Chapter 31
BELLE
The next day, everything was wonderfully normal.
I worked a shift at the coffee counter in the bookstore before I came home and made dinner.
Nothing out of the ordinary, which should have been my first clue that something was about to ruin it.
I had just put some veggies into a pan to sauté when my phone buzzed on the counter.
I glanced at the screen. Tripp. My stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical.
It was easy, dangerously easy, to forget that real life still existed when I was here.
But real life always found a way to knock . . . or call.
“Hello?” I answered, keeping my voice neutral.
“Well, well,” Tripp drawled. “You’re hard to reach lately.”
“I’ve been working.”
“Not enough.”
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“What do you need?”
“I need you at a new property,” he said smoothly. “Effective Monday.”
My heart skipped. “I already have my assignment.”
“Not anymore.”
The vegetables crackled softly in the pan behind me. “What property?” I asked carefully.
“Private residence. Out near Lancaster. Big job. You’ll be there full-time.”
Full-time.
“Tripp,” I said slowly, “I can’t relocate full-time. I have—”
“You have bills,” he cut in. “And from what I hear, you’re barely keeping up with that retirement home.”
Ice slid down my spine. “I’ll manage.”
“Will you?” His voice sharpened slightly. “Because if you don’t take this house, Belle, you’re fired.”
My breath stalled. “You can’t—”
“I can.”
Silence.
“And then,” he continued lightly, “how exactly are you planning to pay for Daddy’s care? Of course . . . there’s always cleaning my house . . . ”
My fingers tightened around the phone. He knew exactly where to push.
I swallowed hard. “When do I start?” I asked quietly.
“That’s my girl.”
The line went dead.
For a long moment, I just stood there staring at the dark screen.
It was stupid how quickly the walls of this house could feel like a dream . . . .a beautiful, temporary dream.
As much as I was falling for Raphael, as much as this felt real, he had never said it was. We had less than two months left on a contract. That was the only thing in writing.
I plated dinner on autopilot.
By the time Raphael walked in, sleeves rolled, and expression softened from whatever he’d been working on, I had composed my face.
Almost.
“What is wrong?” he asked immediately.
Damn him for noticing everything.
“Nothing.”
He stopped moving. “Belle.”
I exhaled. “Tripp called.”
His entire body stilled. “What did he want?”
“He’s moving me to another property. Full-time.”
His jaw tightened.
“I told him I couldn’t, and he said if I don’t take it, I’m fired.”
The air shifted.
“Fired,” Raphael repeated evenly.
“And then how would I pay for Dad’s care?” I added quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “So I said yes.”
His expression went cold.
“I’ll still be able to come and cook,” I rushed on. “It’s not that far. And we have two months left anyway before we can . . . ” Before we can do what? Before we can get divorced. The word stuck in my throat. “Before we can end this,” I finished instead.
Silence. Heavy. I looked up at him.
The anger radiated off him, but it was not explosive like it had been the night I discovered the rooms. No, this was controlled. Contained. Rolling in waves beneath the surface.
“What?” I asked quietly.
He stepped closer.
“Do you truly believe,” he said, voice low and measured, “that you are still subject to the whims of that man?”
“It’s my job.”
“It is exploitation.”
“It may be, but it is still my income.”
“It is coercion.”
I blinked. “He didn’t force me.”
“He threatened your father’s stability.”
My chest tightened. “He didn’t threaten Dad.”
“Not outright, he did not need to. He knows you will do whatever you have to do to take care of him.”
I crossed my arms defensively. I wanted to argue, but I knew he was right. “It’s temporary. I’ll handle it.”
“You will not,” he said flatly.
Something sharp flared in me. “You don’t get to decide that.”
His eyes flashed. “And you do not get to pretend this is merely about a paycheck.”
“It is about a paycheck!”
“No.” The word landed like a strike. “It is about control,” he said quietly. “And you are still allowing him to exercise it.”
My throat burned.
“This is my life,” I said. “I don’t have the luxury of deciding to quit. Some of us have to work for everything.”
He stepped closer, the air between us charged now.
“You believe this is about money.”
“It is.”
He looked at me like I had just fundamentally misunderstood something. The anger wasn’t at me. It was at the idea.
“You still think this ends in two months,” he said softly.
My stomach dropped.
“Well,” I whispered, “doesn’t it?”
And the silence that followed told me I might not understand him as well as I thought I did.