Chapter 25
BELLE
Ididn't remember driving or even grabbing my keys.
I did remember my chest feeling tight and hot and hollow all at the same time. I remembered the nursery. The music box. His face.
After that, it was just headlights and instinct.
I pulled into Eleanor’s neighborhood sometime before dawn. The houses were quiet, with dark windows and manicured lawns, and the soft hum of sprinklers in the distance.
I didn’t knock. I didn't want to wake them.
I parked along the curb, climbed into the back of the van, and let muscle memory take over. The bed platform was still there. The thin mattress. The folded blanket. The space I almost convinced myself was freedom.
It didn’t feel like freedom tonight, if it ever had. Before I knew what was happening, a tear slid down my face. I was crying silent tears until, eventually, exhaustion won.
A sharp rap against the window jolted me awake.
I bolted upright, disoriented, sunlight flooding the van.
For a split second, I didn’t remember where I was.
Then it all came back to me, but I didn’t have time to process because Mel was standing outside the driver’s side window, arms crossed, eyebrows practically in her hairline.
She looked . . . confused.
I slide the door open.
“Morning,” I croaked.
She blinked at me.
“Why are you in your van?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. I should have remembered that Eleanor and Mel were neighbors. I wanted El’s comfort last night, but it looked like I was getting Mel’s fire this morning.
“Long story.”
She studied me for a beat, then jerked her head toward Eleanor’s house. “Coffee. Now.”
Inside, Eleanor was already at the stove when we walked in. She took one look at me and didn't ask questions. She just set another mug on the counter. Bless her.
We sat at the kitchen table like we had a hundred times before. Only this time, I felt like something was cracked open.
“Okay,” Mel said bluntly. “Start talking.”
So I did. I didn't dramatize it, I didn’t soften it either.
When I finished, the kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator.
Mel was the first to speak. “No.” That was it. Just no. “You don’t get to roar at someone because they opened a door,” she continued. “That’s not trauma. That's a tantrum.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said automatically.
“It sounds exactly like that,” Mel bit back.
Eleanor raised a hand gently. “Mel. She’s been living there. Sleeping with him. Filling his shelves. And he explodes because she didn’t magically know his secret grief room exists?”
Mel shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
I wrapped my hands around my mug, staring into the coffee.
“It wasn’t just anger,” I said quietly. “It was . . . something else.”
“Rage,” Mel supplied.
“Pain,” Eleanor countered softly.
We all fell silent for a moment.
“He had a wife,” I said. “A child.”
That still felt surreal to say out loud.
“I saw the wedding photo,” I added. “He looked so young. So . . . open.”
Eleanor’s expression shifted. “And you think he never processed it.”
“I think he locked it up and threw away the key.”
Mel exhaled sharply. “That’s not your job to unlock.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you defending him?”
Because I love him. The thought sat heavy in my chest.
Because when he looked at me, I felt chosen.
Because when he held me, I felt safe.
Because when he told me I would never live like that again, I wanted to believe him more than I’ve wanted anything in years.
“I have feelings for him,” I admitted quietly.
Mel closed her eyes briefly. “Oh, Belle.”
Eleanor leans forward. “How deep?”
I hesitate. “Deep.”
The word felt like jumping off something high.
Mel groaned softly. “This is exactly why the power dynamic thing matters.”
“I know.”
“You can’t lose yourself in someone who hasn’t unpacked his ghosts,” Mel said.
“I’m not losing myself.”
“You drove away in the middle of the night,” Mel said pointedly.
I don’t have a rebuttal for that.
Eleanor reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“Did he ever tell you what happened?” she asked gently.
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“How could I? How was I supposed to know to even ask? I feel like I don’t know him at all.”
There was a long pause.
“Then you don’t have the whole story,” Eleanor said carefully.
Mel looked at her incredulously.
“You’re not actually defending him,” Mel said to Eleanor.
“I’m not,” Eleanor replied. “I’m saying grief makes people behave badly sometimes. Especially when it’s buried.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” said Mel.
“No, it doesn’t,” Eleanor agreed. “But it might make it understandable.”
I stared at my coffee again.
“I was scared,” I whispered. “Not of him hurting me. Just . . . of not knowing.”
“That’s fair,” Eleanor said.
Mel leaned back in her chair, studying me. “So what do you want?”
The question landed heavily.
What do I want? To feel safe. To not feel small. To not be yelled at in rooms full of ghosts. To be loved without secrets.
“I want the truth,” I finally said.
“Then get it,” Eleanor replied gently.
After a deep, reluctant sigh, Mel nodded once. “But if he roars again,” she added firmly, “you walk.”
I nod.
Because I knew she meant it. And because part of me knew, this is either the moment it breaks, or the moment it becomes real.
I sat there for a long moment after we stopped talking. The coffee had gone lukewarm in my hands. Mel watched me like she was ready to fight someone on my behalf. Eleanor watched me like she trusted me to choose wisely.
“I’m going to talk to him,” I said finally.
Mel bit her lip but nodded once. “With backup.”
“I don’t need backup.”
“You drove away at three in the morning,” Mel reminded me.
“That was dramatic, not dangerous.”
She pointed at me. “Same thing sometimes.”
Eleanor stood to refill the coffee pot.
And that’s when we heard it.
A knock.
All three of us froze. Another knock followed, just as steady.
Eleanor’s eyes flicked toward the door. There was a tall, narrow window set high into it, the kind that lets in light but doesn’t reveal much.
Except now, through the frosted glass, I could see the outline of dark hair and broad shoulders. It was too tall to be anyone else. My heart stumbled into a sprint.
Mel’s gaze snaps to me. “Is that him?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
Eleanor moved first, smoothing her sweater like this is a perfectly ordinary morning. She walked toward the door with calm, deliberate steps.
My pulse pounded loudly in my ears. I shouldn’t feel like this.
She opened the door. And then I heard it. His voice was low, controlled, and impeccably polite.
“Good morning,” he said. “I apologize for the intrusion.”
The sound of it sent a ridiculous, traitorous rush through my chest. He didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound storming. He sounded . . . composed.
“My name is Raphael Renault,” he continued. “I’m looking for Belle.”
He paused.
“I noticed her van outside and was hoping you might have seen her.”
Mel’s eyebrows shot up. Eleanor crossed her arms lightly, blocking the doorway just enough to be intentional.
“And why,” she asked evenly, “are you looking for her?”
There’s the faintest pause.
“She left in distress,” he said carefully. “I would like to ensure she is safe.”
My breath caught. Safe. He sounded like the man who built me a shelf, not the one who roared.
Eleanor glanced back at me.
My heart was still racing, but it wasn't fear. It was something far more dangerous.
Hope.