he had missed countless important days because of Kimberly.

And when had "next time" ever actually come?

I suppressed the ache in my heart and asked quietly, "Are you in love with her?"

Spencer's head snapped up. A flash of guilt crossed his eyes, quickly replaced by a look of nostalgia.

"Stella… she reminds me of how you used to be. So reckless, so free."

I nearly stumbled, my hand shooting out to grip the edge of the bar for support. A chill spread from my fingertips straight to my heart.

It wasn't until this moment that I had to admit Kimberly was different from all the women before her.

She could effortlessly command all of Spencer's attention.

He left.

My phone screen glowed with the reservation, a silent testament to the surprise I'd planned. It felt a lot like our marriage—a glamorous facade hiding something cold and hollow.

I opened my phone and saw Kimberly's latest Instagram Story.

"He always saves the best for me."

The picture showed a large, well-defined hand gently enveloping hers in a dimly lit jazz bar.

The Patek Philippe on his wrist was unmistakable. It was Spencer.

I remembered our first wedding anniversary. The stress from a mess he'd made on a business trip had caused a miscarriage.

He'd cried then, promising that no matter how busy he got, our anniversary would always be ours.

And now, just because of some "situation" of hers, he had abandoned me.

And me? Did he even remember the pain I went through when I lost our child?

Her story had no likes. It was visible only to me.

She was provoking me.

Because Spencer didn't want a divorce.

So, he had given her his silent permission to taunt me like this.

...

My story with Spencer was once the most classic fairy tale on New York's Upper East Side.

An ambitious financial prodigy and an up-and-coming designer.

The deeper we fell in love, the more trapped we became.

Back then, I had a fire in my eyes, convinced my talent was enough to conquer the world.

For a while, it seemed I was right. My personal brand gained renown, winning praise from the industry, and my designs were highly sought after.

During those days of rushing between fashion shows and my studio, it was Spencer who quietly managed everything for me.

When I faced gossip and rumors, it was Spencer who stood by my side, supporting me unwaveringly.

So, in the year we loved each other most, we got married.

After the wedding, we had a period of sweet, happy times.

I was too naive back then, thinking all men longed for a wife willing to give up her career to return to the home.

But Spencer wasn't one of them. Wall Street never lacked for young, beautiful women.

He grew tired of my stability and began to seek novelty.

He cycled through lovers, and they were all the same: pale imitations of me, in both style and looks.