1. Bella #4
What am I supposed to do in a situation like this? Am I supposed to apologize?
The sidewalk is crowded with Saturday afternoon pedestrians, and I have to dodge around them, my dress making me clumsy and conspicuous. I can hear whispers trailing me in my wake, following like a snake’s tail follows it:
“Is that a bride?”
“Oh my God, is she okay?”
“Should we call someone?”
I walk faster, trying to outrun the concern and the pity and the curious stares.
Eventually, the memories of the past, the pieces I’m putting together, the red flags I’m only just now seeing, coupled with the present humiliation I just endured, just all become too much.
I break into a run. I don’t know who I’m running from. No one is chasing me.
But still, I run. I turn down a side street, then another, until I find myself in a quieter neighborhood I don’t recognize.
I think I’m at this point delirious. Things fly by me in a blur. I don’t even consider how unsafe it might be for a woman to be out alone in certain parts of the city.
Eventually my heel catches on an uneven piece of sidewalk.
I go down hard, my hands instinctively shooting out to break my fall. But before I do, I realize I was sobbing even before I fell. The pain that blooms through me is nothing compared to the pain in my chest. I feel the impact jar through my wrists, feel my palms scrape against rough concrete.
For a moment, I just lie there, sprawled on the ground in my ruined wedding dress, too exhausted and heartbroken to get up. Maybe I’ll die here. It sure feels like it, and I don’t have it in me to move. To fight.
Fight for what? As far as I’m concerned, my life ended when Marcus stood me up at the altar. Blood wells up from my scraped palms, and I can feel a sharp pain in my knee where it hit the pavement.
This is it. This is rock bottom. Lying on a dirty sidewalk in a wedding dress, bleeding and alone, while my fiancé drives off with my sister.
“Are you hurt?”
The deep, intense voice comes from above me, masculine and concerned. I look up slowly, squinting against the sun, and when I put a hand over my eyes, I see a man’s broad-shouldered silhouette looming. The first thing I see is a dark beard and sharp, assessing eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though I’m very clearly not fine. I try to push myself up, but my hands are shaking too badly.
“Here.” The man crouches down beside me, and I get my first clear look at him.
He’s handsome - devastatingly so. Early thirties, with dark hair styled perfectly, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that are an unusual shade of gray-green.
They remind me of a storm for some reason, and I can’t stop looking into them deeply.
It doesn’t help that he’s making eye contact with me like it’s his life’s mission.
He wears an expensive suit. The color of it is black, and it fits him like a glove, like it’s been tailored specifically for his body.
Peeking out from above the collar of his white dress shirt is a tattoo along his neck and throat on one side, curling around his ear and onto his face right where his hairline connects to his beard.
There’s something about the way he carries himself, about the cunning in the depth of his gaze, that speaks of wealth and power.
He’s also smirking at me, only one corner of his lips pulled up smugly, which seems wildly inappropriate given the circumstances.
“Let me help you up,” he says in a rumbling voice that turns my insides to goo, extending a massive hand.
I stare at that hand for a long moment, my mind sluggish and confused.
My brow furrows, my mouth parting. There’s something familiar about this man, something I can’t quite place. Maybe it’s those strange eyes I recognize. Maybe it’s the face. It’s probably the tattoos that are ringing a bell.
Have I seen him before?
Then he does it again, the thing that actually made me recognize him. That smug, self-assured smirk.
And it clicks in my head.
“You,” I breathe, recognition flooding through me. I jerk back, recoiling in on myself. “You’re Adrian Sterling.”
He freezes for a split second and then retracts his hand, taking several steps back away from me. He slips his hands easily into his suit pockets and begins to stroll casually, shoulders back, head held up high.
His smile widens into an all-out grin, and there’s something in his eyes - something knowing, something that makes my skin prickle with unease.
Those eyes zero in on me like lasers.
“Good girl,” he croons, and now I’m the one going stiff. Then Adrian points a finger at me. “You’re goddamn right I am,” he confirms. “And you’re Isabella Hayes. Or you were supposed to be Isabella Webb about…” He glances at his watch uselessly. “two hours ago, if I’m not mistaken.”
I grind my teeth together so hard that it jars my brain in my skull.
The casual way he says it, the fact that he knows about my wedding, sends a chill down my spine despite the warm afternoon air.
“How do you…” I trail off, my mind racing.
Adrian Sterling is Marcus’s biggest rival in the business world.
They’ve been competing for contracts and clients for years, their mutual animosity well-known in their industry.
I’ve seen Adrian a handful of times at various corporate events, have felt his eyes on me more than once, have heard Marcus complain about him constantly.
Have seen that smirk that is so recognizable and distinct.
And once, at a business conference about six months ago, Adrian pulled me aside and said something I dismissed at the time: “Marcus Webb isn’t who you think he is. You should be careful.”
I thought he was just trying to mess with me, to plant seeds of doubt about my relationship so that he could get to Marcus through me. I told Marcus about it, and he laughed it off, called Adrian a jealous bastard who couldn’t stand to see other people happy.
But now, looking up at Adrian Sterling’s knowing smile, I wonder if I’ve been the one that was wrong all along.
I stare up at him, swallowing to get past my dry mouth.
“Are you here to gloat?” I ask, my voice coming out harsher than I intended.
Maybe the only resounding emotion I have left in me is raw, undiluted rage.
“Did you come to see the aftermath of your warning? To tell me you told me so?” I glare.
Adrian’s expression shifts, becoming more serious. He stands and offers his hand again.
“No,” he says quietly. “Even better. I’m here to offer you a job.”
I stare at that hand, the memories of today and the past few months flying past me, disappearing until there’s just that extended hand. I consider it, consider all that it will mean.
This time I take it.
When Adrian helps me to my feet, I give him a smirk of my own, my hand still resting gently in the palm of his.
“Let’s be honest, Adrian,” I murmur. “You’re here to offer me revenge.”
Something flickers in those strange eyes. Adrian pulls my hand to his lips and kisses the top of it gently, his eyes trained on me the whole time.
“Good girl.”