I Watched My Mother Kneel For His Family, Then I Ended His Chapter 08

I Watched My Mother Kneel For His Family, Then I Ended His Chapter 08

The divorce papers were signed three days later

It was Rowley who forced Dillen to sign.

According to Celia, five business partners issued legal notices over those three days, while two filed formal lawsuits. The lights on the entire floor of Guzman Group’s legal department stayed on for three straight

nights.

Finally, Rowley delivered an ultimatum: Sign it.

That afternoon, Celia brought the agreement to Guzman Group. When she returned, stre sent me a photo: on the final page of the document, Dillen’s signature was crooked and uneven, the last stroke dragged out as if

his hand had been shaking violently.

I stared at that signature for a long time.

There was no joy.

No sadness, either.

Just a vast, hollow sense of peace.

Like walking through a long, dark tunnel and finally reaching the light at the exit.

The administrative process moved fast.

Celia was incredibly efficient, wrapping up all legal formalities within a week.

I went from being Mrs. Guzman back to simply Elva.

The day after the papers were signed, I re-issued the twenty-seven design licenses to Guzman Group as

agreed.

They were valid for three months.

After three months, they would expire automatically without renewal.

Celia had added that clause to the agreement.

Whether Rowley read it closely before signing was hard to say, but his signature was already on the page

Three months gave them enough time to hire a new design team to take over.

And it gave me enough time to build something of my own.

Three days after the divorce, I registered my own fashion design studio.

I named it ELYN.

It combined my mother’s name and my own: Ashlyn and Elva.

Celia found me office space-a three-room unit in a commercial building, small but plenty for what I

needed.

The two design assistants I used to mentor at Guzman Group resigned on their own and joined me the moment they heard I had left.

“Mrs. Guzman, no, Ms. Holden,” Bethel said with a grin, “working with you is much better than staying at Guzman Group.”

I told her not to call me Ms. Holden-just call me Elva.

The first two months of starting a business were the hardest.

No clients, no orders, no distribution channels.

The capital in my account came from savings I had accumulated over the years, combined with the

intellectual property compensation Celia secured for me during the divorce.

It wasn’t a massive sum, but it was enough to keep us afloat for six months.

I didn’t rush.

I spent a whole month perfecting the designs for the new season.

They were pieces I genuinely wanted to create.

In the second month, I took my portfolio to the investment and trade fair for New York Fashion Week.

Just an independent designer with no corporate backing, no connections, and a folder full of sketches.

Hundreds of brands were lined up at the trade fair. I waited three hours for my turn.

The woman handling the preliminary review flipped through my portfolio, then looked up at me.

“Where did you work previously?”

“Guzman Group.”

“Did you design the ‘Elva’ Collection?”

“Yes.”

She closed the folder and picked up her phone.

Three days later, I received notification that my studio had been selected for an independent designer

showcase at New York Fashion Week.

That same day, buyers from three major boutique stores emailed me, asking to schedule meetings for the following week.

I sat in the studio reading those messages, typing out replies one by one, hitting every key with deliberate

precision.

Every single one of these opportunities had been earned by my own hands.

Not because of the Guzman name.

Not because I was Dillen’s wife.

Not with anyone’s help.

Without relying on anyone.

My mother came by the studio that afternoon to bring us snacks. Seeing the acceptance notice on the desk, she picked it up and read it repeatedly.

“Fashion Week… That’s a huge deal, isn’t it?”

“It’s decent. A solid starting point.”

She carefully placed the notice back on the desk and gave my sleeve a gentle tug.

“Elva, I see it now… Leaving Dillen was the right call.”

I looked at her.

The cut on her lip had healed, though a faint scar remained across her cheekbone.

“Mom, of course it was.