His Perfect Lie, Her Vicious Truth

die

She stood at the foot of Finley's bed, her perfectly coiffed hair and expensive suit

en. Bronson is doing his best to care for Bridgett, and you're just making i

time to consider options, dear. For Finley. For everyon

d, my voice barely a whisper. M

e has responsibilities. He needs to focus on his work, on our family's lega

horrifying clarity. It wasn't just Bronson. The entire Clayton

oken, ashamed. Anner had visited me, her face a mask of concern. "Such a shame, dear.

ad always valued appearance over truth, convenience over justice. Anner'

almost ethereal. "I used to believe in the generosi

ymore. And my brother is not a 'drain on resources.' He is my family. My only r

ards the door, my ste

ice echoed behind me, sharp with outrage. "You can't ju

't loo

oked haggard, his usually impeccable suit rumpled. He placed a c

nd I want to make it right." He sat opposite me, his gaze earnest. "I've cance

arved wooden rocking horse. "Remember this?" he asked, his voice

ago, during our first year of marriage, when the dream of a family with him still burned fie

ay, Elodie. When the time is right." The time had never been rig

words were a silent scream in

he delicate carving. "I found it. I want to ma

. make a new wish? Just like we used to?" He held out the rocking horse, reveal

uck it into the rocking horse. I had done it so many times, my dreams

, his voice earnest. He pulled out his phone, already dialing

outique. It was a place I had only ever dreamed of

the delicate lace, the shimmering silks, the exquisite

nd smile, approached us. "Welcome, Mr. an

nce made my heart flutter. Now, it felt like a cage. "My wife needs a gown,"

a private fitting room. "Any p

tion. His eyes met mine, a fleeting, expectant look. "Something prac

t understated, a stark contrast to the elaborat

ked up, his eyes widening. "Elodie," he breathed, a gen

e a stunning couple, truly. The dres

imately on my back. A rare, almost joyous smil

photos, Mrs. Clayton?" the photogra

ied, my voice calm. "Dir

queezed my hand. "And next time, my love, you can pick a

otographer adjusted his lens. Bronson' s arm r

gh me, a flicker of disgust. I s

the photographer chirped. "Mr. Clayton, l

hing my temple. His scent, once

e that! E

ng the perfect image of a l

r. Bronson' s phone. It vibrated violently in his po