Nothing helps when I close my eyes and see Belle standing in my doorway, mascara-streaked, terrified and still so goddamn beautiful.
She shouldn't be beautiful to me. She shouldn't be anything to me except the woman my son was abusing, the victim I failed to protect. Should inspire only professional concern, detached assistance, the kind of help I'd offer any woman in her situation.
But Belle Hart has never been just any woman, and I stopped pretending otherwise about six months after I met her.
I remember that first dinner with painful clarity. Nathan bringing her to what was supposed to be a family meal, the four of us sitting around Victoria's formal dining table like we were still a functional unit instead of the wreckage of something that died fifteen years ago.
Belle had been quieter then, newer to Nathan's control. She'd smiled and made polite conversation, asked thoughtfulquestions about my work, laughed at appropriate moments. Perfectly pleasant, perfectly forgettable.
Except I couldn't forget her.
The way her eyes lit up when she talked about the art history degree she'd abandoned to take a job with better insurance after her parents died. The way she unconsciously touched her wrist when Nathan said something cutting disguised as a joke. The way she looked at me when she thought no one was watching, like I was something rare and valuable instead of the villain in her boyfriend's childhood story.
I'd gone home that night and told myself it was nothing. A fleeting attraction to a pretty girl, the kind of thing any man my age might feel and then dismiss as inappropriate.
Then I saw her again. And again. Each time, Nathan's treatment got worse. The cutting remarks became open insults. The controlling behavior became isolation. The bruises appeared.
And each time, my feelings for Belle grew more complicated, more intense, more absolutely fucking forbidden.
I pour another scotch and force myself to sit down at my desk, pulling up the security feed on my computer. I shouldn't check on her. It's invasive, creepy, exactly the kind of thing that confirms I have no business feeling what I feel.
I check anyway.
The guest room camera, positioned to cover only the doorway and sitting area, nothing private like the bedroom or bathroom, shows an empty room. She must be in the shower. Good. She needs it, needs the time to decompress, to start processing what she's done.
What she's done.
Christ, she actually ran. After two years of watching her sink deeper into Nathan's control, seeing the light fade from her eyes bit by bit, I'd almost given up hope that she'd find the strength to leave.
But she did. She ran, and she came here.
To me.
The guilt is immediate and crushing. She came here because I'm the only person who offered to help her, the only one who acknowledged what Nathan was doing. She came here out of desperation and lack of options, not because of any feelings she might—
I cut off that thought before it can fully form. Belle's feelings are irrelevant. Even if she did feel something, which she doesn't, she can't, I'm twice her age and her ex-almost-father-in-law and completely wrong for her in every possible way, it wouldn't matter.
She's vulnerable right now. Traumatized. Looking for safety and stability and someone to tell her she did the right thing. Taking advantage of that vulnerability would make me exactly the kind of monster Nathan already thinks I am.
My phone buzzes. Marcus's security brief, detailed and thorough as expected. I skim through it, noting the timestamps, the observation notes, the complete lack of anything suspicious beyond Belle herself.
Then I see the final note: *Subject appeared emotionally distressed. Asked for you by name. Security protocol suggested redirect to main office, but subject insisted she needed to speak with you specifically. Judgment call was made to contact you directly. Recommend follow-up psychological evaluation if subject is to remain on property.*
I stare at that last line, jaw tightening. Marcus is doing his job—treating Belle like a potential security risk, someone who might be unstable or dangerous. It's the correct professional response.
It also makes me want to walk out to the guard station and explain in very clear terms that Belle Hart is under my personal protection and anyone who treats her like a threat will be looking for a new job.
I don't, because that would reveal far too much about my state of mind where she's concerned.
Instead, I type out a brief response: *Subject is a personal acquaintance in need of temporary sanctuary. Increase security to protect her, not monitor her. She has full access to main house and grounds. Report any attempts by outside parties to locate or contact her immediately.*
Send.
The intercom on my desk buzzes. My housekeeper letting me know Belle's dinner is ready. I tell her to take it up in twenty minutes, giving Belle enough time to finish her shower and find something to wear from the guest room closet.
The closet that I had stocked six months ago with clothes in Belle's size, just in case. Just in case she ran, just in case she came here, just in case I needed to be prepared to help her.
I'd told myself it was practical. Good planning. The kind of contingency preparation that made me successful in business.
