Chapter 22
BELLE
Two weeks passed in a blur of physical therapy appointments, careful stair climbing, and Raphael pretending he is not monitoring how long I stand in the kitchen.
My knee was getting stronger. Not derby-ready, but stronger.
Physical therapy was humbling. There was nothing glamorous about clenching your jaw while a woman named Diane tells you to engage your glutes and stop compensating with your hip.
There was nothing empowering about wobbling on a foam pad while twenty-year-olds on the other side of the room recover from ACL surgery like it’s a minor inconvenience.
Still, I went. I did the exercises. I iced like I’m supposed to.
Raph and I were learning each other. It was evident in the way he brings me coffee without asking how I take it because he knows now, the way I leave his office door open when I’m cooking because I like hearing the low cadence of his voice on calls, and the way he rests his hand at the small of my back when we move through the house like it belongs there.
It was terrifying how natural it felt.
The library upstairs was no longer a sacred reveal.
My books had begun to fill the empty shelves.
Paperbacks lean against leather-bound volumes like they’ve always belonged there.
Sometimes I’d catch him in the doorway watching me read, quiet and thoughtful, like he’s studying something more complex than contracts.
I was starting to trust him. That was the dangerous part.
When I got home after my shift, I started dinner. I was cooking again, fully, without the brace, testing how long I can stay on my feet. The kitchen smells like garlic and thyme. I’ve got vegetables roasting and a pot simmering softly on the stove.
The windows were open just enough to let in the faint hum of the river.
It felt like home.
I was focused on slicing tomatoes when I sensed him before I heard him. There was a shift in the air when he entered the room. His footsteps were soft against the hardwood.
I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to.
A moment later, his hands settled at my waist. He stepped close behind me, his chest brushing my back, and I exhaled into him.
He pressed a slow kiss just below my ear. It all felt so domestic, like we’d done this for years instead of weeks.
My hands still on the knife, I leaned back into him.
“Ma Belle,” he started, voice low.
“You’re hovering,” I murmured.
“I am appreciating. There’s a difference.”
He hummed softly against my skin. “You are cooking.”
“Yes.”
“You look . . . ” He paused.
“Covered in flour?”
“Happy.”
The word landed deeper than the kiss. His arms tighten slightly around me, holding me in place.
“I have a call I have to make, but then I’m done for the day.”
With another kiss, he was gone.
Cooking had always been something I’d enjoyed, but somewhere along the line, cooking fancy food for clients while subsisting on ramen had taken the joy out of it.
But here in this kitchen, I was able to find a sense of ownership again.
Even if I reminded myself for the zillionth time that this was not real and would end in a few more months.
Something about cooking in this kitchen felt right.
And for a moment, I let myself sink into it, into the warmth, into the steadiness, into the quiet truth that whatever this started as, it no longer feels temporary.
While Raph was taking his last call, I decided to try something I hadn’t attempted in a long time. The eggs had been whisked, the cheese carefully folded in, and the oven preheated to the exact temperature.
And I was softly humming, La Vie en Rose.
It was impossible not to when you’re attempting a soufflé. It felt like culinary law. You could not whisk egg whites to stiff peaks without at least pretending you’re in a tiny Parisian kitchen.
I swayed slightly as I moved between the counter and stove, wooden spoon tapping lightly against the bowl. The early evening light filtered in through the windows, warm and honeyed.
I was happy.
I hummed the next line under my breath as I slid the ramekins onto a tray.
The air behind me shifted. I assumed it was him, finished with his work and drawn by the smell. But there was something different in it.
I glanced over my shoulder. He was standing just inside the kitchen, jaw set, shoulders squared.
“Stop,” he said.
The word landed flat.
I blinked. “Stop what?” I was confused. I wasn’t sure what was behind the anger written on his face.
“Humming that.”
I stared at him, spoon still in my hand.
“Humming?”
“Yes.”
I searched his face for context and found none. His expression was controlled, but there was a tension there I didn’t recognize.
“It’s just a song,” I said lightly.
“Do not hum it.”
There was no explanation. Just a boundary drawn suddenly in the middle of my kitchen.
It was odd. Strange enough that I wanted to ask why. Strange enough that I noticed the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides.
But I didn’t push. He was still the Beast, after all. There were rooms in that here I hadn’t been allowed to enter yet.
So I let it go. I turned back to the oven, slid the tray inside carefully, and closed the door. The kitchen fell quiet. Except for whatever it was he’s not saying.
The next night at derby, I decided I was done compartmentalizing.
I was tired of carrying different versions of my life in different rooms. The familiar noise of wheels on polished wood echoed around us as practice wound down.
I was still off skates, brace back on for stability, clipboard in hand like I’m useful.
Mel plopped down beside me on the bleachers first, water bottle in hand.
“You’ve got that look,” she said.
“What look?”
“The one where you’re about to confess something.”
Robin joined us, peeling off her wrist guards. Eleanor followed a second later, settling carefully with a knowing glance.
I inhaled.
“Okay,” I said. “I need to tell you something.”
They all went quiet in that way that only women who love you can.
“So you know I’ve been living with Raphael.”
Mel’s eyebrows shot up. “We know.
“And disapprove,” Robin said carefully.
“Not all of us,” Eleanor said.
I swallowed.
“Well, things have been progressing with Raphael.”
Silence.
“As in Beast,” Eleanor said slowly.
“Yes.”
Mel leaned back slightly. “Okay. Explain.”
So I did.
I told them about the marriage. The insurance. The knee. The library. The bookstore. The cooking arrangement. The basement inventory. The way he insisted on paying me so I could catch up on Dad’s care.
I didn’t tell them about the library shelf. That still felt sacred.
When I finished, there was a long pause.
Robin was the first to speak.
“Do you still feel safe?”
“Yes,” I answered immediately.
Mel studied me closely. “Do you feel obligated?”
“No.”
Another beat.
Eleanor tilted her head slightly. “Do you like him?”
That one landed differently. I looked down at my hands.
“Yes,” I admitted quietly. “Maybe more than like, and I’m not sure what to do about it.”
A breath moved through the group.
Robin nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Mel leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
“We love you,” she said bluntly. “So I’m going to say this without sugarcoating it.”
I braced.
“There are power dynamics here.”
“I know.”
“He’s wealthy,” Mel added, her eyes full of concern.
“I know.”
“He technically employs you,” Robin reminded me.
“Technically.”
“You’re living in his house,” Robin added.
“I know,” I said, irritation seeping into the edges. I knew all of these things were true.
Mel didn’t look accusatory, just protective. “That can get messy fast.”
Robin nodded. “It’s not about whether he’s good or bad. It’s about balance. If something goes wrong, he holds more cards.”
The words stung because they were true.
Eleanor’s voice was softer. “Are you choosing this?” she asked gently, “or does it feel like survival?”
I thought about the library. The bookstore. The way he held me when I cried. The way he told me I would never live like that again.
“I’m choosing it,” I said.
Mel studied my face for a long moment.
“And if you wanted to leave,” she asked quietly, “could you?”
That one sat heavier. I pictured it. Packing my books back into boxes. Walking out of that house. Starting over.
My chest tightened, but I nodded. “Yes.”
Robin exhaled. “Okay.”
Mel pointed at me. “You deserve someone who sees you as an equal.”
“He does.”
“Then make sure it stays that way,” Robin added.
Eleanor squeezed my hand. “Just don’t shrink,” she said gently. “Not for comfort. Not for love.”
I nodded. “I won’t.”
And I meant it.
Because if this was real, it had to be built on more than rescue. It had to be a partnership.
And as I sat there with my team, surrounded by women who would burn down the world for me, I realized something steady and grounding.
I could never forget who I was. They won’t let me.
I knew they were right. That’s the problem.
All the way home from practice, their words sat in my chest like a stone. Power dynamics. Balance. If you wanted to leave, could you? I didn’t like that I had to think about that question.
When I pulled into the drive, the house looked warm and steady against the dark. The windows glowed. It felt safe. That’s what made it dangerous.
Inside, I kicked off my shoes and headed straight for the kitchen. I needed something normal. Something grounding. I pulled vegetables from the fridge, rinsed them under cool water, and let the mundane rhythm of chopping and seasoning steady my thoughts.
I knew this was a bad idea. Not him. Not Us, but the way it started. The way money was braided through it. The way I was still technically being paid by the man I was sleeping with. That sentence alone should send me running.
Instead, I sautéd garlic.
When he came in, I didn’t look at him right away. I could feel him there.
“You’re quiet,” he observed.
“I was thinking.”
“About.”
I turned, wooden spoon in hand.
“About us.”
He stilled slightly, giving me his full attention.
“Go on.” His steadiness made it harder, not easier.
“The girls are worried,” I said carefully. “About the . . . power imbalance.”
His jaw tightened just slightly. “They believe you are incapable of making decisions.”
With a huff, I put my hands on my hips. “No. They think you have more leverage than I do.”
“I do.” The bluntness of that makes me flinch, but he was not one to beat around the bush.
“You have money,” I continued. “I don’t. You own the house. You’re paying me. That’s not equal footing.”
He watched me like he was evaluating a contract clause.
“It is not a competition, Ma Belle,” he said finally. He reached for me and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“That’s not the point.”
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “You required support,” he said evenly. “I provided it.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
“Explain.”
“If something goes wrong, you're fine. I’m . . . not.”
Silence stretched between us. The stove sizzled softly behind me.
He reached out and turned the burner down before answering. “You believe I would withdraw support if we disagreed.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “That’s the thing.”
His expression shifted. “You think I am transactional.”
“I think you’re powerful,” I said honestly. “And I’m . . . not.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I guess I failed to think of it that way,” he said, though his tone suggests he thinks the fear is misplaced. “I have resources. You do not. That is a fact. Facts are not moral failings.”
“But they matter.”
He stepped closer until I could feel the heat of him. “I have the money,” he said quietly. “You do not. That is temporary. It does not make you lesser.”
“I know that, but you can’t just pay me and pretend that evens it out.”
“I am not pretending.”
His hands came to rest lightly at my waist. “You believe this will explode.”
Part of me does. “I don’t know,” I whispered.
“Do you wish to stop?”
The question hung between us. And that was precisely the problem. Because I didn’t want to stop. I liked him. I liked the way he looked at me like I’m not small. I liked the way he says Ma Belle like it’s not a performance. And I really, really liked having sex with him.
“No,” I admitted.
His mouth curved slightly at that. “Then we proceed,” he said simply.
“That’s not how relationships work.”
“It is how agreements work.”
“Raphael.”
He leaned in then, close enough that my breath caught.
“Belle,” he murmured, and there’s heat in it now. “If you believe I do not see you as my equal, correct me.”
“I—”
He didn’t let me finish.
His hand slid up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing slowly along my cheek.
“You are not here because I rescued you,” he said quietly. “You are here because you chose to stay.”
The kitchen felt smaller suddenly.
He stepped into me, and the back of my thighs hit the edge of the table.
“And if you doubt your leverage,” he continued softly, “I can remind you.”
The look in his eyes made my pulse spike. He lifted me onto the table in one smooth motion, and I gasped at the sudden rush of heat and intent in his expression.
“You possess one thing that is irresistible to me. You hold more power than you know,” he said as he wrapped my legs around his waist.
“Raphael—”
“You are not powerless,” he said, voice low now. “Not with me.”
His mouth found mine, and the argument dissolved into something much less logical and much more consuming.
His hands traced deliberate lines along my skin, as the table became less a piece of furniture and more a stage for everything we were not saying.
Then he fell to his knees before me, looking up at me with eyes that were equal parts heat and reverence. “Ma Belle, you have more power than you will ever know. I am undone by you.”
He slid my shorts down my legs and spread my knees wide.
Fuck. This man was dangerous, but I wasn’t going to stop.
I fisted my finger in his thick, dark hair, and he leaned forward and devoured me.
With one arm behind me, propping me up and letting my head fall back, lost in the pleasure of this man’s mouth.
Was anything fixed? No, but as he sucked my clit into his mouth, I was miles away from caring.