I'd been lying to myself.
I stocked that closet because some part of me wanted Belle here, in my house, wearing clothes I'd selected. Wanted to erase every trace of Nathan from her life and replace it with something better.
With me.
The thought sits in my mind like poison, and I don't push it away fast enough.
My phone rings again. Victoria's number flashing on the screen. I stare at it for three rings before declining the call. She'll leave a voicemail, undoubtedly something venomous about how I've probably ruined Nathan's wedding day, how Belle was clearly lying about the abuse, how I'm trying to destroy our son's happiness out of jealousy.
She's called me three times since I moved to Blackwater Falls. I've answered once, told her not to contact me again, and blocked her number.
She calls from different numbers now. I decline them all.
The phone rings again immediately, different number, same caller ID trick. I decline it again and turn the phone face-down on my desk.
Whatever Victoria wants, it can wait. Forever, preferably.
I pull up my email instead, scanning through the dozens of messages that have accumulated over the course of the day. Board meetings, acquisition proposals, investment opportunities. The empire I built continues to run smoothly even with me hiding in the mountains, which either speaks to the quality of my executive team or suggests I'm not as indispensable as I like to think.
I can't focus on any of it. The words blur together, meaningless, because somewhere above me Belle is stepping out of the shower, wrapping herself in one of the plush towels I had imported from Italy, running her hands through her wet hair.
Stop, I tell myself. Stop thinking about her like that.
But my mind won't cooperate. It conjures images of water droplets sliding down her curves, of her soft skin flushed pinkfrom the heat, of what she'd look like wearing nothing but steam and that shy smile she used to give me before Nathan's control became total.
I'm going to hell. I'm absolutely going to hell, and I probably deserve it.
My computer pings, the security feed again. I look up and see Belle has emerged from the bedroom, now visible in the sitting area. She's wearing one of the outfits from the closet: soft gray leggings and an oversized cream sweater that hangs off one shoulder. Her dark hair is wet, combed back from her face, and she's not wearing any makeup.
She's looking around the room like she can't quite believe she's here, touching the furniture gently. Like everything might disappear if she's not careful.
The intercom buzzes again. The housekeeper, asking if she should take the dinner up now. I tell her yes and watch on the feed as Belle startles at the knock on her door a few minutes later.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Annie enters with a tray, says something I can't hear, and Belle smiles. Actually smiles, warm and genuine, and thanks her. They exchange a few more words, then Mrs. Annie leaves, and Belle is alone again.
She sits down at the small table by the window and lifts the silver dome covering her plate. Roasted chicken, vegetables, fresh bread. Simple, nutritious, exactly what someone in her state needs.
She takes a bite, chews slowly, and I see her shoulders relax slightly. When was the last time she ate? This morning? Yesterday?
I should look away. Give her privacy, let her eat in peace without my surveillance.
I watch for another thirty seconds before forcing myself to close the feed.
This is wrong. All of it. The watching, the wanting, the way my entire body hums with awareness of her presence in my house. I should be thinking about next steps—legal protection, restraining orders, getting her set up somewhere safe that isn't here.
Instead, I'm obsessing over the way that sweater slips off her shoulder, the curve of her neck, the memory of her perfume from when she stood close enough to touch.
My phone buzzes again. Text message from a number I don't recognize: *I know you have her. Send her back and I'll forget this ever happened.*
Nathan.
My hands curl into fists on the desk. I should ignore it, not engage, and maintain complete silence.
I type back: *Lose this number.*
His response is immediate: *She's confused. Scared. Doesn't know what she's doing. She belongs with me, and you're making this worse.*
*She ran from you for a reason. Accept it and move on.*
