Pictures had leaked from guests’ phones. Anonymous comments had appeared on blogs and forums. “Don’t read that garbage,” Sierra said firmly one evening when she caught Simone scrolling through her phone with tears streaming down her face, reading cruel comments from strangers.
“It’s not worth your time or your tears. Those people don’t know you.”
“They say it’s my fault,” Simone whispered, her voice thick. “That I trapped him with the promise of marriage and then dumped him cruelly.
That I just wanted his money and changed my mind when I realized how hard being rich would be. They say I’m ungrateful, selfish, probably mentally ill.”
“Who cares what anonymous trolls on the internet say?” Kendra said, sitting next to her and taking the phone gently from her hands. “They weren’t there.
They don’t know what you went through. They don’t know Preston or what he’s really like behind closed doors.”
Simone deleted all her social media apps for a while, cutting herself off from the endless stream of opinions and judgments. She lived in a small cocoon of safety—her mother’s apartment, daily visits from friends, weekly sessions with a therapist Dr.
Elizabeth Harris recommended by Vanessa, a calm woman with gray hair and kind eyes who specialized in trauma recovery. “You made an incredibly brave choice,” Dr. Harris told her during their first session, her voice warm and reassuring.
“You broke the cycle at the very beginning, before it could progress to more serious violence. Do you understand how many people wish they had done exactly what you did? How many women spend years or even decades trapped because they didn’t find the courage to leave early?
You are free now, Simone. And now you get to decide what your life will look like going forward. You’re in control of your own story.”
Two months after the wedding, the court ruling came through faster than anyone expected.
Divorce granted. No division of property since they’d never actually lived together. No alimony since the marriage lasted less than a day.
No further claims from either party. The Sturgises hadn’t contested anything, probably deciding that a quiet exit was smarter than a messy public fight that would keep the scandal alive in the Dallas papers. Simone received the official decree in the mail on a Tuesday afternoon.
That same evening, she and Doris and her three friends opened a cheap bottle of champagne in the small apartment, plastic cups instead of crystal flutes, but the relief and joy were real. “To what comes next,” Kendra said, raising her plastic cup high. “To freedom and new beginnings and second chances.”
“What is next?” Simone asked, half laughing, half nervous, taking a small sip.
“What do I actually do now? I’ve been so focused on getting out, on surviving, that I haven’t thought about building something new.”
“I’ve been thinking about that actually,” Simone said after a pause, setting down her cup. “I don’t want to work for someone else right now, don’t want to go back to that studio where everyone knows what happened.
I want to start my own interior design business. Small at first—just me, a laptop, some software, and a portfolio. I want to choose my own projects and build something that’s completely mine, that no one can take away or control.”
“That’s expensive though,” Sierra said with concern, her practical side showing.
“Websites cost money, software licenses, business registration, rent if you need office space. Living expenses while you build a client base.”
“I’ll start as small as possible,” Simone said, determination creeping into her voice. “Work from Mom’s apartment at first since I’m already here.
Build a portfolio with small projects—friends, their families, people in the neighborhood. Start a website on a basic platform. Once I have some clients and income, then I can think about expanding, maybe renting a small office space.”
“I’ll help with the money,” Doris said immediately, reaching for her daughter’s hand.
“I have some savings set aside. It’s not a fortune, but it’s enough to get you started—cover the software, the website, business cards, initial expenses.”
“Mom, no,” Simone protested, shaking her head. “Those are your savings.
Your retirement fund. Your security. I can’t take that.”
“They’re for my happiness,” Doris replied firmly, squeezing her hand.
“And what could possibly make me happier than helping my daughter build a life she loves? A life where she’s independent and free and doing work that matters to her? That’s worth more than any retirement account.”
Simone hugged her mother tightly, fresh tears flowing, but these were different tears—tears of gratitude and hope instead of fear and pain.
“Thank you,” she whispered against Doris’s shoulder. “For saving me that day. For believing in me even when I didn’t believe in myself.
For loving me exactly as I am. You’re the best mother anyone could ask for.”
“Always,” Doris said, kissing the top of her daughter’s head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “You’re my girl.
My brave, brilliant girl. And I will always fight for you.”
The next few months passed in a blur of productive activity. Simone built a simple but professional website, launched social media pages for her new business—Simone Jones Designs—and started sharing photos of small projects she’d done for friends and neighbors.
A living room makeover for Kendra’s cousin. A home office redesign for one of Sierra’s coworkers. Cozy Dallas apartments transformed into little sanctuaries of comfort and style on modest budgets.
Doris handled the bookkeeping and tax questions, her years of experience at the health department finally feeling like a valuable asset outside government work. Mother and daughter worked side by side at the small kitchen table, laptops open, coffee perpetually brewing, slowly building something new from the ashes of what had been destroyed. They grew closer than ever during those months, their relationship deepening in ways it hadn’t when Simone was younger.
They talked late into the night about everything—Simone’s fears and dreams, Doris’s own experiences with her failed marriage, what they both wanted from life going forward. It felt like a second chance for both of them. Six months after the divorce, Simone received an inquiry through her website.
A young woman named Lena wanted help redesigning a small apartment she’d just bought near downtown Dallas, something modern but warm. They agreed to meet at a neutral café to discuss the project. “Sorry we’re late,” a man in his early thirties said as he walked in with Lena, slightly out of breath.
“Traffic on I-30 was an absolute nightmare. Construction everywhere.”
“No problem at all,” Simone said, standing to shake his hand professionally. “I’m Simone Jones, the designer.”
“Julian Harper,” he replied with a warm smile.
“Lena’s brother—and an architect by trade. We’re redoing the apartment together, combining our skills. She’ll handle the furniture and decor choices, I’ll handle any structural changes or built-ins.”
Julian turned out to be easy to work with—professional, respectful, collaborative.
He treated Simone like an equal partner in the project, listening carefully to her ideas and offering his own suggestions without ever talking over her or dismissing her input. He had a quiet sense of humor and a genuine enthusiasm for good design that matched her own. A couple of months into working together, after a successful site visit where they finalized the plans, he asked casually if she wanted to grab coffee to celebrate.
Coffee turned into long walks along the Katy Trail in the pleasant Texas weather. Those walks turned into shared meals at tiny neighborhood restaurants they discovered together. Then movie nights, bookstore visits, conversations that lasted for hours about architecture and art and their shared love of creating beautiful spaces.
Julian never pushed for more than she was comfortable giving. He never demanded explanations or pried into her past. He seemed content to move at whatever pace felt right to her, to build friendship first and see where it led naturally.
One evening, as they sat on a park bench watching the Texas sunset streak the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink, he cleared his throat nervously. “Simone, can I ask you something kind of personal?” he said, his voice gentle. Simone tensed instinctively but nodded.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Were you ever married?” he asked carefully, watching her face. “I heard something vague from Lena, but I wanted to ask you directly instead of listening to gossip.”
Simone exhaled slowly, deciding on honesty.
“For a few hours,” she said with a wry smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The wedding didn’t quite go the way people expected. It was… complicated.”
