What if he reminded me, calmly, rationally, that we had agreed to six months?
And then what? Fall would come. The pool would close. The leaves would turn. And I would be staring at my van again. Trying to convince myself it was freedom.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter.
I didn’t want to live like that again. Not after knowing what it felt like to wake up beside someone and not feel alone.
I pulled into the driveway and cut the engine.
The house loomed tall and quiet against the river, lights glowing warm in the windows.
Inside, the house was quiet. Too quiet. I kicked off my shoes and climbed the stairs slowly, heart pounding harder with every step.
If we were going to have the hard conversation, it needed to be now. I turned toward his room first. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. The bed was still made. Untouched.
My stomach dipped.
A soft line of light stretched across the hallway floor from the direction of his office.
Of course. He was working, solving something.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the thin blade of light cutting through the dark hall.
I could walk down there. I could knock. I could say the words. Are we real? What happens in two months? Do you love me?
But what if the answer wasn’t what I wanted? What if I’d imagined it? What if I’d built a castle in my head and he was still living inside a contract?
I felt small suddenly and exposed. Without thinking too hard about it, I turned away from the light. I went back down the stairs and into the guest room. The room I hadn’t slept in for weeks.
It felt strange standing in it again.
The bed was neatly made. The window seat was untouched. The space was tidy and waiting, like it had never been abandoned.
I closed the door quietly behind me.
For the first time in a long time, I felt the old fear creep back in.
I wish it were a fear of poverty or Tripp. I knew how to manage those fears. This was different. It was the fear of loving someone more than they loved me.
34
RAPHAEL
Istood at the window longer than necessary. From my office, the drive curved just enough that I could see the edge of it, and there it was. Her faded purple van parked neatly along the side as though it belonged there.
It did not. I exhaled slowly.
She should not still own that vehicle. She should not have to look at it every day as some kind of reminder of what she survived.
I made a mental note to resolve that.
Once this situation with Whitaker was concluded.
Tomorrow’s meeting required preparation. Alistair Whitaker was not a man one confronted without data. I reviewed holdings, cross-referenced subsidiary structures, and printed reports that demonstrated exactly how much of his portfolio intersected with mine.
Precision was power.
If Tripp had been leveraging employment to manipulate Belle, that ended tomorrow.
