Chapter 141 Bridget’s Shadow
The morning light filtered weakly through the curtains of Bridget’s penthouse, painting the room in pale gold.
But there was no warmth in her eyes as she sat on the edge of the bed, a cup of untouched coffee in her hand.
Carson had already left for work, his usual hurried goodbye still echoing faintly in her mind.
She hadn’t slept well. The image of him staring at Anabelle the night before replayed again and again like a cruel film.
His eyes—soft, longing, filled with something she hadn’t seen in years—were not for her. They were for that woman.
Anabelle.
Bridget’s fingers tightened around the cup until her knuckles turned white. She set it down slowly, her lips curling into a bitter line.
“You thought you could move on, didn’t you?” she murmured. “You thought I wouldn’t notice.”
She stood up, crossed to the mirror, and stared at her reflection.
Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect everything. And yet, she could feel something slipping through her fingers—control.
She grabbed her phone and dialed quickly.
“Clara,” she said when her friend answered, “do you still have that private investigator contact?”
Clara hesitated. “Bridget… why?”
“I just need some information,” Bridget said smoothly. “It’s personal.”
There was a pause. “You’re not getting yourself into trouble again, are you?” Clara asked.
“Of course not,” Bridget said, her tone light but sharp. “Just find me his number. Please.”
When the call ended, Bridget walked to the window, staring down at the city far below. Her reflection glimmered faintly in the glass. She felt like a queen surveying her kingdom—one she had no intention of losing.
Two hours later, her phone rang.
“This is Mason,” a deep voice said on the other end.
Bridget smiled faintly. “Mason. I was told you’re good at… finding things.”
“Depends what you’re looking for,” he said.
“Anabelle,” she said. “Anabelle Grant.”
“What about her?”
“I want to know everything,” Bridget said. “Where she works, who she talks to, what she’s hiding. I want her entire life on paper.”
There was a short silence. “That’ll cost you,” Mason said.
“Money isn’t a problem,” she said, her voice cool. “I’ll send the details.”
After hanging up, Bridget exhaled slowly. The tension in her shoulders eased a little. She walked back to her dressing table, picking up her lipstick and applying a fresh layer of red. “Let’s see what you’re really made of, Anabelle,” she whispered.
By evening, she had dressed for a charity dinner, though her thoughts were elsewhere. Carson was supposed to meet her there, but she didn’t care if he showed up or not. All she could think about was how easily Anabelle had walked into the same room as her and stolen every bit of attention without even trying.
At the event, Bridget moved gracefully between groups, smiling, laughing, shaking hands, and whispering in soft tones that carried poison.
“I heard Anabelle’s firm took on too much,” she said casually to one woman. “So brave, starting a business after… well, everything.”
The woman tilted her head. “After what?”
Bridget smiled sweetly. “Oh, you didn’t hear? It’s nothing. Just that things ended badly with her last company. You know how rumors start.”
Within an hour, whispers had begun to spread—quiet, curious, but steady.
Bridget sat back in her chair later that night, feeling a sense of power hum beneath her skin.
But when Carson finally arrived, late and distracted, her satisfaction cracked.
“You missed the dinner,” she said coldly.
“I was at work,” he replied, loosening his tie.
“Work,” she repeated flatly. “Or staring at her picture?”
He froze, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t start, Bridget.”
“Don’t start?” she said, rising to her feet. “I saw how you looked at her. You think I’m blind?”
“I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice low.
“That’s the problem,” she said bitterly. “You didn’t have to.”
He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’re overthinking this.”
“No,” she said sharply. “I’m just not stupid.”
He didn’t answer. After a long silence, he turned and walked toward the bedroom. “I’m tired, Bridget. Let it go.”
When the door closed behind him, she stood still for a long moment, her chest rising and falling quickly. Then she picked up her phone.
A message from Mason flashed on the screen.
> Got something. Sending files soon.
Her pulse quickened. She opened her laptop, and within minutes, a folder appeared. Inside were photos—Anabelle arriving at her office, leaving a café, meeting clients.
Notes about her new business, her recent projects, even her close circle of friends.
Bridget clicked through each picture slowly, her face expressionless. Then she stopped at one photo—Anabelle laughing with Fred outside her apartment building.
Her lips tightened. “So that’s him,” she murmured. “That man who always helps her, the man she runs to.”
She zoomed in, studying Fred’s face.
For a moment, she thought. Then she smirked. “Perfect.”
The next morning, Bridget called Clara again.
“Clara,” she said sweetly, “I need a favor. You remember Fred, don’t you? The one who used to be close to Anabelle?”
Clara hesitated. “Barely.”
“Well, find out who he works with,” Bridget said. “And if you can, tell a few people that he and Anabelle might be… involved. That should get people talking.”
“Bridget!” Clara said sharply. “That’s—”
“Just do it,” Bridget said, her tone suddenly icy. “You owe me.”
She ended the call and sat back, satisfied, curling inside her chest like smoke.
By afternoon, the first whispers had reached Anabelle’s office. Two employees leaned close by the coffee machine, their voices low.
“Did you hear about her and Fred?” one said.
“They say he’s the reason she got her new clients,” the other whispered. “That he’s pulling strings for her.”
Anabelle, who had walked in just in time to hear, paused mid-step. Her brows drew together. “Excuse me?” she said quietly.
The women froze. “Oh! Ms. Grant, we didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” she said, forcing a smile. “Next time, just come to me directly if you have questions.”
Her voice was calm, but inside, she felt a flicker of unease.
That evening, as she sat at her desk, her phone buzzed. A message from Fred.
> Are you okay? I heard something weird at work today.
Anabelle frowned.
> Yes. I’m fine. But someone’s spreading things.
> Want me to handle it? he replied.
> No, she typed. I’ll handle it myself.
She set her phone down and leaned back in her chair. For the first time in a long while, she felt the familiar chill of being watched.
Across the city, Bridget sat by her window, sipping wine, a sly smile playing at the corner of her lips.
The game had begun.