Elodie POV:
"Honestly, Elodie," Anner's voice sliced through the hospital room, sharp and brittle. She stood at the foot of Finley's bed, her perfectly coiffed hair and expensive suit a stark contrast to the sterile environment. "You make such a drama out of everything."
She gestured dismissively at the machines monitoring Finley. "Accidents happen. Bronson is doing his best to care for Bridgett, and you're just making it harder for him. You know how important she is to his family's reputation."
Her eyes, cold and assessing, fixed on me. "Perhaps it's time to consider options, dear. For Finley. For everyone. This facility is expensive. Such a drain on resources."
"Anner, he's my brother," I said, my voice barely a whisper. My hands clenched on the bed rail.
"Yes, well," she said, her tone devoid of warmth. "And Bronson is my son. He has responsibilities. He needs to focus on his work, on our family's legacy. Not on... endless medical bills for a boy who will never truly recover."
Her true priorities. A coldness seeped into my veins, a final, horrifying clarity. It wasn't just Bronson. The entire Clayton family, cloaked in their opulent facade, was rotten to the core.
My body felt like ice. I remembered that day in college, after the hazing. Bruised, broken, ashamed. Anner had visited me, her face a mask of concern. "Such a shame, dear. You' re such a bright girl. But these things happen. You must be strong for Bronson."
Strong for Bronson. Not for myself. Not for the broken girl I was. They had always valued appearance over truth, convenience over justice. Anner' s "sympathy" had been a performance, a precursor to my unwilling sacrifice.
"I used to be Mrs. Clayton," I said, my voice quiet, almost ethereal. "I used to believe in the generosity of this family, in your concern for my well-being."
I lifted my head, my gaze meeting hers, unflinching. "But I'm not that woman anymore. And my brother is not a 'drain on resources.' He is my family. My only real family. And I will protect him, with or without your so-called 'generosity'."
I turned, walking towards the door, my steps slow but determined.
"Elodie! Where do you think you're going?!" Anner' s voice echoed behind me, sharp with outrage. "You can't just walk away! Bronson needs you! This family needs you!"
I didn't look back.
Bronson found me back at the estate, alone in the library. He looked haggard, his usually impeccable suit rumpled. He placed a cup of tea on the table beside me, a rare, almost clumsy gesture.
"Elodie," he began, his voice soft, "I've been thinking about what you said. And I want to make it right." He sat opposite me, his gaze earnest. "I've canceled all my meetings for the week. I want to spend time with you. With Finley."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden rocking horse. "Remember this?" he asked, his voice low. "The one you wanted for the nursery? For our future child?"
My heart squeezed. That rocking horse. I had pointed it out to him in an antique shop years ago, during our first year of marriage, when the dream of a family with him still burned fiercely. I' d imagined a child, cradled in my arms, rocking gently, a symbol of our shared hope.
He' d smiled then, a fleeting, indulgent smile, and said, "Someday, Elodie. When the time is right." The time had never been right. He had never even bought it. He had manufactured this moment.
It' s too late, Bronson. The words were a silent scream in my mind. Too little, too late.
He was still holding it, his fingers tracing the delicate carving. "I found it. I want to make things right. I want to try again. For us."
He looked at me, hope dawning in his eyes. "What do you say, Elodie? Shall we... make a new wish? Just like we used to?" He held out the rocking horse, revealing a small, folded piece of paper tucked into its saddle. "For a fresh start?"
My gaze lingered on the paper. The tradition. Write a wish, fold it, tuck it into the rocking horse. I had done it so many times, my dreams sealed within its wooden belly. Now, the thought felt like a cruel joke.
He took my silence as hesitation. "I'll do anything," he said, his voice earnest. He pulled out his phone, already dialing. "I'll book us a weekend trip. Somewhere secluded. Just us."
Later that day, he drove me to a high-end bridal boutique. It was a place I had only ever dreamed of visiting, for a wedding that was never truly mine.
My younger self would have been ecstatic, overwhelmed by the delicate lace, the shimmering silks, the exquisite craftsmanship. But now, it felt like a hollow spectacle.
A sales assistant, a tall woman with a kind smile, approached us. "Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Clayton. How can I help you today?"
Bronson smiled, his arm wrapping around my waist, a possessive gesture that once made my heart flutter. Now, it felt like a cage. "My wife needs a gown," he said, his voice proud. "Something simple, elegant. For a special occasion."
The sales assistant led me to a private fitting room. "Any particular style, Mrs. Clayton?"
I glanced at Bronson, who was on his phone, a quick, hushed conversation. His eyes met mine, a fleeting, expectant look. "Something practical," I said, my voice flat. "Something that won't get in the way."
I chose a plain ivory dress, beautifully cut but understated, a stark contrast to the elaborate gowns that surrounded us. It felt like armor.
When I emerged, Bronson had just ended his call. He looked up, his eyes widening. "Elodie," he breathed, a genuine admiration in his gaze. "You look... breathtaking."
The sales assistant beamed. "You make a stunning couple, truly. The dress is perfect for you, Mrs. Clayton."
Bronson pulled me closer, his hand resting intimately on my back. A rare, almost joyous smile touched his lips. He actually seemed content.
"What style would you prefer for the photos, Mrs. Clayton?" the photographer asked, his camera at the ready.
"Simple is fine," I replied, my voice calm. "Direct. No elaborate poses."
"As you wish," Bronson interjected, his voice firm. He squeezed my hand. "And next time, my love, you can pick anything you want. We'll buy out the store if you desire."
The preparations began. Lights flashed, the photographer adjusted his lens. Bronson' s arm remained around me, a constant, heavy presence.
I felt a subtle tremor run through me, a flicker of disgust. I suppressed it, kept my smile fixed.
"Perfect! Hold that pose, Mrs. Clayton," the photographer chirped. "Mr. Clayton, lean in closer, just a touch more intimate."
Bronson complied, his lips brushing my temple. His scent, once intoxicating, now felt cloying.
"Just like that! Exquisite!"
The camera clicked, capturing the perfect image of a loving couple. A perfect lie.
Suddenly, a sharp, insistent whirring pierced the air. Bronson' s phone. It vibrated violently in his pocket, a discordant note in the manufactured harmony.
