Page 76 of Insta Bride
“It’s not what it looks like.” Same argument over a different social media post. Only, four months into married life, Elena’s fight had lost some of the spark. I hadn’t missed the fire until it started to wane.
“Tell me, Kye, what does it look like?”
Elena looked stunning in a burnt orange blouse over black, hip hugging trousers. She’d arrived at the restaurant straight from work, leaving me waiting a good ten or twelve minutes.
When we’d first gotten married, Elena was never late. For her friends and family, she was never late.
Each time social media blew up with some piece of crap—usually photoshopped and reposted from my past—Elena came home later, or turned up late. I considered myself lucky she turned up at all.
“It looks like I used to be single and fucked a lot of girls.”
“It looks like past tense and current tense are getting confused.”
“It looks like you don’t trust me.”
“It looks like I have reason.”
“Elena, babe, please.” I paused, allowing the waiter to take our order. Elena with the steamed salmon and sides. I craved a steak, but ordered the same as my wife. Needing her to know I was on her side, always.
“You hate salmon.”
“So?” I paused. “See, didn’t lie. I hate salmon but I ordered it because it’s the only way I can show you I care.”
“Why bother?”
“I don’t know who leaked the photo. I can’t remember the woman, but I remember the club. I haven’t been there in years.”
“I’m supposed to believe you?”
“Do you really think I’m cheating on you?” At least she let me reach over and pull her fingers to my lips. “Elena, I promised you no cheating.”
“Promises are made to be broken.”
“But not vows.”
I had a strong suspicion on how and why all of these photos were being posted. I mean, they were being posted as if they were current. But they weren’t. Someone had scraped my social media accounts from years ago using time machine or some other kind of app—pulling stuff that I thought had been removed. Pulling stuff that wasn’t even on my timeline.
Making it appear I was screwing around on Elena. We’d both watched enough of the show to realize how we’d been portrayed. It was absolutely clear to me and all of Australia that when she’d said, “I’m never going to date or fall in love with a lying, cheating asshole,” Elena had meant it.
So someone was going out of their fucking way to make it appear that I was all three.
“Elena. Babe, please.” I lowered my voice, pleading with her and needing her to listen. “It was me, but years ago.”
“I look like a fool,” she said. “I look like I am this absolute fool that—”
“It doesn’t matter what other people think,” I interrupted, smart enough to not say it didn’t matter what she looked like. Both were bullshit. Elena had a high pressured, corporate finance job most people would kill for. I hadn’t been surprised when her latest promotion put her on the career path to partner, but it put more pressure on her, and us.
The show had given Elena an unwanted profile. If they did a hatchet job on me, I’d survive, but if Elena lost credibility with her personal life, it could damage her professionally.
I didn’t want to be that person for her. Hell, the more I knew Elena Branson—yes, she’d changed her name—the more I was falling in love with her.
When I told her, I loved her—I wanted it to be special. I didn’t want her to think I’d pulled it out just to convince her to stay. I’d be willing to plan the perfect moment and she’d know I mean them. Fuck, I’d never told another woman those words other than my mother and grandmothers.
I’d never been this real with a woman, before. Yes, she’d married me but for how long? How long could she put up with the fake bullshit before she’d called enough and walked?
And more importantly, how could I stop her?
Elena