CRIMSON WEAVE

The soft hum of a jazz record filled the air as sunlight streamed through the windows of Azalea and Osvaldo's sleek Parisian apartment. The elegant space, adorned with minimalist art and bold pops of color, reflected the couple's shared love for beauty and sophistication. The morning light caught the golden band on Azalea's finger as she sat curled up on the couch, flipping through sketches for Scarlet Vogue's next collection.

Across the room, Osvaldo stood at the kitchen island, whipping up his signature omelet. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, a charming contrast to the crisp white shirt he wore. He glanced at Azalea with a warm smile.

"Coffee or tea, mon amour?" he asked, his voice carrying the faintest trace of an Italian accent that had captivated her from the moment they met.

Azalea looked up, her lips curving into a soft smile. "Coffee. Black, as always. And don't forget the croissants; you promised me a Parisian breakfast experience."

Osvaldo chuckled. "As if I could forget. I aim to please."

Moments like these had made Azalea believe she had found her perfect partner. To the outside world, their relationship was the epitome of glamour—an acclaimed fashion mogul and her dashing art dealer husband. Together, they graced magazine covers and attended glittering events, exuding effortless chemistry. But it was the quieter moments, like this one, that truly made Azalea feel secure.

She set her sketches aside as Osvaldo approached with a tray. "Voilà," he said, presenting the perfectly plated omelet and croissants alongside her steaming coffee. He sat beside her, resting a hand on her knee.

"Tell me about today," he said, his hazel eyes alight with genuine interest.

Azalea leaned back, cradling her coffee mug. "Another endless round of meetings and fittings. We're debuting the new collection in Milan next month, and the pressure is mounting. But…" She trailed off, a playful glint in her eyes.

"But?" Osvaldo prompted, leaning closer.

"But I saved us two tickets to the opera tonight. Consider it a reward for your impeccable breakfast skills," she teased.

Osvaldo laughed, his head tilting back. "The opera? You spoil me, Azalea."

"You deserve it," she said, her tone softening. She reached out, brushing her fingers against his cheek. "You've been my rock through all of this. I don't say it enough, but I'm grateful for you."

Osvaldo captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "And I'm grateful for you. You're my everything, Azalea."

Two Years Later

The sound of laughter echoed through the same apartment, but it wasn't Azalea's. She stood in the doorway, frozen, her breath caught in her chest. Osvaldo's voice, rich and familiar, mingled with the unmistakable sound of another woman's laughter.

"Osvaldo?" she called out, stepping inside.

The laughter ceased abruptly, and moments later, Osvaldo appeared in the hallway, his shirt untucked, his expression a mix of surprise and guilt.

"Azalea, you're home early," he said, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Azalea's sharp gaze darted past him to the living room, where a woman she recognized as Claudia, Osvaldo's best friend, sat on the couch. Claudia's cheeks flushed crimson, and she quickly stood, smoothing down her skirt.

"Azalea," Claudia stammered, avoiding her eyes. "I was just… I mean, we were…"

Azalea's voice was cold, a stark contrast to the warmth it usually held. "You were just what? Laughing? Chatting? Breaking every shred of trust I had in this marriage?"

Osvaldo stepped forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Azalea, listen, it's not what it looks like—"

"Don't you dare insult my intelligence," she snapped, her voice cutting through his protest like a blade. She turned her glare to Claudia. "Get out."

Claudia hesitated, her eyes darting between Azalea and Osvaldo, but the icy resolve in Azalea's gaze left no room for argument. Claudia grabbed her bag and hurried out, the door closing behind her with a hollow thud.

Azalea turned back to Osvaldo, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "How long?" she demanded.

Osvaldo sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Azalea, it was a mistake. It meant nothing—"

"How. Long."

His silence was answer enough.

Azalea's chest tightened, the betrayal cutting deeper than she thought possible. She had given Osvaldo her trust, her vulnerability, her love—things she rarely offered anyone. And he had shattered it all.

"I gave up so much for you," she said, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain. "I let you into my life, into my heart, and this is how you repay me?"

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Osvaldo said, stepping closer. "Please, Azalea, we can fix this. We can—"

She held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. "No. You don't get to 'fix' this. You don't get to sweep this under the rug and pretend everything's fine. We're done, Osvaldo."

His expression shifted, desperation creeping into his tone. "You don't mean that. Azalea, you're angry right now, but you love me. We can move past this."

She shook her head, tears threatening to spill but never quite falling. "Love isn't enough when there's no trust. And you destroyed that."

Without another word, she turned and walked away, the weight of her shattered marriage pressing heavily on her shoulders.

In the weeks that followed, Azalea buried herself in work. The pain of Osvaldo's betrayal was a wound that refused to heal, but she channeled her anguish into her designs, creating a collection that critics hailed as her most powerful and evocative yet.

On the surface, she appeared unshaken, her public persona as polished and composed as ever. But behind closed doors, the memories haunted her—the laughter, the lies, the love that had turned to ash.

She often found herself staring at her wedding ring, now tucked away in a drawer, a relic of a life she no longer recognized. The man she had once trusted above all else had become a stranger, and the betrayal had left scars that no amount of time could erase.

Azalea vowed never to let herself be vulnerable again. Trust was a luxury she could no longer afford, not in her world of shadows and secrets. If love had taught her anything, it was that it made her weak—and weakness was something the Crimson Ghost could never afford.

And yet, even as she steeled herself against the pain, a small part of her—a part she refused to acknowledge—hoped that one day, she might find someone who could prove her wrong. Someone who could show her that love didn't have to hurt.

But until then, Azalea would continue to walk her chosen path alone, her heart guarded, her resolve unbreakable. The Crimson Ghost had been forged in fire, and she would never allow herself to burn again.