Chapter 4 - Richard #2
"I didn't know for certain until six months later," I continue.
"You came to a family dinner wearing a long-sleeved dress in the middle of summer.
Victoria made some comment about you being overdressed, and when you reached for your water glass, the sleeve rode up.
I saw the bruises. Finger marks, clear as day. "
"I remember that dinner." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "You asked to speak with me privately afterward. Nathan wouldn't let you."
"He said you were tired, that he needed to get you home. Made it seem like he was being considerate." I clench my jaw, remembering my own impotence at that moment. "I tried to call you the next day. Your phone was disconnected."
"He took it away that night. Said I was spending too much time texting friends, ignoring him. That we needed to focus on our relationship." She laughs without humor. "That was the beginning of him cutting me off from everyone."
The casual way she describes it, like isolation is just something that happened, not something weaponized against her, makes me want to break something. Preferably Nathan's face.
"I should have done more," I say. "Should have called the police, gotten lawyers involved, something. Instead, I just... watched. Tried to offer help when I could but never pushed hard enough."
"If you'd pushed harder, he would have cut me off from you too.
At least this way, I knew someone saw. Someone knew.
" She meets my eyes. "That mattered, Richard.
On the really bad nights, when I thought about just...
ending it... I'd remember that you knew.
That someone gave a shit. It kept me alive. "
The idea that Belle was ever that desperate, that close to the edge, while I sat in boardrooms and made money and did nothing—
"Don't," she says, reading my expression. "Don't take that on yourself too. You're not responsible for Nathan's abuse or my response to it. You were the only good thing in that whole situation. Don't turn that into another reason to hate yourself."
She's right. Rationally, intellectually, I know she's right. But rationality has never been my strong suit where Belle is concerned.
"Tell me something," I say, desperate to change the subject. To think about anything except my failures. "What did you love most? Before Nathan, before everything. What made you happy?"
She's quiet for a moment, considering. "Museums," she says finally. "I used to spend entire Saturdays at art museums. Would bring a sketchbook and just... sit. Look at the paintings, try to understand what the artist was thinking. Why they made the choices they made."
"You draw?"
"Used to. Not very well, but I enjoyed it." A small smile touches her lips. "My mom always said I had more appreciation than talent, which was her nice way of saying I sucked."
"I doubt that."
"No, she was right. I'm much better at analyzing art than creating it. Which is why I wanted the art history degree. I wanted to work in a museum, help curate collections, and write catalog descriptions. Make art accessible to people who might be intimidated by it."
The passion in her voice when she talks about it does something to me. Makes me want to give her that dream back, fund the degree, buy her a fucking museum if that's what it takes to see her light up like this more often.
Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous impulses.
"What stopped you?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Mom and Dad died. Car accident, very sudden.
They had some life insurance, but not enough to cover both the funeral costs and my tuition.
I had to choose between finishing school or keeping my health insurance.
" She shrugs, but I can see the pain underneath.
"Then I met Nathan six months later, and he said I didn't need to work, that he'd take care of everything. It seemed like a gift at the time."
"It was a trap."
"Yeah." She pulls her knees tighter to her chest. "Took me a while to figure that out though. By the time I did, I was already caught."
We sit in silence for a moment.
I should leave. Should let her get some rest, put distance between us before I do something stupid like cross this room and pull her into my arms.
Before I tell her that I've been obsessed with her for two years, that she's haunted my dreams and my waking thoughts in equal measure, that having her here in my house is both the best and worst thing that's ever happened to me.
"Richard?" Her voice is soft, hesitant.
"Thank you for staying. For listening. I know it's late, and you probably have work in the morning, and I'm keeping you from—"
"You're not keeping me from anything. There's nowhere else I'd rather be right now than here, making sure you're okay."
The smile that spreads across Belle's face at my words is devastating. It's the kind of smile that could bring a man to his knees, that could make him forget every rule he's ever lived by, every boundary he's sworn to maintain.
My cock throbs against my pajama pants, straining harder at that smile.
At the way her eyes light up, the way her whole face transforms from haunted to hopeful.
I shift slightly, keeping my leg positioned to hide the obvious bulge, and pray she's too innocent or too tired to notice what she's doing to me.
"You should try to get some sleep," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "It's late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. You need rest."
"Will you be okay? You said you don't sleep much."
The concern in her voice for me, when she's the one who just escaped hell, makes everything worse. Makes me want things I have no right to want.
"I'll be fine. I'll probably work for a while, answer some emails." I force myself to stand, ignoring the way my body protests the movement. "But you're safe here, Belle. The doors are locked, the security is active, and I'm right downstairs if you need anything. You can actually rest."
She nods, settling deeper into the pillows, and I watch her eyes start to drift closed. "Thank you, Richard. For everything."
I should say something appropriate. Something professional and distant. Instead I say, "Goodnight, Belle. Sweet dreams."
I make myself walk to the door, pull it closed behind me with a soft click. Make it three steps down the hallway before I have to stop and lean against the wall, breathing hard.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My cock is achingly hard, pressed against my zipper in a way that's almost painful. I'm forty-five goddamn years old, successful enough to buy anything I want, experienced enough to have perfect control over my body's responses.
And yet here I am, hard as a fucking teenager from a conversation. From sitting in the same room as Belle, watching her smile, listening to her talk about art and dreams and the life Nathan stole from her.
I'm a terrible person. The worst kind of man, the kind who gets aroused by his son's traumatized ex-fiancée, who sports a raging hard-on while she processes her abuse. Who has to literally hide his erection behind strategic leg positioning because he can't control his base impulses.
I should have tried harder with Nathan. Should have fought Victoria more viciously for custody, should have documented her manipulation, should have been present instead of building an empire.
Should have shaped him into something better, someone who doesn't beat women and treat them like possessions.
If I'd been a better father, Belle never would have suffered. Never would have spent two years being isolated and controlled and hurt. She'd be happy, whole, finishing her art history degree and working in some museum.
She certainly wouldn't be here, in my house, looking at me like I'm some kind of savior when I'm just a failure who couldn't even protect his own son from becoming a monster.
I hate myself for this, for wanting Belle while simultaneously carrying the weight of Nathan's sins. For being hard when I should be focused solely on her safety, her recovery, her needs.