Secrets Of The Neglected Wife: Now Shine

Emma Hardy POV: My mother. She was here. She stumbled forward, her frail body shaking with a defiant fury. The effort was too much. Her legs buckled, and she crumpled to the ground, her hand flying to her chest. Her breath hitched, ragged and shallow. She struggled for air, her face paling rapidly. "Mom! No!" I cried, my heart seizing in my chest. Tears, fresh and hot, streamed down my face. I knelt beside her, my hands hovering, afraid to touch her, afraid to hurt her more. "Mom, please! Don't worry. It's not true. It's all lies. It's not what it looks like." She reached for my face, her touch feather-light. Her eyes, though clouded with pain, held a fierce, unwavering belief. She squeezed my hand, a silent message of trust and love. "Bryce!" I screamed, my voice raw with desperation, turning to the man who stood frozen amidst the chaos. "Bryce, please! Come here! My mother... she's dying! Just come and see her! Don't let her leave this world with such a cruel misunderstanding!" Bryce, his face a mask of conflicting emotions, took a step, then another, almost instinctively moving towards my mother. But then, Galilea let out a heart-wrenching sob, louder than before. Her body shook with exaggerated grief. "Oh, Bryce," she whimpered, clutching her chest. "I just wanted a simple, beautiful wedding. My mother... she's also sick. She dreams of seeing me married. My life is so hard, so tragic..." A few guests, easily swayed by her performance, began to sigh. "Poor girl," one murmured. "That Emma is truly terrible." Another chimed in, "She' s lying about being married, too. Just trying to ruin a good woman's day." "Her money must come from somewhere shady," a third whispered, their eyes filled with suspicion. Soon, a chorus of condemnation rose, a wave of voices pointed squarely at me. The accusations landed like stones, heavy and sharp. I didn't care. Not about their judgment, not about their cruel words. My universe had shrunk to this small, fragile woman on the ground. All I wanted was for my mother to leave this world in peace, without this final, crushing heartbreak. Bryce stood still, caught between us. His eyes flickered from my mother's gasping form to Galilea's theatrical tears, his face a roadmap of indecision. Then, Aisha, always the instigator, rushed forward and shoved Bryce hard. "What are you waiting for, you idiot?!" she shrieked. "Finish the wedding! Don't let this bitch win!" Bryce's face, still a tangled mess of confusion, tightened. Galilea, seeing her chance, sniffled loudly. "It's okay, Bryce," she whispered, her voice laced with false magnanimity. "I don't blame Emma for being jealous. Just... let's finish our wedding. Please. Don't let her stop us." Everyone waited. The air was thick with tension. Every eye in the crowd was fixed on Bryce, waiting for his decision. I stared at him, my eyes burning. My mother' s last breath. My last hope. Why couldn't he just acknowledge me? Why was he so afraid? He finally turned his head, his face a mask of irritation. His voice, when it came, was cold, devoid of all feeling. "Emma, take your mother and leave. Now." The words struck me like ice, freezing my very blood. My heart, already shattered, splintered into a thousand more pieces. All those years, all the love, all the sacrifices... it was all a cruel joke. A hot tear, my mother's, dripped onto my hand, a scalding brand of her pain. My chin lifted, defiant. Not yet. Not while she was still breathing. "Bryce," I choked out, my voice barely a whisper. "Please. Just for her. Don't let her die with this sadness in her heart." His eyes softened, a flicker of genuine anguish in their depths. He started to speak, a hesitant word forming on his lips. But Galilea, ever the manipulator, moved swiftly. She pulled Bryce behind her, shielding him, then shot a knowing glance at Aisha. Aisha didn't need a second invitation. She puffed out her chest, her voice shrill with malicious glee. "You heard him! Get out, Emma! Or we'll make you! Get her out of here, everyone!" The wedding guests, sensing the shift in power, surged forward. Their faces were contorted with anger, their voices rising in a hateful chorus. "Get out!" "Leave!" "You don't belong here!" Hands reached for me. I braced myself for the impact, shielding my mother with my body. Then, a low rumble vibrated through the air. The ground trembled. The roaring grew, not from a single helicopter, but from multiple engines. The sky above us darkened. Dozens of private jets, sleek and menacing, descended simultaneously, kicking up clouds of dust that enveloped the entire wedding party. They landed in perfect formation, lining the street leading up to Galilea's house. The crowd gasped, their angry shouts dying in their throats. Their eyes, wide with shock, stared at the armada of aircraft. "Who... who are these people?" someone stammered, their voice barely a whisper. "Are they... famous?" The jet doors hissed open. Out stepped a phalanx of impeccably dressed men and women, their faces stern, their suits tailored to perfection. In the lead, a tall, imposing figure, his face familiar from countless business magazines, walked with an air of quiet authority. Jonathan Martinez. My right-hand man. He strode purposefully towards me, ignoring the bewildered crowd, ignoring Bryce, ignoring everyone else. He stopped directly in front of me, his gaze sweeping over my tear-stained face and my mother's prone form. "Emma," he said, his voice calm, steady, just loud enough to cut through the lingering engine noise. He lowered himself, offering me his hand, his eyes filled with concern. "Your command, ma'am?"