“Yeah, sure,” Clinton agreed readily, rising from where he’d been embracing Lydia. Constance connected the camera to the computer, and they leaned over as the preview images scrolled across the screen. They were all perfect shots – it was nearly impossible to narrow it down.
“This one…that one…and this,” Clinton stated, pointing out a few frames before glancing at Lydia. “What do you think, babe?”
Lydia could only mutely nod her agreement, her throat feeling oddly constricted.
“Perfect,” Constance chimed in brightly. “Let’s add two more. I saw one earlier that I really liked…”
She clicked the mouse, scrolling backwards through the album. Suddenly, an unexpected image flashed up on the screen – a cherubic toddler boy, no more than 3 years old, grinning broadly at the camera. The three adults recoiled almost comically.
“Oh, how did that get in here?” Constance wondered aloud with a confused frown.
Clinton let out an awkward chuckle, trying to diffuse the strange tension. “Maybe it’s the photographer’s son? He must have forgotten to remove those personal pictures before shooting today’s event.”
“Must be,” Constance mumbled, though her eyes remained glued to the out-of-place photo as if transfixed.
“He’s cute though, isn’t he?” Clinton couldn’t help but smile at the angelic image.
Slowly, Constance turned away from the computer to pin Lydia with an inscrutable look. Her lips curved into a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes at all.
“Yes…he certainly is adorable. His mother must have some very fine genes indeed.”
The weighted observation hung heavily in the air as Constance continued staring at Lydia in an uncomfortably appraising manner.
For her part, Lydia looked as if she’d been struck by lightning, frozen in place with her features utterly drained of color.
She was no idiot.
Constance’s calculated words make it abundantly clear who the boy in the picture was.
Constance turned back to the laptop abruptly, her expression inscrutable as she pointedly ignored Lydia’s ashen, stricken face.
“Never mind, these three will do,” she stated in a clipped tone, tapping a few keys to select the photos in question. “I’ll forward these over to the PR department myself. We should start heading out soon.”
With that parting remark hanging thickly in the air, Constance gathered her belongings and swept from the room without a backward glance, the predatory gleam in her eyes suggesting her objectives had been thoroughly achieved.
As soon as she was gone, Clinton immediately turned his full attention to Lydia, brow creasing with concern. He reached out to take her clammy hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Lydia? Are you okay? You’ve gone completely pale, babe.”
She started at his gentle query, sucking in a harsh breath as if resurfacing from underwater. “I…I’m fine,” Lydia lied automatically, trying to steady her shaking hands.
Clinton’s frown deepened as he studied her carefully. “What was it you were trying to tell me earlier? Before my mother barged in?”
Lydia’s gaze skittered away guiltily as she forced a tremulous smile. “It was nothing, really. Just pre-wedding jitters getting the better of me.”
“Are you sure?” he pressed, clearly not convinced as he eyed her pale, sweaty countenance. “Because you know you can tell me anything, right?”
Swallowing hard, Lydia simply leaned into Clinton’s solid frame, allowing herself to be enveloped in his comforting embrace as she nodded wordlessly against his chest. Her mind, however, was a roiling vortex of terror and turmoil.
Constance’s cold, knowing look branded into the forefront of her brain, the message loud and clear: I know your secret, and I own you now. Comply or be destroyed.
Constance’s discovery of a past she tried to put behind her obliterated every last shred of security and peace Lydia had managed to carve out for herself over the years.
A cold knot of dread and resignation took up residence in the pit of Lydia’s stomach as the weight of her new reality settled in. There would be no telling the truth, no pleas for understanding or mercy from Clinton’s monstrous mother.
Constance knew too much. And Lydia was entirely at her mercy now.
❦❦❦
Constance beamed with satisfaction as she surveyed the lavishly decorated marriage hall at the civic center. Twinkling lights, ornate floral arrangements, and gleaming place settings – no expense had been spared. A handful of the city’s most prominent residents were already seated, whispering amongst themselves as they awaited the bride’s arrival.
Several media personnel hovered nearby, cameras at the ready to capture every moment. Constance had pulled some strings to ensure a few trusted photographers and videographers had been granted access. This was her moment, and she intended to milk it for all it was worth.
Her grin widened as she imagined the look on Monique’s face when the coverage of this grand affair inevitably made its way to her.
Monique, the once arrogant rich brat, who had once looked down her nose at her, was going to be crashed at her hands.
This wedding would elevate Clinton to permanent elite status, while simultaneously demolishing any hopes Monique may have fostered about rekindling her relationship with him.
Even if Monique tried to ignore it, the pictures and video would be inescapable.
Constance could already envision Monique’s envy and humiliation as she was confronted with the undeniable evidence of her failure and Constance’s victory.
She barely suppressed a satisfied chuckle at the thought. Today, she had well and truly killed two birds with one perfectly executed stone.
Soon the wedding match song began to play.
❦❦❦
INKED IMAGINATION
