"You're not a bad person for feeling that way," I tell him. "Not when he—when he's—"
"When he beats women." Richard says it flatly, no euphemism. "When he isolates them, controls them, treats them like possessions instead of people. You can say it, Belle. What Nathan is."
"An abuser." The word tastes like ash in my mouth. "He's an abuser, and I let him do it for two years."
"You didn't let him do anything." Richard's voice goes hard. "He manipulated you, isolated you, made you dependent on him. That's not permission, that's entrapment. Don't take responsibility for his choices."
I want to believe him. Want to accept that absolution and let go of the guilt that's been eating me alive. But it's not that simple.
"I stayed," I whisper. "You offered to help me eighteen months ago, and I stayed anyway. That's on me."
"You stayed because leaving felt impossible. Because he'd convinced you that you had nowhere to go, no one who would help, nothing outside of him. That's what abusers do, Belle. They make their victims believe escape is impossible, and then they punish them for trying." He pauses, then adds quietly, "But youdid escape. You made it out. That takes more strength than you're giving yourself credit for."
Tears prick at my eyes, the good kind, the cathartic kind. "I was so scared," I admit. "Standing in that bridal suite, looking at myself in the mirror, knowing that if I went through with it, I'd never get away. That being his wife would make everything legally complicated, give him more control. I just... I couldn't do it. I couldn't say yes."
"Thank God you couldn't."
The fervor in his voice surprises me. I look up and find Richard watching me with relief and something else, something far more complicated.
"You have no idea how many nights I lay awake wondering if you'd go through with it," he continues. "Hoping you'd run, terrified you wouldn't. Planning ways to intervene that wouldn't make things worse for you. I had lawyers on standby, money set aside, safe houses researched. Just in case."
"You did all that? For me?"
"Of course I did." He says it like it's obvious. Like preparing an entire escape plan for your son's fiancée is perfectly reasonable behavior. "Did you really think I'd just abandon you to that fate?"
"You barely know me." Even as I say it, I know it's not quite true. We've had dozens of conversations over the past two years—at family dinners, chance encounters, the few times Richard visited Nathan's house before he was banned. Brief moments where we connected over books, art, ideas. Where he looked at me like I was intelligent and interesting instead of just decorative.
"I know enough," Richard says. "I know you're smart and kind and far too good for anyone in my family. I know you love ItalianRenaissance art and hate coffee but drink it anyway because Nathan insisted. I know you wanted to finish your art history degree before your parents died and you had to choose between education and health insurance. I know you deserve so much better than what you've been given."
He knows all that. He remembered all that. Details I mentioned in passing, throwaway comments, things Nathan never bothered to retain.
"How?" I whisper. "How do you remember all those things?"
"I pay attention."
"To me specifically, or is this just how you are with everyone?"
The silence that follows is answer enough. He's looking at me like a man who's been caught at something, like he's revealed more than he intended.
"Belle—" he starts, but I interrupt.
"Why?" The question comes out smaller than I mean it to. "Why pay attention to me? Why help me? Why any of this?"
He's quiet for a long moment, and I watch him wage some internal battle. Finally, he says, "Because someone should have. Because you deserved to have someone in your corner, and no one else was stepping up. Because—" He stops, shakes his head. "Because it was the right thing to do."
It's not the whole truth. I can see that in the way he's not quite meeting my eyes, the tension in his shoulders. But it's all he's willing to give me right now, and I don't push.
"Thank you," I say instead. "For all of it. For remembering, for caring, for letting me invade your fortress in the middle of the night."
"You're not invading anything. This is—" He gestures vaguely at the room, the house, maybe the entire property. "This is yours, as long as you need it. No expectations, no timeline. Just safety."
Chapter 4 - Richard
The words are barely out of my mouth before I realize how much I've revealed. How much I'm still revealing, standing here in her doorway at three in the morning, offering her indefinite sanctuary like it's nothing.
Like I'm not dying inside from wanting something I absolutely cannot have.
"You should get some rest," I say, forcing myself to straighten from the doorframe. To take a step back, reestablish distance. "I'll be in my office if you need anything. Don't hesitate to use the intercom."
