"Victoria is a narcissistic bitch who enabled her son's abuse," Richard says flatly. "And Nathan is a sociopath who isolated you from anyone who might actually help. Neither of them has any credibility when it comes to your mental health."
The bluntness of his assessment shocks a surprised laugh out of me. It sounds rusty, out of practice, but it's there.
"I'll set up an appointment with a therapist," he continues, like this is completely normal. Like arranging mental healthcare for your son's runaway fiancée is just another item on the to-do list. "There's someone in town. She specializes in trauma. Completely confidential, and she won't ask questions you don't want to answer."
"I don't have money for—"
"I'm not asking you to pay for it, Belle." He says it gently, but there's steel underneath. "Let me help you. Please."
That word—*please*—coming from Richard Kane's mouth… Men like him don't say please. They command, expect, demand. They don't ask permission to help.
But he's asking. Giving me choice, agency, control over my own treatment.
After two years of having every choice stripped away, it's almost overwhelming.
"Okay," I whisper. "Thank you."
He nods once. "Good. I'll make the call in the morning." He pauses, then adds, "In the meantime, do you think you can sleep? Or would you rather have some company? I can stay, just to talk. Or I can have Mrs. Annie make tea, something to help you relax."
The offer to stay sends warmth flooding through me, dangerous warmth, the kind I shouldn't feel. "You don't have to do that. I've already disrupted your night enough."
"You haven't disrupted anything." He leans against the doorframe, settling in like he has all the time in the world. Like sitting up at three in the morning with a traumatized woman is perfectly normal for him. "I don't sleep much anyway. Too manyyears of working around the clock, I think. My brain doesn't know how to shut off anymore."
I study him in the soft light, this man who built an empire, who commands respect and fear in equal measure, who looks at me like I'm something precious instead of broken. "What do you do when you can't sleep?"
"Work, usually. Read. Walk the property, though the security team hates when I do that. Apparently, it 'compromises their perimeter protocols' or some such nonsense." The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly. "Marcus has strong opinions about my tendency to wander."
"Marcus seems very... thorough."
"That's a diplomatic way of putting it." The almost-smile widens slightly. "He's ex-military, former Secret Service. Took a job with me five years ago and has been trying to turn this place into Fort Knox ever since. The security upgrades you saw today? That's him operating at about sixty percent. If I let him have his way completely, there'd be guard towers and a moat."
The image makes me laugh again, a real laugh this time, not just a startled exhale. "A moat seems excessive."
"I said the same thing. He gave me a very detailed PowerPoint presentation on historical siege defense and modern threat assessment." Richard shakes his head, but there's fondness in his expression. "I hired him for his expertise, so I try to let him do his job. Even when it means living in what amounts to a very expensive bunker."
"Is it because of Nathan?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "The security, I mean. Are you afraid of him?"
Richard's expression shifts, the lightness evaporating. "I'm not afraid of Nathan. I'm cautious about what he might do when he doesn't get his way. There's a difference."
I think about Nathan's rage, the cold calculation in his eyes when he hurt me. The way he always made sure the bruises were hidden, the damage internal. Strategic violence, meant to control without leaving evidence.
"He's going to come looking for me," I say quietly. "You know that, right? He won't just let me go."
"I know." Richard's voice is steady, certain. "And when he does, he'll find every access point blocked, every avenue closed. He won't get near you, Belle. I promise you that."
"He's your son. This is going to make everything worse between you."
"There is no relationship to make worse. That ended the moment he—" Richard stops, jaw working. "The moment I realized what he was. What he's capable of. He's Victoria's son now. Let her deal with the monster she created."
"Do you ever regret it?" I ask instead. "Having him? Or does that sound terrible?"
"It doesn't sound terrible. It sounds honest." Richard is quiet for a moment, and I watch him consider the question. "I don't regret Nathan's existence. I regret that I couldn't protect him from his mother's influence, couldn't counteract the poison she fed him about me. I regret the divorce, the custody arrangement, every choice that led to him becoming what he is. But regret the fact that he exists? No. Even monsters can teach us something about ourselves."
"What did Nathan teach you?"
His eyes meet mine, and there's something raw in them. Vulnerable. "That I'm capable of hatred. Real, bone-deep hatred for someone who shares my DNA. I didn't think I could feel that way about my own child, but I do. And that terrifies me more than anything he could actually do."
Richard Kane—calculating, always perfectly composed—just confessed something deeply personal. Something that probably keeps him up on the nights when work and reading aren't enough distraction.
