Especially not the way I'm looking at her right now, cataloging every detail. The curve of her neck where that sweater has slipped even further. The fullness of her bottom lip. The rise and fall of her chest with each breath, soft fabric shifting over curves that have haunted my dreams for two goddamn years.
I shift in the uncomfortable chair, crossing one ankle over my knee, a position that's meant to look casual but is really about hiding the obvious evidence of my body's reaction to her proximity. To hide the fact that I'm half-hard since I saw her tangled in my sheets looking vulnerable and terrified and so fucking beautiful it made all my blood rush south.
Since I've been sitting here having an intimate conversation at three in the morning with the one woman in the world I absolutely cannot have.
My cock doesn't care about ethics or appropriateness or the fact that she's my son's ex-fiancée. It just knows that Belle Hart is ten feet away, soft and curvy and looking at me like I'm something worth listening to instead of the failure I actually am.
"Can I ask you something?" Belle's voice pulls me back from dangerous thoughts.
"Anything."
"Why did you really have those clothes in the closet? In my size, I mean. You said your assistant stocks the guest rooms, but..." She trails off, those doe eyes curious. "Those aren't generic guest sizes, Richard. They fit me perfectly."
Fuck.
I should lie. Should give her some logical explanation about assistants who are good at guessing measurements, about keeping a variety of sizes on hand. Should protect both of us from the truth.
"I had them bought six months ago," I say instead, because apparently I've lost all sense of self-preservation. "After the last time I saw you at Nathan's house. After I saw the finger marks on your throat and he threatened to get a restraining order if I didn't leave."
Belle's hand moves unconsciously to her neck, covering the spot where the bruises were. Where they probably still are, faded to yellow-green but not gone.
"I knew you'd run eventually," I continue. "Hoped you would, anyway. And I wanted to be prepared. To have things ready for you, just in case you came here." I meet her eyes, holdingher gaze. "So yes, Belle. Those clothes are specifically for you. I had someone find your size, guess your style, stock an entire wardrobe. Because some part of me needed to believe you'd make it out, and when you did, I wanted to help."
She stares at me, lips parted, and I watch several emotions flicker across her face. "That's..." She stops, starts again. "That's the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me."
"It wasn't entirely altruistic," I admit. "I needed to feel like I was doing something. Like I hadn't completely failed you by not being able to get you away from him sooner."
"You didn't fail me." Her voice is soft but firm. "You were the only person who tried. The only one who saw what was happening and actually said something. That matters more than you know."
I want to tell her it wasn't enough. That trying doesn't mean shit when she still went home with bruises, still suffered for months after I'd identified the problem. That I should have done more, been more, found a way to save her before it got as bad as it did.
But she's looking at me like I'm some kind of hero, and I don't have the heart to destroy that illusion. Not tonight.
"How long did you know?" she asks. "About Nathan, I mean. About what he was doing."
"The first time I suspected something was wrong was at that dinner. About four months after we met." I remember that night with painful clarity. "He made a joke about you being clumsy, and you flinched. Just slightly, barely noticeable, but I saw it. Then I saw the way you held yourself like you were in pain but trying to hide it."
Belle wraps her arms around herself, and I hate that I'm making her relive this. Hate even more that I'm the one forcing the conversation.
"I didn't know for certain until six months later," I continue. "You came to a family dinner wearing a long-sleeved dress in the middle of summer. Victoria made some comment about you being overdressed, and when you reached for your water glass, the sleeve rode up. I saw the bruises. Finger marks, clear as day."
"I remember that dinner." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "You asked to speak with me privately afterward. Nathan wouldn't let you."
"He said you were tired, that he needed to get you home. Made it seem like he was being considerate." I clench my jaw, remembering my own impotence at that moment. "I tried to call you the next day. Your phone was disconnected."
"He took it away that night. Said I was spending too much time texting friends, ignoring him. That we needed to focus on our relationship." She laughs without humor. "That was the beginning of him cutting me off from everyone."
The casual way she describes it, like isolation is just something that happened, not something weaponized against her, makes me want to break something. Preferably Nathan's face.
"I should have done more," I say. "Should have called the police, gotten lawyers involved, something. Instead, I just... watched. Tried to offer help when I could but never pushed hard enough."
"If you'd pushed harder, he would have cut me off from you too. At least this way, I knew someone saw. Someone knew." She meets my eyes. "That mattered, Richard. On the really bad nights, when I thought about just... ending it... I'd remember that you knew. That someone gave a shit. It kept me alive."
The idea that Belle was ever that desperate, that close to the edge, while I sat in boardrooms and made money and did nothing—
"Don't," she says, reading my expression. "Don't take that on yourself too. You're not responsible for Nathan's abuse or my response to it. You were the only good thing in that whole situation. Don't turn that into another reason to hate yourself."
She's right. Rationally, intellectually, I know she's right. But rationality has never been my strong suit where Belle is concerned.
