Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert) novel Chapter 382

The bridal boutique was the only flagship store in the country for one of Europe’s most prestigious wedding gown designers.

Just getting an appointment to browse their gowns usually meant booking a year in advance.

Of course, for someone like Rupert, there were no waits.

The moment they walked into the boutique—lavish as a wing of the Louvre—the manager had already cleared the space and was waiting.

“Mr. Garcia, Mrs. Garcia,” the manager greeted, quick to catch on as he saw their arms linked, smoothly switching up the titles.

Bridget glanced shyly at Rupert, almost as if waiting for him to say something, to cement her status in front of everyone.

Rupert didn’t bother. His expression was cool as he replied, “I’ve got a video conference with our partners in London tonight.”

Translation: let’s not waste time here.

The manager blinked, a little thrown off, and looked at Bridget for direction.

Bridget paused, then gave a gentle, practiced smile. She reached up to straighten Rupert’s coat collar. “Don’t overwork yourself, really. I could have come here by myself—I’d rather you get some rest.”

“No need. Let’s get this over with,” Rupert replied, his tone casual. He shrugged off his coat, handing it to Orson, and strode ahead.

Bridget’s hand just grazed the edge of his jacket before he moved away. She hesitated for a split second, then slipped off her own coat.

“Mr. Garcia, you’re a bit too eager,” she teased lightly, turning to help Tristan forward. She called over her shoulder, “Sylvia, hurry up!”

Sylvia had long since grown used to Bridget’s ways. She followed behind, face unreadable.

The fitting room was more like an art gallery than a dressing area. As soon as Tristan and Rupert sat down, the manager personally brought over some tea—rich Earl Grey steaming in delicate china cups.

As the scent drifted through the air, the heavy velvet curtain was slowly drawn back by two shop assistants.

“The bride is ready,” one announced with a smile.

Bridget stepped out, a delicate veil atop her head. The silk gown was covered in hundreds of tiny sparkling crystals, each step catching the light.

“Yeah.” Rupert took a sip of tea, his face unreadable.

Tristan smiled. “Bridget’s always been a classic beauty—she looks stunning in anything. Elegant and pure.”

Sylvia, perched on the edge of a leather armchair, felt the word “pure” like a cold slap. She felt hollow, her hands tightening around her cup.

She was the least welcome person in the room.

But her presence showed how gracious, forgiving, and above-it-all they were.

Bridget turned to her, a sly smile on her lips.

“Sylvia, go pick out your bridesmaid dress. I’m not the jealous type—choose whatever you like.”

Sylvia glanced at her, uncertain, trying to read between the lines.