Elodie POV:
Bronson' s eyes locked onto the glowing screen of his phone, his jaw tightening. Bridgett' s name flashed across it, insistent and demanding.
He hesitated, his gaze flickering from the phone to my perfectly composed face. For a fleeting second, I saw a battle in his eyes. Bridgett' s urgent need versus the facade he was so desperately trying to maintain.
He breathed out slowly, a silent decision made. He pressed a button, silencing the call. "Continue," he told the photographer, his voice a little strained. "We can finish this."
The photographer, slightly flustered, adjusted his camera. "Alright then! Mr. Clayton, a little more focus, please. Mrs. Clayton, your smile is beautiful, keep that up!"
Bronson tried to smile, to lean into me, but his movements were stiff, his eyes distant. The phone vibrated again in his pocket, a relentless hum against the silence. It was a constant, irritating buzz, a testament to his divided loyalty.
My fixed smile slowly, painfully, disappeared. My heart felt heavy, a cold stone in my chest. This was it. This was him.
"Stop," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "That's enough."
Bronson snapped his head towards me, his eyes wide with alarm. "Elodie? What's wrong?"
I looked at him, my gaze unwavering. "Answer it, Bronson," I said, a chilling calm in my voice. "She clearly needs you. Don't let her down. Not again."
My words, gentle as they were, were a knife. He flinched, then pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling slightly as he answered. "Bridgett? What's wrong?"
Her voice, thin and reedy, was barely audible, but the urgency in her tone was unmistakable. "They' re saying terrible things, Bronson! About me! They' re calling me a criminal!" she wailed. "It' s all over the news! She' s trying to ruin me!"
"She' s publicly humiliated me, Bronson! They' re saying I orchestrated that whole thing in college! I can' t bear it! I can' t live if everyone thinks I' m a monster!" Her voice rose to a frantic scream. "Please, Bronson! You have to help me! They're coming for me!"
Bronson' s face paled further. His eyes, frantic with worry, darted towards me, then back to the phone. He was torn.
I didn't wait. I reached up, my hands unpinning the elaborate bridal veil from my hair, letting it fall to the floor like a discarded shroud.
"Bridgett," I said, my voice clear and calm, loud enough for her to hear through the phone. "I assure you, I had nothing to do with any 'public humiliation.' My concerns are purely private."
I turned to Bronson, a deceptive sweetness in my smile. "You should go, Bronson. I'll come with you. Wouldn't want her to face this alone, would we?"
He stared at me, then nodded, a silent surrender. "Thank you, Elodie," he whispered, relief flooding his features. "Thank you." He turned and almost ran out of the boutique, Bridgett' s frantic cries still echoing faintly through the phone.
We arrived at a bustling public square, a large digital billboard dominating the space. A crowd had gathered, their faces a mix of anger and disgust.
Bridgett was at the center, surrounded by a swirling vortex of accusations. She looked disheveled, her makeup smeared, tears streaming down her face. She was a picture of distraught innocence.
"How could you do it, Bridgett?!" someone shouted from the crowd. "That poor girl! You ruined her life!"
"Bronson covered for you!" another voice yelled. "His perfect marriage was just a cover-up for your crimes!"
Bridgett shook her head frantically. "No! It's not true! I didn't do anything! It was an accident! I'm sick! I'm fragile!"
"Fragile?" a woman in the front scoffed. "You hired thugs to assault Elodie Ryan! We have the proof!" She pointed dramatically at the giant screen above.
The billboard, usually reserved for advertisements, now displayed a series of damning screenshots. Text messages between Bridgett and the thugs she' d hired. Bank transfer receipts. It was all there, undeniable and sickening.
Bronson pushed through the crowd, his face grim. "Enough!" he roared, his voice cutting through the noise. He pulled Bridgett close, shielding her. "This is slander! These are baseless accusations!"
"Baseless?" the woman challenged, pointing again at the screen. "Look for yourself, Mr. Clayton! It's all there! Your 'fragile' Bridgett, orchestrating a brutal attack! And you, her white knight, covering it up with a fake marriage!"
The screen changed, displaying a new image. A grainy, zoomed-in photo of Bronson and Bridgett, arms intertwined, laughing, taken on what was supposed to be our honeymoon. The date was clearly visible.
Bronson flinched, a visible tremor running through him. His eyes, wide with panic, darted to me.
I stood a few feet back, my expression calm, analytical. The photo merely confirmed what I already knew. Another piece of the puzzle, another shard of my shattered love.
"Elodie!" Bronson snapped, his voice sharp, accusatory. "What is the meaning of this?!"
Bridgett, still clinging to him, whimpered dramatically. "She's behind this, Bronson! I know it! She's always hated me!" She swayed, her eyes rolling back slightly. "My head... I feel faint..."
And then, with a sudden, desperate lunge, she grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. "You did this!" she shrieked, her voice surprisingly strong.
I was caught off guard, pulled forward by her unexpected force. There was a malicious glint in her eyes, a calculated evil that belied her feigned weakness.
With a final, violent yank, she shoved me. Hard.
I stumbled back, losing my balance, my body careening towards a makeshift display of delicate porcelain vases.
"Bridgett!" Bronson yelled, his voice laced with horror. He caught her, pulling her close, clinging to her.
His eyes, for a brief, agonizing moment, met mine. A flicker of indecision, of shame, then his gaze hardened, locking onto Bridgett' s trembling form.
The porcelain display crashed down with a deafening shatter. I felt a sharp, searing pain as a jagged shard sliced into my arm.
Bridgett, nestled safely in Bronson' s arms, whimpered. "My head... it hurts so much, Bronson! I need you!" She clutched at his suit jacket, her gaze fixed on him.
He didn't look at me again. He scooped her into his arms, his face grim, and pushed through the stunned crowd. "I need to get her out of here!" he barked.
He walked past me, his eyes fixed on Bridgett, cradled against his chest. He didn't spare me a glance, didn't notice the blood blooming on my forearm, didn't even acknowledge the debris I lay amidst. His priority, as always, was her.
