Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Loren
SAYLA
FINAL CUT!
The file has individual images and video montages. Let me know what you think. EEK!
Not that my ego is at all invested. This project is about you two. But also a little about me.
Dex says 10 out of 10. No notes.
The barrage of texts dropped into our group thread while Bridger and I were at my apartment, picking up my car.
Well, technically, we’re at the apartment I’m subletting from Dex.
More technically, we’re in the parking garage at the apartment building I was subletting from Dex—for free—before I got married and moved in with Bridger.
Would that make this a non-letting, now?
On any other normal day of my life, I’d come up with a better word to describe my situation. But my brain is currently emptier than my car’s gas tank. Because Bridger and I just watched the first of several montages Sayla whipped up, and I am flatlined.
Deceased.
Un-resuscitate-able.
And yet, I keep breathing while Bridger plays the rest of the videos. Then we scroll through the entire album, one image at a time. Somehow, she’s managed to make us appear to be the most in-love couple who ever lived in Harvest Hollow. An absolute miracle worker, my best friend.
When we finish, Bridger lifts his gaze to mine, lips parted. “Whoa.”
“Right?” I’m a little breathless. “She made us look amazing, didn’t she?”
“You should be on the cover of a wedding magazine,” he says. "Like, all the wedding magazines.”
My cheeks flush, even though this is less a compliment to me and more a testament to Sayla’s talents. “Well, if we weren’t already married, I’d make you audition for Surprise Bride immediately.”
“That dumb show?”
“The very one.” I press out a chuckle. “Did you see the expression Sayla caught you giving me at the wedding, just before her little bee emergency?” His face was so sincere, my stomach actually swooped when we watched that clip. “You’d make some woman the happiest surprise wife on the planet.”
Bridger drags a hand over his hair. “I can’t even argue with you,” he says. “Everything she sent seems very—” He clears his throat. “Authentic.”
“Totally.” I nod. A lot. And there’s a twinge behind my breastbone. A tiny glimmer of something like hope. “Do you think …”
I let the question drift off. I’m honestly so overwhelmed by this week, I’m not even sure what I want to ask him. He waits for me to finish. But I don’t. So he finally prompts me.
“Do I think what?”
I swallow. “Do you think … your mom will buy it?”
“Ah. Yes. Operation Fool Margaret.” He squints down at his phone, quiet for another moment. “I’d have to say anyone with a pulse would.” He begins scrolling again, eyes peeled on the screen. Halfway through, a crease forms between his brows.
“Sayla said she’s open to feedback,” I remind him, concern flaring in my chest. “If there’s anything you want her to change. Personally, I don’t see anything that needs tweaking. But if you do …”
“Huh,” he grunts.
Huh?
My palms go clammy. The last thing I want is for Bridger to be disappointed in the pictures.
Disappointed in my role as his wife. Of course I realize not everything’s about me.
But honestly, I’m not used to anything being about me.
Until lately. Now I have so much of Bridger's focus, the feeling’s becoming familiar.
And I like that.
“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s just that these are all so great, I have no idea which ones to send.”
My shoulders sag with relief, and I wipe my hands on my jeans. “How about all of them?”
He stops scrolling. Looks at me. “Everything?”
“Sure.” My shoulders lift. “That was the whole point. She wants proof we’re legitimate? We’ll bury her in evidence.”
“Without actually killing her.” He arches a brow. “Unless we absolutely have to.”
“Don’t say that.” I swat his arm.
“Sorry, but you don’t know Margaret. She’s a real piece of work.” He pauses for a chuckle. “Luckily, Sayla did her job so well, I’m guessing you’ll never have the displeasure of meeting your mother-in-law.” He smirks. “I dare that woman to try to convince any board our marriage isn’t legitimate.”
“I love that Sayla ended the first video on a close-up of our wedding license. Did you even know Susan had a last name?”
His mouth quirks. “Well, I hired her, so.”
“I was just calling her Susan Pantsuit in my head. Then again, my mind was preoccupied.”
“I hear that happens to brides. Surprise or otherwise.”
I tip my chin and ignore the churn in my stomach. “So, should we go ahead and send the link to your mom? After all, Dex did give Sayla’s work a ten out of ten, no notes.”
“A true rarity.” Bridger nods, calling up the contacts on his phone. “Yep. Let’s do this. Margaret Adams … there you are.” His thumbs fumble out a quick text. “Annnnd send.”
“Wow.” A shaky laugh slips out of me. “What did you say?”
He hands me his phone, and my heart flutters.
Five words.
Introducing the newest Mrs. Adams.
To be honest, my biggest fear was Bridger’s mom coming back with an immediate rebuttal—demanding more proof, questioning the legitimacy of our wedding.
What we got was worse.
Radio silence.
For hours.
To distract ourselves, we grab dinner from Hickory Grill, then we head back to our castle-house to watch another couple of episodes of Surprise Bride.
Still nothing.
Midway through another couple’s wedding vows, I catch Bridger checking his phone for the umpteenth time. Half of his sweet potato fries are still on his plate. Which really says something. The man loves sweet potato fries.
The screen illuminates fresh furrows on his forehead. Dex has texted. Sayla has texted. But not one word from the original Mrs. Adams.
“Maybe we did kill her,” I joke, trying to keep the mood light. We could both use a little less heaviness after the recent whirlwind of our lives. But Bridger clenches his teeth.
“No. This is what she does.”
An ache spreads through me, sharp and swift, spurred on by the realization that the relationship I had with my mother couldn’t have been more different than the one Bridger has with his.
Elise Cane always made me feel cherished for who I was. No conditions or strings. My worth existed simply because I existed.
But a clearer picture is forming for me now of exactly who Margaret Adams is, and why Bridger stepped out from under her sphere of influence the moment he could.
I can’t quite shake the guilt over dragging him back into her orbit.
If it weren’t for me, he might’ve abandoned the trust entirely. Still, our marriage gives him control of his money. And freedom from his mother’s influence.
That’s something.
I remind myself again of the good he intends to do with that control. The good he wants to do.
You’re not hurting him, Loren. You’re helping him.
Still, when the phone lights up his face again, there’s a tightness in his expression I don’t recognize.
“Is it her?” I ask.
He manages a tight shake of his head, and my heart sinks.
Have I really done what’s best for him?
“I’m so sorry,” I say. My voice is soft, and my words feel insufficient.
“Not your fault.”
“But I can’t help feeling like your mom hates me already. Maybe she looked at those pictures and videos, saw who you married, and decided I’m not good enough for you. That I’m not good enough, period.”
Even saying this splits my insides wide open. Not literally, but still. I might not be wrong. And that hurts.
“She didn’t just look at the pictures and videos and make a decision about you.” He sets his phone down. “That I can promise.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m sure that the minute she learned your name, my mother had you thoroughly investigated. Your education. Professional life. Family history.”
I swallow. “Financial?”
“Of course.”
“Medical?”
He averts his gaze. “Everything.”
Heat bolts up my throat, and my mind flashes back to my engagement to Foster. To his questions and hesitations that led to the end. He asked for tests to prove I wasn’t a candidate to pass on my dad’s FTD. And I think, even then, I was unsure about the strength of his commitment.
He wanted assurances about the future no one can promise.
I wanted assurances he’d love me anyway.
Unconditionally.
Because what if I couldn’t have biological children for any number of reasons?
Wouldn’t he stick by me then?
In hindsight, this was a weak argument. And probably selfish. Or immature. More information was a fair thing for him to request. But I was in denial. And even worse, I was afraid. Afraid of the truth. Afraid he’d leave depending on the answers.
I told myself I’d already learned the hard way that life itself is a risk. That I shouldn’t spend my days anticipating tragedy. I told him I had time to get tested. And if he truly loved me, he’d commit no matter what.
He couldn’t accept that.
I can’t imagine Margaret Adams will either.
To a woman who’s obsessed with legacy and empire-building, I’m a liability. Financially, medically, and generationally.
“She’s punishing me,” Bridger says, cutting through the quiet. “For not marrying Rosalind. I refused to do her bidding, and this is her response. I should’ve expected this, and warned you better. But you have to believe me. This isn’t about anything she found out about you.”
“How can you be sure?”
"Because she thinks she can fix anything with money,” he says dryly. “So far, she's always been right. Until now.” He lifts my chin gently. “Also …”
I meet his gaze. “Also what?”
His voice drops. “Foster’s an idiot.”
Whoa.
It’s like he’s been reading my mind all this time.
“How did you—”
“Because.” His thumb smooths the crease between my brows. “I know you, kitten.”
My eyes well up, and when a single tear slips free, he catches it with his fingertip.
Bridger and I spend the rest of the night doing what we do best.
Avoidance.
He settles in to work at the big mahogany desk in the study, taking call after call about donations. Valuations. Foundations. An endless stream of important-sounding -tions. Meanwhile, I camp out in the library, trying hard not to eavesdrop.
I don’t want him thinking my feelings for him have changed because of his money. Everything I valued about Bridger before is exactly the same. His kindness, his integrity, his generosity. The man was always extraordinary.
He just happens to be my husband now.
No one pushes back on his calls, either. Not his mother or her lawyers. No one from the trust. It’s almost like he’s poking the bear and getting nothing in return. But instead of reassuring me, the continued silence feels like a storm building offshore.
The Canes always operated under the theory that no news was good news.
The Adams family? I’m not so sure.
To distract myself from the tension bubble building behind my eyes, I work on lesson plans and reschedule the tutoring sessions I missed the past two days.
Sorry, kids. I was busy getting married.
Except I don’t say that.
After tutoring’s squared away, I email Joanna Parker to arrange moving my dad in this weekend. It’s past normal working hours, but she replies immediately.
Very efficient.
She issues an official warm welcome to the Havenwood community and attaches specific instructions and recommendations to make the transition easier. She also lets me know “my husband” just made a sizable donation to their facility.
One of Bridger’s many -tions, I gather.
Apparently, at his request, she’ll be directing these new funds toward an increase in the salaries of their physical therapy department.
PT. Specifically.
I reread her message twice, considering Bridger’s latest grand gesture. This money will not only help my dad indirectly, but also benefit Noah. Directly.
It’s incredibly generous. But also, Margaret Adams has probably been quiet for a reason. She might need time to process the presence of a new Mrs. Adams in her life. If so, Bridger could be moving too far, too fast, adding fuel to a pile of wood while his mother holds the match.
My head spins, and the tension bubble grows.
I know from experience that the only way for me to rein in a mental spiral like this is to talk out my concerns. In this case, with Bridger. So I draw in a deep breath and cross the hall to the study. One adult conversation, coming up.
“Hey, there,” I say softly, and he looks up from his laptop. “Do you have time to talk?”
“For you, I’ll always make—”
The doorbell rings.
My gaze swings over to the grandfather clock behind his desk.
“Did you order more food?” I let out a small laugh. “No judgment. I could do some serious damage to a pepperoni pizza.”
He rises from his desk. “Not me.”
Hmmm.
As he strides across the house, I let him take the lead, following close behind. We pause at the double doors to peer through the long, glass inserts. A deliveryman is out in the circular drive, wrestling an enormous flower arrangement from his truck.
The bouquet is so large, the poor guy can barely carry it by himself.
“Flowers?” My shoulders drop with relief. “How sweet.”
Bridger signs for the delivery, tips the man, then hauls the arrangement inside. A creamy envelope protrudes from the vase. Addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Adams.
“Must be from Sayla and Dex.”
Bridger opens the card. “No.”
“Who else knows our address?” I blink. “Or that we got married?” The end of my question comes out a bit breathless, because the answer is suddenly all too clear.
He hands me the note.
The roses should be a perfect match for that lovely tapestry above your stairs.
—M
“Okay, then.” My voice is trembly, and I meet Bridger’s gaze. “Your mom knows where we live.”
“Apparently.”
“And the color scheme of our house?”
His brow furrows. “Yes.”
And that’s when the metaphorical bubble in my head explodes.
Boom.