2. Bella
— ? —
Bella
I stare across at Adrian Sterling, certain I’ve misheard him. The pain in my hands and knee, the exhaustion, the emotional devastation - it’s all making me hallucinate. That has to be it.
“A job,” I repeat flatly.
“A job,” Adrian confirms. His hand is still extended toward me, steady and patient. “But first, let’s get you taken care of. You’re bleeding.”
I look down at my palms. Blood is indeed trickling from the scrapes, mixing with the dirt and grime from the sidewalk. My knee throbs where it hit the concrete, and I can feel the sting of torn skin through the layers of silk and tulle.
I should refuse his help. I should tell him to go to hell and leave me alone. Adrian Sterling is Marcus’s enemy, and by extension, he should be mine too.
But Marcus just left me at the altar and drove away with my sister. So maybe the enemy of my enemy is… something. I don’t know what. My brain is too scrambled to work out the logic.
I take Adrian’s hand again.
His grip is firm and warm as he pulls me to my feet with surprising gentleness. I sway slightly, my legs unsteady, and his other hand comes to my elbow to steady me.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “When’s the last time you ate?”
I try to remember. Breakfast? Did I eat breakfast? Sarah brought me a croissant and coffee in the bridal suite, but I was too nervous and excited to eat more than a few bites. That was… God, that feels like a lifetime ago.
“I don’t remember,” I admit.
Adrian nods as if this confirms something. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. It’s warm from his body heat and smells like expensive cologne - cedar and something darker, more complex.
“There’s a café around the corner,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up and get some food in you. Then we can talk.”
“I don’t want to talk,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie. I desperately want to talk, to understand what just happened to my life. I just don’t want to talk to Adrian Sterling, of all people.
“Then you can listen,” Adrian says with a slight smile. “I’m very good at talking.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand. I want to drink,” I say like I’m speaking to a five-year-old. Adrian blinks in surprise. “I need to drink,” I explain.
“Okay,” he says. “But only if I can drink with you.”
Despite everything, I feel a hysterical laugh bubble up in my throat. It comes out sounding more like a sob.
Adrian’s expression softens. “Come on, Isabella. Let me help you.”
The use of my full name - not Bella, which everyone calls me, but Isabella - makes me look at him more closely. There’s something in his eyes that isn’t pity, isn’t amusement. It’s something else entirely. Something that looks almost like… understanding?
“Why?” I ask. “Why do you want to help me? You hate Marcus. This should be…” I gesture vaguely at myself, at my ruined dress and tear-stained face. “This should be entertaining for you.”
“I don’t hate Marcus,” Adrian says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, something sharp and dangerous. “Hate implies I think about him enough to have strong feelings. What I feel for Marcus Webb is much simpler: contempt.”
The venom in those words makes me take a step back. Adrian notices and his expression smooths out again, becoming carefully neutral.
“But you’re not Marcus,” he continues. “And what happened to you today isn’t entertaining. It’s cruel. And I have no patience for cruelty.”
I want to argue, want to tell him that he doesn’t know anything about me or what happened. But I’m so tired. Tired of standing, tired of thinking, tired of trying to make sense of a world that just revealed itself to be built on lies.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Okay, fine. Coffee. And then you can explain why you think I’d ever want to work for you.”
Adrian’s smile returns, and this time it reaches his eyes. “Excellent. This way.”
He starts walking, and after a moment’s hesitation, I follow.
I’m acutely aware of how I must look - a bride in a stained and torn wedding dress, wearing a man’s suit jacket, limping slightly from my injured knee.
People stare as we pass, but Adrian seems completely unbothered by the attention.
He walks with the confidence of someone who’s used to being looked at, used to being the most important person in any room.
The café he leads me to is small and quiet, tucked between a bookstore and a wine shop.
It’s the kind of place that caters to locals rather than tourists, with mismatched furniture and art on the walls from local artists.
The barista behind the counter looks up as we enter, her eyes widening at the sight of my dress.
“Private room in the back,” Adrian says, pulling out his wallet and handing the barista what looks like several hundred-dollar bills. “We won’t be disturbed. Coffee, water, and whatever food you have. Lots of it.”
The barista nods mutely, still staring at me.
Adrian guides me through the café to a small room in the back that’s clearly meant for private meetings or small parties. It has a single table, a few chairs, and a door that closes, shutting out the curious stares from the main room.
I sink into one of the chairs, suddenly aware of how much my feet hurt. I’ve been walking in heels for hours, and my feet are covered in blisters. I reach down to unbuckle the straps, hissing in pain as I pull the shoes off.
“Let me see your hands,” Adrian says, pulling his chair around to sit beside me rather than across from me.
I hold out my palms. The scrapes aren’t deep, but they’re dirty and still bleeding sluggishly. Adrian pulls a handkerchief from his pocket - an actual cloth handkerchief, like something from another era - and gently dabs at the wounds.
“This might sting,” he warns, pulling out a small bottle of hand sanitizer.
It does sting. I bite my lip to keep from crying out as the alcohol burns through the scrapes. But Adrian’s touch is gentle, almost tender, as he cleans the wounds and then wraps the handkerchief around my worst palm.
“Your knee too,” he says, gesturing to where blood has soaked through my dress.
“It’s fine,” I say automatically.
“It’s not fine. Let me see.”
There’s something in his voice - not quite a command, but close - that makes me find myself hiking up the layers of my dress to expose my knee. The skin is badly scraped, already starting to bruise around the edges.
Adrian makes a disapproving sound and uses another handkerchief to clean the wound.
His hands on my leg are impersonal, clinical, but I still feel a flush of heat that has nothing to do with pain.
I blame it on shock. I’m in shock. That’s the only explanation for why my body is reacting to the touch of a man who’s practically a stranger.
The barista knocks and enters with a tray laden with coffee, water, sandwiches, and pastries. She sets it on the table without a word and leaves quickly, closing the door behind her.
“Eat,” Adrian says, pushing a sandwich toward me.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway. You’re going to crash if you don’t get some food in you.”
I want to argue, but my hands are already reaching for the sandwich. Turkey and avocado on sourdough. I take a bite and am surprised by how good it tastes, how hungry I actually am. I eat half the sandwich in silence while Adrian watches me, sipping his own coffee.
“Better?” he asks when I’ve finished.
I nod reluctantly. The food has helped. I feel more grounded now, more present in my body. Which means I can no longer avoid the conversation I know is coming.
“Why are you here?” I ask. “And don’t tell me it’s a coincidence. You said you were looking for me.”
Adrian sets down his coffee cup and leans back in his chair, studying me with those unusual gray-green eyes.
“I was at the Grandview,” he says. “Not for the wedding - I wasn’t invited, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I scoff.
He smirks. “Look, I know it sounds weird, and I don’t want to get into what I was doing there right now, but… I saw… well, I saw the aftermath. Guests leaving early, looking uncomfortable. Staff whispering. It wasn’t hard to figure out that something had gone wrong.”
“So you decided to follow me?” My voice is sharp. “That’s not creepy at all.”
“I asked. The valet told me what happened,” Adrian continues, ignoring my sarcasm. “He told me the groom had left. That the bride had run out of the hotel in her dress, clearly upset. I asked which direction you’d gone.”
“Why?” I demand. “Why would you care?”
Adrian is quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than before.
“Because six months ago, I tried to warn you about Marcus Webb. And you didn’t listen. And I’ve been watching you ever since, waiting for the day when you’d finally see him for what he really is.”
The words send a chill down my spine. “You’ve been watching me?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Adrian says quickly.
“I haven’t been stalking you or anything creepy like that.
But I’ve been… aware of you. Aware of your relationship with Marcus.
Aware that you were planning to marry him.
And I knew - I knew - that he would hurt you eventually. Men like Marcus always do.”
“Men like Marcus,” I repeat. “What does that mean?”
Adrian’s jaw tightens. “It means men who are more concerned with appearances than substance. Men who see other people as tools to be used rather than human beings to be respected. Men who will do anything - hurt anyone - to get what they want.”
There’s real anger in his voice now, and I find myself leaning forward, drawn in despite myself.
“You said you were offering me a job,” I say. “Why? What could you possibly want from me?”
Adrian’s smile returns, but this time it’s different. Sharper. More calculating.
“I want you to work for me,” he says. “I need someone with your skills - your analytical mind, your attention to detail, your understanding of the industry. And I think you need a fresh start. A way to rebuild your life that doesn’t involve Marcus Webb.”