Chapter 5
Belle
I locked my apartment door. Tested the deadbolt twice. Told myself I was being ridiculous. Poured wine I didn't drink. Stared at bills I couldn't focus on. Tried reading—a mystery I'd sold three copies of yesterday—but the words slid past without meaning.
Gideon Jones.
His name sat in my skull like something poisonous I couldn't spit out.
I didn't want to think about him.
But my body had reacted before my brain caught up. That slow heat in my chest when he'd smiled. The way my pulse kicked when he'd said my name—familiar, intimate, like we shared something I didn't remember agreeing to.
Fucking traitorous biology.
I replayed the encounter against my will.
His voice. That easy, unhurried cadence that made every word feel deliberate. Calculated.
The way he'd stood in my doorway—not hesitant, not uncertain. Like he'd been there before. Like the space already belonged to him and he was just confirming ownership.
The smile.
God, that smile.
Calm. Certain. The expression of a man who'd never been denied anything that mattered.
Something about him felt wrong. Slimy. The kind of predatory polish that hid beneath expensive cologne and perfect teeth.
And yet.
And yet.
Some traitorous part of me had noticed the breadth of his shoulders. The way he moved—controlled, powerful, aware of every inch of space he occupied.
I hated that I'd noticed. Hated more that I was still noticing now, hours later, alone in my apartment with only wine and silence for company.
"He's just another arrogant athlete," I said aloud.
The words fell flat.
Because arrogant athletes didn't wander into failing bookstores on random mornings. Didn't know about your father's health. Didn't deliver warnings disguised as pleasantries.
Men like him didn't do anything by accident.
I'd rejected him once. A year ago at that insufferable gala, when he'd approached with that same confident smile, expecting... what? That I'd swoon? That his fame and face would override my disinterest?
I'd laughed.
Not cruelly. Just... reflexively. The absurdity of thinking we had anything in common.
He'd absorbed that rejection without flinching. Smiled like I'd done something interesting instead of insulting. And walked away.
I'd thought that was the end.
I was wrong.
The unease wouldn't leave.
Why was he there?
The question circled, relentless.
He didn't buy anything. Didn't even pretend interest in the shelves. Didn't touch a single spine or ask for recommendations. He didn't browse. Didn't flirt—not really. Not the way men usually did, all performance and expectation.
He observed.
That was what wouldn't leave me. That calm, focused attention. The way his gaze had tracked my movements like I was something to be studied. Catalogued. Learned.
He hadn't come to be entertained. He'd come to look.
At me.
At the store.
At the cracks I thought I'd hidden well enough.
I grabbed my coat before I could talk myself out of it.
Soup from the diner. Still-warm container heavy in my passenger seat.
The lemon bars from the bakery two streets over—my father's favorite, the ones he pretended not to want before eating three.
Not because I had answers. Not because anything had changed since this afternoon.
Because the silence in my apartment pressed too close.
Because every shadow felt occupied. Because alone with my thoughts meant circling the same tightening spiral: debt, collapse, that smile.
Gideon's smile.
I couldn't shake it.
The drive stretched longer than usual. Traffic lights caught me at every intersection, red bleeding into the windshield like an accusation. My hands gripped the wheel too tight. Knuckles pale. Fingers aching.
Rain started halfway there—light, misting, the kind that didn't clean anything, just made the world look smeared and uncertain.
My stomach twisted.
Not hunger. Not nausea.
Something worse. The physical manifestation of dread that had no name yet. The body knowing before the mind admitted.
Something's coming.
The hospital parking lot yawned dark and mostly empty. I circled twice before choosing a spot under a working light. Old habit. Safety theater. Like parking beneath fluorescent white would protect me from whatever shadowed the edges of my life now.
The soup sloshed when I grabbed it. Too full. I'd poured extra, needing the gesture to matter more than it could.
The lemon bars sat in their wax-paper wrapping, cheerful yellow against my palm.
Inadequate offerings.
But what else did I have? What else could I bring him except food he wouldn't finish and presence he'd insist he didn't need?
Inside, the hospital smelled like antiseptic and exhaustion. Fluorescent lights hummed their mechanical lullaby. Nurses moved past without seeing me—another worried daughter among dozens, unremarkable in my fear.
I signed in. Took the elevator. Watched the numbers climb.
Floor three.
His room.
My reflection ghosted across the steel doors before they opened. Pale. Drawn. Eyes too wide.
I looked hunted.
The thought arrived unwelcome.
Because that's what Gideon's visit had done. Stripped away the illusion of control. Reminded me that someone was watching. Waiting.
For what?
The doors opened. I stepped into the hallway, soup cooling in my hands, and didn't let myself hesitate. I stepped out of the elevator. Froze.
A man stood near the entrance—tall, broad-shouldered, dark jacket cutting a familiar silhouette against the pale hospital corridor.
My breath stopped.
Gideon.
The soup container slipped in my grip. I caught it before it fell, pulse hammering against my ribs like something caged and desperate.
He turned slightly.
I blinked. Looked again.
Gone.
Just empty hallway. A janitor pushing a cart. A couple arguing in hushed tones near the water fountain. No dark jacket. No broad shoulders. No one watching.
Stress does that, I told myself. Makes shadows into shapes. Strangers into threats.
But the unease didn't fade.
It sharpened.
Crystallized into something cold and certain beneath my sternum.
Because maybe I'd imagined him.
Or maybe I hadn't.
Maybe he'd been there long enough to be seen, then vanished before I could confirm.
Why would he be here?
The question felt wrong. Dangerous. Like asking it out loud would make the answer real.
I forced myself forward. Past the spot where the figure had stood. My father's room three doors down.
The lemon bars felt heavier now. Like an apology I couldn't articulate yet.
I pushed open the door.
Dad sat propped against pillows, color blooming across his cheeks in a way that looked wrong. Too bright. Feverish or false—I couldn't tell which.
He grinned when he saw me. Wide. Performative. "There's my girl."
The words landed like stones.
I crossed to the bedside chair, set the soup on the tray table. The lemon bars beside it. Yellow wax paper cheerful against sterile white.
"Brought dinner."
"You didn't have to do that." He reached for the soup, anyway. Hands steadier than this afternoon. "They feed me here. Rubber chicken and all."
His laugh scraped.
I didn't join. Just watched him pretend. Watched the careful way he lifted the container. The slight tremor he thought I wouldn't notice. The pause before speaking—like words took effort he was rationing.
"Doctor says I can probably go home tomorrow."
Probably.
That qualifier hung between us.
"That's good."
"Stop looking at me like that." He set the soup down untouched. "I'm fine, Belle. Really. Just overdid it at the store."
Liar.
But I didn't say it.
Didn't push.
Because pushing meant hearing truths neither of us could afford right now. Meant numbers and prognoses and words like monitoring and lifestyle changes that translated to money we didn't have.
"The lemon bars are fresh."
"You spoil me."
He unwrapped one. Took a bite. Chewed slowly.
Too slowly.
My chest tightened. Not panic. Not yet. Just the steady constriction of watching someone you loved dissolve by degrees. Watching them smile through it. Insist everything's fine while their body contradicts every word.
"Store doing okay?" he asked.
Another lie I'd have to tell.
"Yeah. Fine."
"Good. That's good."
Silence stretched. Rain pattered against the window—harder now, insistent. The kind that found cracks and exploited them.
I thought about Gideon standing in my doorway. That deliberate pause. The warning wrapped in concern.
Take care of your family, Belle.
Like he knew. Like he'd been waiting for this exact collapse.
My father finished the lemon bar. Reached for another.
"You should go home," he said. "Get some rest. You look exhausted."
I probably did. Felt it too. But exhaustion was easier than the alternative. Easier than going home to an empty apartment and shadows that looked too much like watching men.
"I'll stay a bit longer."
He didn't argue. Just settled back against the pillows, color already fading from his cheeks. Leaving him pale again. Mortal. Breakable.
I waited until he'd finished the second lemon bar. Until his breathing evened and some of the tension left his shoulders.
"We need to talk about money."
His expression shuttered immediately. The warmth draining like someone had pulled a plug.
"Belle—"
"The hospital bills. The insurance gap. The store barely breaking even." I kept my voice level. Reasonable. "We need to figure this out."
"There's nothing to figure out." He shifted against the pillows, jaw tight. "I told you, I'm handling it."
"How?"
"You're worrying too much."
The dismissal landed like a slap.
"Dad—"
"I said I'm handling it." Sharper now. "You don't understand how these things work."
Something hot flared beneath my ribs.
"I understand math." My hands fisted in my lap. "I understand overdue notices. I understand hospitals don't accept optimism as payment."
His face flushed—that wrong, feverish color returning. "Don't talk to me like I'm a child."
"Then stop acting like one."