Chapter 7 – BELLA
CHAPTER 7
BELLA
T he hospital room smells like disinfectant and desperation. I've been here for over twenty-four hours now, and the harsh fluorescent lights are starting to make my eyes throb.
Or maybe that's just the migraine brewing from listening to Braxley's non-stop whining.
"I'm telling you, there's something seriously wrong with me!" Braxley insists for what feels like the millionth time. He's propped up in the hospital bed, looking perfectly healthy aside from the tiny stitched cut on his eyebrow. "I demand another CT scan!"
I resist the urge to tell him that yes, there is indeed something seriously wrong with him, but it has nothing to do with his imaginary injuries. Instead, I force a placating smile. "Braxley, the doctors have run every test imaginable. You're fine."
"Fine?" He screeches, his voice hitting a pitch that makes me wince. "Does this look fine to you?" He gestures wildly at his face, nearly knocking over the vase of obscenely expensive flowers his mother brought in earlier.
I grab the vase to steady it and stare at him, trying to see what he sees. His skin is as flawless as ever, thanks to whatever unholy concoction of serums and creams he slathers on daily. The cut on his eyebrow is likely going to heal without leaving a mark.
He looks exactly like he always does.
Annoyingly perfect.
"You look... like yourself," I say carefully, knowing it's not the answer he wants.
Braxley's lower lip trembles. For a moment, I think he might actually cry. Instead, he reaches for his phone, probably to check his reflection in the selfie cam for the thousandth time today.
"My followers will notice," he mutters, zooming in on his eyebrow with a shaking hand. "They notice everything. What if this affects my engagement rates? What if I lose sponsors?"
I close my eyes, counting to ten in my head. When I open them again, Braxley is still staring at his phone, his expression one of pure horror. It would be almost comical if it wasn't so pathetic.
"Braxley," I start, trying to keep my voice gentle. "Maybe we should focus on what happened. You were shot at. Shouldn't we be more concerned about who did it and why?"
He waves a dismissive hand, not even bothering to look up from his phone. "Oh, that. Daddy's taking care of it. Probably just some crazed fan or jealous nobody. It doesn't matter."
Doesn't matter?
We could have died, and he's acting like it was just a minor inconvenience. Like someone spilling champagne on his designer shoes. Actually, I'm pretty sure that would get a stronger reaction out of him.
Before I can say anything, the door bursts open and Braxley's parents sweep in. Mrs. Worthington immediately rushes to her son's side, cooing and fussing over him like he's on death's door.
"These barbaric peasants are still refusing to run more tests," she moans, sweeping his hair back and inspecting his cut like it might have healed more in the fifteen minutes she's been gone, arguing with the nurse's station. "Don't they know who you are?"
Mr. Worthington, meanwhile, is still on his phone, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "I don't care what your policies are. My son needs the best care available, and if you can't provide that, I'll buy this entire hospital and turn it into a parking lot. Do I make myself clear?"
I sink further into my uncomfortable plastic chair, feeling like I'm watching some bizarre play unfold. Is this really my life now? Am I actually going to marry into this family of overgrown toddlers?
The thought makes my stomach churn.
Mr. Worthington clears his throat, tucking his phone away. "Well, that's settled. They'll be keeping Braxley for further observation and tests. And I've arranged for a specialist to fly in from Switzerland."
"Switzerland?" I can't help but ask. "Is that really necessary?"
Three pairs of eyes turn to me, as if suddenly remembering I exist. Mrs. Worthington's gaze is particularly cutting.
"Of course it's necessary," she snaps. "Nothing but the best for our Braxley. You do want what's best for your fiancé, don't you, Bella?"
The word 'fiancé' hits me like a physical blow. Right. That happened. In all the chaos, I'd almost forgotten about the proposal. My eyes flick to my empty finger. I hadn't had a chance to say yes before the shot rang out.
Silver linings, I guess.
Mrs. Worthington's eye twitches. "Did you… not say yes?"
"I didn't have a chance to," I say quickly.
"That's when my murderer took his shot," Braxley adds, his eyes misting.
"Attempted murderer," I correct him under my breath. I meet Mrs. Worthington's irritated gaze. "But of course. Whatever Braxley needs."
She nods, satisfied with my submission. "That's right, dear. Now, why don't you go fetch us some decent coffee? This hospital swill is simply dreadful."
It's not a request, and we all know it. I stand, grateful for the excuse to escape, even if just for a few minutes.
As I make my way down the hospital corridor, my steps slow. I don't want to go back to that room. I don't want to spend another minute listening to Braxley's complaints or watching his parents enable his every ridiculous whim.
I want... I'm not sure what I want.
Freedom? Escape? A life that's my own?
But those are dangerous thoughts. Thoughts I can't afford to entertain. Not when my family is counting on me.
Not when I have nowhere else to go.
Especially if it's decidedly my fault if everything falls apart.
I'm so lost in my own head that I almost collide with a group of men standing near the elevator. It takes me a moment to recognize them as Braxley's security team.
"Oh," I say, startled. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."
One of the beefy clones offers me a tight smile. "No worries, miss. We were just heading out."
"Heading out?" I repeat, then understanding dawns. "Oh. You've been..."
"Fired," another one of the men supplies, not bothering to hide his relief. "Apparently, we failed in our duty to protect Mr. Worthington.. Even though he didn't need our help."
I wince, remembering Braxley's dramatic retelling of events. The reality—that he ran and hid, abandoning his almost-fiancée to fend for myself—doesn't quite fit his heroic narrative.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. These men don't deserve to lose their jobs because of Braxley's ego. "That's not fair."
The tallest bodyguard shrugs. "Comes with the territory. Rich folks and their tantrums, you know how it is."
I do know. All too well.
"Well," I say, suddenly feeling awkward. "I guess this is goodbye then. Thank you for... everything."
They exchange glances, seeming surprised by my gratitude. The one with a light scrape of stubble steps forward, taking off his sunglasses so he can look me in the eyes. I don't think I've ever seen his eyes before. They're dark brown and crinkled at the corners. Surprisingly kind.
"Listen, kiddo," he says, his voice low. "You seem like a nice girl. So let me give you some advice." He pauses, glancing around to make sure we're alone. "Get out while you can."
I blink, taken aback by his bluntness. "I... what?"
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, we've worked for a lot of entitled assholes over the years. But that guy? He's something else. And his family? They're worse. You don't want to get mixed up in all that."
I open my mouth to protest, to defend Braxley and the Worthingtons, but the words die in my throat. Because he's right. Deep down, I know he's right.
"I can't," I whisper, hating how weak I sound. "It's... complicated."
The man nods, understanding in his eyes. "It always is. Just... be careful, okay? And good fuckin' luck. You're gonna need it."
He sticks out his hand for a handshake and I take it, even though I'm an omega and not exactly supposed to shake strange alphas' hands. His meaty fingers completely envelope my small hand and he gives it a gentle squeeze with a tight smile.
With that, they file into the elevator, leaving me standing alone in the corridor, their words echoing in my head.
Get out while you can.
If only it were that simple.
I make my way to the hospital cafeteria in a daze. It's nearly empty at this hour, just a few night shift nurses huddled over cups of coffee. I join the short line, mechanically ordering four lattes. As I pay with the credit card Braxley had made for me—the one with a picture of us at the beach on it—and wait for the overworked barista to prepare the drinks, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the stainless steel of the coffee machine.
I barely recognize myself. My hair, usually neatly styled, hangs limp and greasy around my face. Dark circles ring my eyes, a testament to sleepless nights and constant stress. And my expression... when did I start looking so defeated?
God, I look like hell.
Braxley must be humiliated.
I fish my phone out of my purse, which cost Braxley—or rather, Braxley's family—more than I used to make in a year, wincing at the flood of notifications. More messages from my parents, asking for updates. A dozen texts from Ashlyn, probably fishing for gossip. And... shit, is that my high school ex-boyfriend? How did he even get my number?
I ignore them all, scrolling until I find Skye's name. Our last texts were from yesterday, about the new Halloween costumes she found for her cats. They're going to be the Three Musketeers. Or mus-cat-eers. My thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before I tap out a message.
Then I erase it.
And type another one.
And erase that.
Yeah, no. I need her to call me.
Hey when you get a chance, can you call me? Not an emergency but not something I know how to explain over text either.
I bite back a tired sigh and go to slip the phone back into my purse.
The phone buzzes in my hand before I can put it away, startling me. Skye's name flashes across the screen, and for a moment, I just stare at it. I hadn't expected her to call back so quickly. Part of me wants to let it go to voicemail, to put off this conversation for just a little longer.
But I know I can't.
I need this. I need her.
I answer the call, slipping into a corner of the cafeteria. "Hey, Skye."
"Bella? What's going on? Are you okay?" Skye's voice comes through, tinged with worry.
"I'm fine," I say quietly. "Physically, at least. It's just... God, Skye, everything's such a mess. Do you have a sec?"
"Yeah. I ducked into the breakroom. Quiet day at work today. Watch, I probably just jinxed it." She laughs a little. "Start from the beginning, babe. What happened?"
I take a deep breath, glancing around to make sure no one's within earshot. "Braxley proposed."
"Shit," Skye breathes. "Did you?—"
"I didn't get a chance to answer," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "There was... an incident."
"An incident?" Skye's voice sharpens. "What kind of incident? Are you okay?"
I lean against the wall, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Someone shot at us, Skye. Right in the middle of the proposal."
"Holy shit!" Skye exclaims, loud enough that I have to pull the phone away from my ear. "Are you hurt? Is Braxley?—"
"We're fine," I cut her off, not wanting to rehash Braxley's dramatics. "Braxley got a tiny cut on his eyebrow and he's acting like he's been disfigured for life."
There's a pause on the other end of the line, and I can almost see Skye processing this information. When she speaks again, her voice is carefully controlled. "Okay, let me get this straight. You were shot at, and Braxley's biggest concern is a scratch on his face?"
I let out a humorless laugh. "Oh, it gets better. He's demanding more tests, specialists from Switzerland, the works. Meanwhile, I'm..." I trail off, not sure how to put into words the storm of emotions swirling inside me.
"You're what, Bella?" Skye prompts gently.
"I'm losing my mind," I admit, my voice cracking. "I don't know if I can do this, Skye. I don't know if I want to."
"Then don't," Skye says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "You don't owe that mannequin anything, Bella. You don't have to go through with this."
I close my eyes, wishing it were that easy. "You know I can't just walk away. My family?—"
"Your family can figure their own shit out," Skye interrupts, a hint of steel in her voice. "It's not your job to fix their problems. Especially not by selling yourself to the highest bidder."
Her words hit me like a slap, and I flinch. "That's not what I'm doing," I protest weakly, but even to my own ears, it sounds hollow.
"Isn't it?" Skye challenges. "Bella, honey, I love you, but you've got to wake up. This isn't a fairy tale. Braxley isn't going to magically turn into Prince Charming just because you say 'I do.' And your family... they're using you. You know that, right?"
I bite my lip, fighting back tears. Deep down, I know she's right. I've always known. But hearing it said out loud, by the one person who's always been honest with me, makes it impossible to ignore.
"I don't know what to do," I whisper, hating how small and lost I sound.
Skye sighs, and I can picture her running a hand through her purple-tipped hair in frustration. "You start by being honest with yourself. Do you want to marry Braxley? Forget about your family, forget about the money. Just you. Do you want to spend the rest of your life with him?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy and unavoidable. I think about Braxley, about his obsession with his image, his constant need for validation. I think about how he ran when the shot was fired, leaving me behind without a second thought. I think about the way he looks at me sometimes, like I'm just another accessory to be dressed up and shown off.
"No," I say finally, the word feeling like both a confession and a relief. "No, I don't want to marry him."
"Then don't," Skye says again, but this time her voice is softer, full of understanding. "I know it's not that simple, but Bella, you deserve so much more than this. You deserve to be with someone who sees you. Who values you for who you are, not what you can do for them."
I nod, forgetting for a moment that she can't see me. "I know. I just... I don't know how to get out of this. It feels like I'm trapped."
"You're not trapped," Skye insists. "You always have a choice. It might not be an easy one, but it's there. And whatever you decide, I've got your back. You know that, right?"
A lump forms in my throat, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak. "I know. Thank you, Skye. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably marry that walking Instagram filter," Skye quips, and despite everything, I find myself laughing.
"God, you're right. He really is, isn't he?"
"Absolutely. I bet he's got an 'extra wounds' filter on right now."
The mental image is so absurd, and yet so perfectly Braxley, that I can't help but giggle. It feels good to laugh, even if it's just for a moment.
"Listen," Skye says, her voice turning serious again. "I know you've got a lot to think about, and I'm guessing you need to get back to the shitshow. But promise me something, okay?"
"What's that?"
"Don't make any decisions right now. Not about the proposal, not about anything. You're exhausted and stressed, and that's not the time to make life-altering choices. Get some rest, if you can. And when you're ready, we'll figure shit out together. Okay?"
I nod again, feeling a small spark of hope for the first time in what feels like forever. "Okay. I promise."
"Good," Skye says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "And remember, if it gets too much, you can always fake food poisoning and come crash at my place. I'm only two hours away from LA. I'll even break out the good ice cream."
I laugh, wiping away a stray tear. "You're the best, you know that?"
"I know," Skye says cheekily. "Now go. And Bella? I'm proud of you. For being honest, for questioning things. That takes guts."
We say our goodbyes, and I end the call, feeling both lighter and heavier than before. Lighter, because for the first time in months, I feel like I have options. Heavier, because I just had to confront some things I'm not ready to confront.
For now, I have coffee to deliver.
I walk up to the counter as the barista sets down a tray of four lidded drinks and force a smile, murmuring a "gracias" as I gather the tray. When I turn to leave, I catch sight of a TV mounted in the corner of the cafeteria. It's tuned to a local news channel, and my heart nearly stops when I see Braxley's face splashed across the screen.
The volume is low, but I can make out enough to get the gist. They're reporting on the assassination attempt. Braxley's publicist must have been working overtime because the story they're spinning is pure fantasy.
According to the news, Braxley heroically thwarted an attack by international terrorists, saving countless lives in the process. There's even grainy cell phone footage of him "comforting" hysterical guests after the shooting. In reality, that was him having a meltdown about his ruined Armani suit, but I suppose that doesn't make for as compelling a narrative.
I tear my eyes away from the screen, feeling sick. Is this what my life is going to be? Constantly playing along with Braxley's delusions, watching as he twists reality to suit his ego?
The walk back to Braxley's room feels like a death march. Each step is an effort, as if my body is physically rebelling against returning.
As I approach the room, I hear raised voices. Braxley's father sounds angry, his words sharp and clipped. I pause outside the door, not wanting to interrupt what sounds like a heated argument.
"This is absolutely unacceptable!" Mr. Worthington is saying. "How dare you suggest that protecting my son would be an 'easy job'?"
"That isn't what I meant, sir," another voice responds, slightly tinny. Must be coming from a phone. He sounds apologetic but firm. "I simply meant that compared to their usual clientele, guarding Mr. Braxley would be less... volatile."
I lean closer, listening. Are they talking about new security?
"Less volatile?" Braxley's voice joins the fray, high and indignant. "I'll have you know I was just the target of a highly sophisticated assassination attempt! I demand the very best protection money can buy!"
"Am I on speakerphone?" the unfamiliar voice asks incredulously.
"No," Mr. Worthington and Braxley both lie at once.
The voice sighs, and I get the feeling he doesn't believe Mr. Worthington. "Right. Well, the best protection is exactly what I'm offering," the unfamiliar voice says. "This team... they're the best in the business. Ex-military, highly trained, with experience in some of the most dangerous situations imaginable. Compared to guarding mafia dons and war criminals, keeping your son safe would be?—"
"If you say 'easy' one more time, I swear to God..." Mr. Worthington growls.
"A valuable change of pace," the man finishes smoothly. "They told me in no uncertain terms that their next assignment needs to be something more laid-back after their last job went sideways. This would be ideal. A low-level threat to keep things interesting, but not too interesting."
I hope this new team knows working for the Worthingtons is the opposite of "laid-back."
"What do you mean, it went sideways?" Mr. Worthington demands.
"Well, let's just say they successfully protected their client from all external threats, but they couldn't protect him from his own habits," the voice says dryly.
There's a moment of silence, and I can almost hear the gears turning in Mr. Worthington's head.
"Fine," he says finally. "Set up a meeting. But I warn you, if they're not up to our standards..."
"They will be, sir. I guarantee it."
"Good," Mr. Worthington grumbles.
I hear a beep and take that as my cue to enter, pushing the door open with my hip. All eyes turn to me as I step into the room, and I resist the urge to shrink under their scrutiny.
"I've got the coffee," I announce, trying to sound cheerful. No one says a word to me as I start distributing the coffees. When I hand Braxley his, careful not to make eye contact, he grabs my wrist like he's on his deathbed.
"Bella," he says, his grip uncomfortably tight. "Where have you been? I've been in agony here!"
I gently extract my arm from his grasp. "I was just getting the coffee, like your mother asked."
He pouts, looking for all the world like a spoiled child. "Well, you took forever. I thought maybe you'd abandoned me because…" His voice trails off and he gestures dramatically to his perfect face.
The thought had crossed my mind, I'll admit. But not because of that. I just paste on a sympathetic smile. "Of course not. I'm here for you, Braxley. Always."
Ugh.