His Perfect Lie, Her Vicious Truth

Elodie POV:

After that day, Bronson made a show of changing everything. He canceled his evening meetings, insisting we ate dinner together. He personally changed the bandages on my arm, his touch surprisingly gentle, his brow furrowed with a guilt I found hard to believe.

He even made an attempt at cooking breakfast one morning, burning the toast and nearly setting off the smoke alarm. "Is it... edible?" he asked, hovering anxiously as I took a bite. It was awful, but I simply nodded, chewing slowly.

When the pain from my arm was particularly bad, he would sit beside me, murmuring apologies, stroking my hair. I accepted his gestures, offering polite thanks, my heart a hollow chamber devoid of feeling.

"I've arranged a quiet weekend retreat for us," he announced one evening, his voice hopeful. "Upstate. No distractions. Just us."

Suddenly, his phone buzzed. Bridgett' s name flashed on the screen, followed by a plaintive message. "Bronson, I' m so lonely. Can I come with you? Please?"

He hesitated, glancing at me, then back at his phone. I watched him, my fingers unconsciously tracing the neatly folded clothes in my half-packed suitcase, hidden under the bed.

"Of course," I said, my voice light, before he could respond to her. "Bridgett needs you. We should all go. It'll be good for her to get out too."

The weekend was a performance. At dinner, Bridgett draped herself over Bronson, whispering secrets into his ear, her hand resting intimately on his thigh. She tilted her head towards him as she spoke, her body almost melting into his.

I watched her, then calmly cut a piece of steak, my eyes not even bothering to flicker towards them. They were a tableau, a living, breathing testament to his loyalty.

Later, I walked past their open bedroom door. Bronson was gently applying ointment to a small scratch on Bridgett' s arm, murmuring comforting words. He didn't even notice me. I simply kept walking, my footsteps silent.

I was heading to the bathroom when Bronson suddenly stood, catching up to me. He gently took my arm. "Elodie, wait. I... I have to ask you something." His eyes were troubled. "Are you... bothered by Bridgett being here?"

I turned, my gaze sweeping over his hand still resting on my arm. "Why would you ask that, Bronson?"

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, his gaze evasive. "She's... quite affectionate. And I know sometimes she can be a little much. I just want to make sure you're comfortable." He paused, then pressed, "Are you upset that she's so close to me?"

I looked at him, my eyes calm. "Do you think she deserves your affection, Bronson?" I asked, a sliver of ice in my voice. "Do you think she's worthy of your protection? After everything she's done?"

He recoiled, his face paling, speechless.

Bridgett, barefoot and furious, stalked over. "What is she doing, Bronson? Still trying to worm her way into your good graces? Can't she see you don't even care about her anymore?"

She looked at me, her eyes narrowed. "Just leave him alone, Elodie. He doesn't love you. He never did."

I took a step forward, closing the distance between us. "Then tell me, Bridgett," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "If he never loved me, why did he marry me?" I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Was it because he owed me something? Was it... compensation?"

Bridgett's face went white. Her lips trembled, and she stumbled back, her eyes wide with fear.

"Those who do wrong should pay the price," I stated, my voice echoing in the sudden, dead silence. I turned and walked away, leaving them frozen in the hallway.

Bronson followed me, pushing open the walk-in closet door. I was folding the last few items into my suitcase, hidden beneath a pile of blankets.

"What's in the suitcase, Elodie?" he asked, his voice strained, a tremor of unease in his tone.

I looked up, meeting his gaze. "Just packing some things away. Clearing out the winter wardrobe. You know, for spring."

He looked at the half-filled suitcase, then back at me, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. "Are you leaving?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

I raised an eyebrow, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching my lips. "Leaving? Why, Bronson? Would you miss me?"

He let out a shaky breath, a wave of relief washing over his face. "Don't joke like that, Elodie. Not about something like that." His relief was palpable, sickening.

But then his eyes narrowed again, a shadow of doubt returning. He walked towards me, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me into a tight embrace. His grip was almost crushing.

"Don't ever say that again, Elodie," he murmured into my hair, his voice muffled, laced with a fear he couldn't quite hide. "Don't ever make me think you'd leave."

I stirred slightly in his arms, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift. "I won't," I said, my voice soft, compliant. "I promise."

He slowly loosened his embrace, his eyes searching mine. "Good," he said, a sigh of relief escaping him. "Now, go on to the estate, darling. Have dinner with Mother and Father. I' ll join you later. I need to make sure Bridgett is settled."

That evening, I arrived at the grand, silent Clayton estate. Anner sat in the drawing-room, her posture rigid, a teacup clutched in her hand. She beckoned me closer.

She held my hand, talking about mundane family matters, her voice surprisingly gentle. "Such a trying time for Bronson, dear. He worries so much about Bridgett."

I listened quietly, sipping my tea, until the pot was empty.

I set the teacup down, the delicate porcelain clinking softly. "Anner," I began, my voice calm, "I know about everything."

Her eyes snapped up, wide with shock. "What... what are you talking about, dear?"

"I know about Bridgett arranging the assault," I continued, my voice steady. "And I know about your son's secret vasectomy. I know our marriage was never legally filed. I know it was all a charade. A compensation."

Her face went pale. Her hand trembled, tea sloshing onto the antique rug.

"I know," I repeated, my voice now laced with a quiet despair. "And I'm leaving, Anner. I'm done."

She stared at me, her eyes welling up with tears. "Oh, Elodie," she whispered, her voice choked with grief. "My poor, sweet girl." She reached out, her trembling hand gripping mine. "I'm so sorry. For all of it."

My gaze hardened. "Do you know, Anner," I continued, my voice dangerously soft, "how many times Bronson was 'punished' by Clifton for 'neglecting' me over the past five years? How many times he claimed to fight for me? He wasn' t being punished for neglecting me. He was being punished for his unwavering devotion to Bridgett. Every single time."

Anner listened, her eyes welling up with tears, her jaw trembling. She gripped my hand, her touch surprisingly firm. "I am so, so sorry, Elodie," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I truly am. I had no idea it was this deep."