Marrying My Friend's Husband

“I didn’t do it! Chanel, you have to believe me.”

John’s voice rang through Chanel’s mind.

He has just been arrested for embezzlement of company funds by his employer.

Chanel stood there, watching her brother being forced into the van and packed outside the company.

“I believe him”.

A voice said from the crowd of staff who gathered to witness John’s arrest.

Chanel couldn’t say a word; tears swelled up in her eyes, “I will prove your innocence, John; you’re not alone in this.

I will be right by your side, John.”

That was all she could say before the tears in her eyes escaped and busted into wails. She cried as she watched him be driven off to detention.

Sitting at the tiny desk in her shoebox apartment in Brooklyn, Chanel Collins, her feet on the faux-leather footstool, her long, dark tousled hair gathered into a messy low ponytail that swayed as she worked, studied the sketch on the battered drawing board in front of her.

And letting the light from the dusty table lamp play over the paper to reveal the shadows of her fingers arresting the curve of a line here.

Guiding a single biro-stroke there until the new dress in the drawing snagged her concentration all over again.

The tiny studio was choked with fabrics on bolts, sewing machines, and mannequins at different stages of seedling, dress, or birth.

Although her spirit was rifling through her studio, a chaos of paint splatters and glistening rags. There was no nearer scene to Chanel's thoughts than that of her brother, her whole world.

And so, there it was. John.

She hadn't been able to save the same John, the same John she had made vows to do anything to protect—not that you could call it protection at this point.

Her brother John had been arrested early that morning, charged with stealing from the company he worked for.

Chanel knew John better than anyone, and she knew he was innocent.

John was indeed guilty of many things—kind, loyal, and hardworking; he was not a thief. The arrest was a travesty, and Chanel intended to prove his innocence.

However, making good of this intention would require money, which Chanel didn't have.

Her stomach felt suddenly knotty, her head empty.

The legal costs were too much, not to mention the fine or restitution she might have to pay. John mustn't go to prison for something he hadn't done!.

Her hand with the paper stilled, and Chanel gave an audible sigh.

Closing her eyes, she let the air out of her lungs.

The ringing tone brought her back to the situation.

Her phone was ringing.

It was John on the screen.

She picked up. "John?" 'Hi, Chanel. How are you?'

"Doing great," she replied. "John, are you okay?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "It's all right, Chanel," John said, his voice forced.

I just spoke with my attorney.

He's working on getting me out on bail, but it doesn't look good," he said.

Chanel's heart sank. "Don't worry, John. We'll figure this out. I promise."

 "I know”, John said, the doubt heavy in his voice.' I hate that you have to deal with this. It's not fair.'

"We are family, John. This will all be all right.' We'll get through this."

We're family.' Hang in there, okay?

"Okay," John replied softly.

"I love you, Chanel."

"I love you too, John. Stay strong."

Chanel put the phone down and sat back in her chair.

Her eyes lingered towards the ceiling as she tried to hide the tears.

She could not give in now, not after what had just happened.

She could hear the sobs escaping John; she was powerless to help her.

Not now. Chanel stood up. She walked over to the window and faced the city. Brooklyn was shining from the city's light while she was disillusioned from the darkness inside her soul.

She needed a break, an escape.

She needed to distract herself from the stress of it all.

She spotted a flier on her bulletin board—a fashion show in Manhattan that night.

Something organized by her rival, sure, but something where she wouldn't need to talk to anyone — she could remain anonymous.

You have to get out of your house once in a while. There was nothing to lose other than her money. She could use some air, too.

 She would go. Perhaps it would help.

She changed into a little black dress, put her hair into a bun, drew some eyeliner over her tired black eyes, pushed the thought of John to the back of her brain, and went to the subway, trying to focus on the show.

The luxury of the place amazed her.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling give a warm glow to the venue.

The women wore fancy dresses and expensive jewelry, while the men wore elegant suits.

They sipped champagne and whispered as they waited for the show to begin.

Chanel felt uncomfortable as she glanced around the room, but she straightened her shoulders and picked up her chin.

She belonged here, after all. It made sense that she was here.

Bracing herself, she ducked under the rope to take a place near the back, behind the pseudo-celebs in the front row where the action typically commenced.

She buckled herself in to watch the performance.

She watched as the lights went down and the first model came out.

The overall effect of the designs was stunning.

One after another, each model looked more beautiful than the last, and Chanel could only watch them parade down the runway without a single thought in her head.

In the end, after all two thousand models walked around in circles, a piano followed them both. But there was no repentance for Chanel.

There was no extinction. There was a new beginning.

She came out to the very last beat of music.

It was at the intermission that everything changed.

She was gazing at an adorable dress on display when she felt a bump at her elbow.

She turned to say, 'I'm sorry,' but the words died in her throat. She was looking into the eyes of Jackie Blackwell.

Jackie Blackwell was a businessman.

He was the man in charge of the business operations at the company.

A silver-haired giant, he was feared and respected for being cold, hard-nosed, and a whore when it came to business.

He was also one of the wealthiest men in New York City.

He was why people insisted that this particular fashion show couldn't have been all about a man's suit.

"I'm so sorry," Chanel stuttered." 'I didn't mean to bump into you."

Jackie finally looked up at her; his eyes resembled ice, and he nodded with terse approval.

‘Thanks for the apology,' he said, 'but it's unnecessary.' His voice sounded wind-edged and commanding.