Sweet Romance9 min read
The Ring, the Rumor, and the Wedding Dress
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"I can't believe they're already whispering," I said, turning the ring on my finger until it made a faint clicking sound.
"Let them whisper," Eldridge replied, as if his voice could smooth every crack. "They only see what they want to see."
"Do they know what they want to see?" I demanded, half-laughing, half-annoyed. "Because their imagination is doing overtime."
"You look tired," he said, and then he did something small that made my heart stutter — he reached and brushed a stray hair from my forehead. "Sit. Eat. Stop pretending you don't need it."
His thumb lingered against my skin like a secret promise. "You're spoiling me."
"No," he said, "I'm keeping you."
"Keeping," I echoed, "like a priceless painting?"
"Like a painting I stole and refused to return." He grinned, but it wasn't the usual polite, distant smile he saved for meetings and formal dinners. It was for me, private and bright.
The rumor started the day after I slipped the ring on: "Pregnant before marriage," someone said. "Bought her way to the top," another whispered. The words moved like gnats — small, annoying, impossible to swat all at once.
Kennedi Brown greeted me at the dorm with two faces. The first was warm and bright. "Bailey! Oh my God, congratulations!" She hugged me hard enough to lift my feet slightly off the ground.
The second face arrived a breath later, thin and sharp. Her eyes, which had been fixed on my hand a fraction too long, narrowed. "So, when's the baby due?" she asked, the smile held like a blade.
"You know what's funny?" I said, turning my hand and flashing the ring like a taunt. "We have many rings. Eldridge has a... flexible gift policy."
Kennedi's fake concern froze, then splintered into something that tried too hard to pass for surprise. "Really? He— He must be very... generous."
"Generous and very tasteful," I said. "He's been buying me different rings. He calls it 'a ring for every mood.'"
Her smile crumpled. "Well, I'm glad he thinks of you," she said, voice syrupy. "You two must be so happy."
A week later the rumor swelled. Classmates who had greeted me before with bored glances now watched as if waiting for a show. Men who had once ignored me suddenly offered seats, smiles mechanical. The whispers followed me down hallways like shadows.
"Are you worried?" Mia asked when we were alone. She pinched the corner of her mouth in that way she does when trying to suppress a grin.
"Not really," I said. "But it feels strange having your life narrated without you."
Mia laughed. "You've always been good at turning things to your advantage."
"Did you hear that Eldridge's mother is flying in?" Kennedi asked at rehearsal one afternoon in that same two-faced tone. "She wants to see the bride. Are you ready for mothers?"
"When she gets here," I said, "I hope she brings snacks."
Estelle Berger arrived on a rainy morning, brisk and clear-eyed, and she walked through the hotel doors like a woman who could cut the weather in two and still be polite to both halves.
"Bailey," she said, clasping my hands. "Much prettier in person than in the video. The video made you look thin and sad."
"Oh," I said, surprised and flattered. "Thank you."
"We've had our worries," she admitted, "about our Eldridge. A man of his age shouldn't linger. I worried he might never settle. But he chose you."
"He's charming," I said, smiling. "He chose me."
"You'll do well as my daughter," Estelle said, and somehow that felt like a benediction.
A small rehearsal became the day the rumors hit a peak. Kennedi, resplendent in a dress she probably bought for the occasion of someone else's wedding, found me before the rehearsal started.
"Bailey, your life is so different now," she said, eyes flicking to my ring. "Remember when you used to skip class? Now look at you — soon to be a Mrs."
"Yes," I told her, "soon to be Mrs. Eldridge Aguirre. Sounds very legal."
She laughed too loudly. "Do you really think he'll keep you? Someone like him—"
"Someone like him keeps his promises," Eldridge said, appearing beside me like he had walked out of a painting. He took my hand without ceremony. "I'll only ever keep one promise that matters."
He moved me forward, and for a moment everything around us simplified into the warmth of his palm and the steady heat of his presence. I felt proud in a way I hadn't expected — not of his money or his name, but of the fact that he had chosen to stand in front of a room and make my defense his business.
"You invited them," he said quietly, when Kennedi's face twisted at his words. "They are welcome. But if anyone impugns her character in this room, I will have them leave."
"That's a bold line to draw in a rehearsal room," I whispered, and he smiled at that, indulgent.
The wedding day arrived in a small whirl of white and music. People gathered like seasons meeting in a single morning. Lanterns and bouquets filled the hall, and my dress — simple, not extravagant — had pockets, which made me triumphant in a secret, silly way. Eldridge waited at the end of the aisle, looking like he had learned to stand still for this exact moment all his life.
Music began, and he took my hands. "You look better than any video," he said softly.
"Your mother should have complimented me more," I replied.
"She did. She said you looked healthy."
"That's a diplomatic code," I laughed.
We walked down. Eyes followed. Some faces were warm. Others were knives wrapped in smiles. Kennedi found me a step after we reached the floor. She stood there, glass in hand, and fixed me with a look that had been practicing malice.
"Bailey," she said in a voice that carried perfectly for everyone to hear, "you must be thrilled. From skipping classes to Mrs. Eldridge in months. Some of us can only watch."
A hush went around like the ripple after a dropped glass. Heads swiveled. Phones lifted.
Eldridge's expression cooled. He cleared his throat. "Please," he said, "this is a celebration."
Kennedi's smile grew. "Of course. I only wondered— Are you sure she didn't... you know, get into this for benefits? People talk."
The room's warmth thinned like fog in the sun. I could feel the prickle of everyone's attention, and the old, familiar heat of embarrassment rose in my throat.
"That's enough," I said, voice steady though my hands trembled. "Kennedi, I don't appreciate public jokes."
"Jokes?" She laughed, bright and too loud. "They're curious. People talk. It's natural."
Eldridge watched her with a slow, deliberate calm. "Is that so?" he asked. "Curious how? By making up stories? By telling lies?"
"What lies?" she snapped.
"Really, Kennedi?" Eldridge's tone was cool as china. "You spread a rumor that Bailey was pregnant before marriage. You told at least five classmates that she was 'buying her position', and you sent private messages calling her names. We have the messages."
There was a collective intake of breath. Kennedi's smile shrank. Her face moved from annoyance to a tight, forced incredulity.
"I— that's not true," she stammered. "I was talking— I mean, it was a joke. People joke."
"Dear friends," Eldridge said, not unkindly, "do jokes usually involve accusing someone of using their body or lying about children?"
"You can't prove anything," Kennedi said, now visibly struggling to hold the act. She glanced at faces. Someone filmed. Someone else murmured. The angle of attention changed. She had expected equal footing with us all; instead she stood out like a single note off-key.
Eldridge's voice dropped a fraction, precise and final. "We can. The messages are here. The witnesses are here. I invited everyone because I wanted people who truly knew Bailey present. Bailey, would you like to say something?"
I hadn't planned a speech. I had planned only to marry the man who had stolen, then kept, my heart. But now, with hundreds of eyes on Kennedi and the space between accusation and truth narrowing, words arrived like water finding its path.
"People like stories because they're easy," I began. "It's easier to believe a cheap plot than to see the quiet truth: that two people decided they wanted to be together."
"Are you in this for money?" Kennedi spat suddenly. "Is that why he married you? He could have anyone."
"He chose me," Eldridge said. "Not for a story. For her."
Kennedi's nostrils flared. "She's poor. She—"
At that, someone in the back laughed, sharp and unkind. The sound echoed. Kennedi's composure — the polished, rehearsed face she'd practiced every time she wanted something — crumpled in a way that made people look away and then look again because it was too raw to ignore.
"No," I said, stepping forward. "You don't get to make life a theater for your smallness. You spread lies because you felt small. You thought bringing someone else down would make you bigger."
"That's not fair," Kennedi cried. "You— you lied too. You said you had it easy."
"I said nothing of the sort," I said, and then I did a thing that made my knees go weak and my heartbeat loud: I took the phone Eldridge offered me and tapped a folder labeled 'truth' that had been sitting quietly for a reason I had not known until now.
On the screen were message threads, screenshots, dates. There were the exact words Kennedi had sent to classmates: "She's buying her way in," "Pregnant before marriage, maybe," "Don't trust her." There were the follow-ups: laughter emojis, excited thumbs up, a handful of people asking for gossip.
"How could you—" Kennedi's face flickered through disbelief, then anger, then frantic denial. Her hands began to shake, and she pressed one flat to her mouth like someone trying to hold in a scream.
"When I confronted you privately," I said, "you smiled and said it was amusing. You filmed me hanging up on you. You wanted the scandal."
"It was a joke!" she pleaded, voice rising. "I didn't mean—"
"You meant to make me small," Eldridge said, voice cold and precise now. "You meant to make me look foolish for loving her."
Kennedi looked at him then, and for the first time she seemed to understand what she'd actually provoked: not a play, but a tribunal. The crowd leaned forward like a wave.
"Bailey is my fiancée," Eldridge continued. "She's been nothing but kind to everyone. If any of you have copies of that thread, think about keeping your dignity."
Phones were out. People whispered. Some looked ashamed; others peered with hungry curiosity. Kennedi's performance had collapsed. She had always traded in other people's smallness for attention; now attention had turned on her.
"You will apologize," I said, voice low. "Here. In front of them."
"I—" She swallowed. "I— I'm sorry. I was just joking. I didn't mean—"
"That's not enough," Eldridge said. "You have to stand up and tell everyone you were wrong. You have to tell them you made it up. You have to promise to stop."
Kennedi looked like someone who had been pushed into cold water. "Fine," she snapped. "Fine. I'm sorry. Okay? Happy now?"
No one clapped. No one cheered. The room hummed with a complicated mix of satisfaction and discomfort. People recorded, but there was a different tone now — not glee, but a thin, pitying focus. Kennedi's eyes darted to familiar faces, searching for support that wasn't there. She saw none.
"That's all?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, brittle. "Yes, that's all."
"Then leave," Eldridge said.
Kennedi's face went through a dozen emotions in a breath: defiance, disbelief, panic. She looked at me as if I had betrayed her, as if two years of shared secrets and dormitory late nights had been a lie. "You'll regret this," she muttered.
"Maybe," I said. "But not now."
Two attendants gently but firmly escorted her out. The corridor swallowed her small figure like a mouth. People murmured. Sympathy, scorn, relief — all mixed together. Someone hissed, "Good riddance." Someone else shook their head.
The punishment was public. It was not lethal or monstrous. It was the thing gossip thrives on: exposure. Her lies were stripped bare. She had to walk past a roomful of people who had once treated her as an equal and now treated her as a cautionary tale. Her attempt to make herself large had only made her small.
She changed as she left. First came the forced calm, then the sudden flash of denial, then a pleading that didn't work because the audience had shifted. Nearby, a girl I recognized from class filmed her and then looked away, ashamed. A man who'd once laughed at her jokes looked anywhere but at her. Most of the guests turned their faces from the spectacle after the initial rush; people only love other people's falls in small doses.
Afterwards, the air smoothed back into celebration. The song we had chosen resumed. Wedding cake was cut. Someone shouted about the bouquet and the noises of ordinary happiness returned. I felt a curious emptiness where anger might have lived — a relief like the sky after a storm.
Eldridge put his hand at the small of my back as if to claim me, and I leaned into that quiet possession. He whispered, "You didn't deserve any of that."
"I know," I said.
"You handled it beautifully," he teased. "You could have been harsher."
"I didn't want to be," I replied. "Being mean takes too much energy."
He smiled that private smile again and reached up to kiss my temple. "Then rest," he said. "Let me be the angry one if it ever comes back."
There were three moments through that day that made my heart quicken, smaller than the scandal, bigger than the music. One: when Eldridge brushed my hair and for a second smiled at me in public the way he did in solitude. Two: when, after the confrontation, he shrugged off his coat and put it over my shoulders though it wasn't cold — a small, unnecessary courtesy that meant only he thought of me first. Three: when, at the end, he held up our little red certificate and said, "We did it," as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
At the end of the night, in the hush of our suite where the city made distant, steady noises, he laughed and then looked at me, utterly sincere. "You should have seen Kennedi's face."
"Don't gloat," I said.
"I'm not gloating," he protested. "I'm proud. Proud of you."
"That's almost worse," I teased.
"No," he said, "it's everything."
We lay there with the ring warm against my finger and the dress folded somewhere in the corner with its pockets full of tissues and a lipstick. Outside, the city breathed and no rumors could reach us there. Inside, the quiet was full of the small ordinary things he'd promised to keep for me: a coat tossed over my shoulders, a look that only meant me, the sliding of a phone across a table to prove a point.
I slept, thinking about the ring and about the red book that still smelled faintly of official ink. I slept thinking that sometimes people come into your life to cause trouble. And sometimes — sometimes they come to hold you as the world looks on.
The End
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