How Did Corteingles Become A Shopping Staple In Spain?

My husband dotes on me. He's always saying I'm the one he cherishes most in this life. Everyone else envies me too, saying I married well—pampered like a princess. It all started when I mentioned, offhand, that tailored cuts flatter my figure. From that moment on, he kept it in mind every day, going out of his way to gather all kinds of designer womenswear for me. In the walk-in closet at home, there's always a wardrobe filled exclusively with my new clothes—each piece haute couture, with exquisite fabrics and impeccable craftsmanship. On New Year's Eve in our third year of marriage, the house was lively, packed with relatives chatting and laughing. With a smile, my husband handed me a gift box. "Go on, open your New Year's present." The frustration and resentment I'd been bottling up for so long exploded in an instant. I shoved the box to the floor. "It's the New Year—can you just stop for once?" The moment the words left my mouth, everyone fell silent. The relatives' expressions shifted; one after another, they began to scold me for being ungrateful, for not knowing how lucky I was. My husband looked at me, eyes full of shock and hurt. "I just bought you some pretty clothes. Why are you angry?" Amid their pointing fingers and his wounded questioning, I rushed into the walk-in closet like I'd lost my mind, dragging out those designer clothes and throwing them all over the floor. Everyone stared at me, stunned. No one said another word.

My mom always said, "I've never played favorites. "You and your brother mean exactly the same to me." She said it so often I almost believed it. Growing up, anything my brother had, I had too. If he got a new pair of sneakers, so did I. If he signed up for coding classes, I was enrolled in the same ones. Even this year, when we came home for the holidays, my mom smiled as she handed each of us a neatly-packaged designer shopping bag. "I picked these out for you two at the store. One for each of you, exactly the same. "These outdoor brands are expensive, you know. A single jacket costs thousands. I'd never buy one for myself, but I don't mind splurging on you two." I took the jacket. It was well-cut, structured, and looked high-quality. A small warmth stirred in my chest. However, when I tried it on, the collar felt oddly irritating against my skin. Frowning, I pulled back the lining to check. There was a ring of yellowed sweat stains around the label, and tiny flakes of dandruff were caught in the Velcro. A faint musty smell lingered on the cloth, mixed with the stale odor of cheap tobacco. It was sour and impossible to ignore.

My five-year marriage with Alexander was like a couture gown, ripped to shreds. "I want Victoria to show your collection for the New York Fashion Week spring preview." My husband Alexander's voice cut through the sketch I was working on. I stopped drawing. I must have heard him wrong. "What did you say?" "Victoria is new. She needs a platform. Your new spring collection is the perfect springboard for her." "You're a showstopper every year. What's the harm in giving her one shot?" he asked, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Besides, the brand needs new blood." I stared at the man I'd spent five years with. Suddenly, his face looked sharp, unfamiliar. "Do you have any idea how many nights I've stayed up working on this collection? And you want to give it to some new assistant?" "Evelyn, don't be so petty. It's just a preview." His expression turned cold. "I've already decided." I clenched my fists, a thousand emotions churning inside me. Fine. If you're going to treat me like this, don't blame me for leaving you.

While shopping, I spotted a good-looking men's tie. I bought it as a birthday gift for my son. I was paying when the clerk suddenly muttered under her breath, "Disgusting!" I was furious. When I got home, I told my husband what happened. He was ready to file a complaint, but the moment he saw the tie, his face took on a strange expression. "Did you really buy this? If you did, we're getting divorced right now!" My mother heard the commotion and came to see what was wrong. When she saw the tie in my hands, the color drained from her face. She pointed at me and screamed, "How did I raise such a monster?!" I stood rooted to the spot, completely lost.

I was on a business trip out of town when I got a text from my neighbor. [Can you and your husband keep it down? Also, one of your undies fell onto my balcony.] Shocked, I opened the photo she had sent. The underwear wasn't even my style, but it matched the one I'd seen in my husband's online shopping cart. He'd told me it was a gift for me, but I remember noticing the size—it was one size larger than mine. When confronted with the neighbor's message, my husband swore that the house must've been broken into and claimed the intruder left the item behind. But something about his story didn't sit right, so I decided to dig further. That was when I stumbled upon his social media. His latest post was just three words. [I bought this.] It was paired with a photo of a lingerie gift set. Beneath it, there was a comment. [I'm wearing it.] Attached was a picture of a woman's legs—and the unmistakable background of my living room. The evidence was undeniable. I packed up the underwear and brought it straight to the police. "My husband says our house was broken into. This was left behind by the intruder, and it might have DNA on it."

When my husband accompanies his childhood sweetheart to the vet to treat her pet fish, my son accidentally spills his drink on her. My husband watches as his childhood sweetheart's eyes redden. Then, he slaps my son hard and throws a stack of cash at him. "This is your chance to make up for your mistakes. Buy Wendy a dress—make sure it's white!" My son dries his tears while holding onto the money. He roams the streets, searching for a white dress in the middle of the night. When he finally finds one, he ends up getting beaten to death by some drunk hooligans. Even in death, he clutches the bloodied skirt tightly. I burst into tears of despair as I hold onto his body and call my husband over a dozen times. However, he's too busy with his childhood sweetheart's fish. He blocks my number. When he finally calls me back, he sounds icy and angry. "Wendy is still waiting for that dress! Where has the little brat gone to? Can't he even handle such a simple task?"