6. Bella
BELLA
The call comes at noon.
I'm in the kitchen with Demi, learning how to make her grandmother's tamales recipe, when Rogue's phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, and something in his expression shifts. Goes cold and hard in a way I'm starting to recognize.
"Yeah," he says into the phone. Listens. "How many?" Another pause. "Let them through."
Demi's hands still over the masa. "What is it?"
"Three SUVs at the gate. Guy in a suit, blonde hair." Rogue's eyes meet mine, and I know we're both thinking the same thing. "I told the prospect to let them through."
"I want to be there," I say.
"Bella—"
"I need to be there. I need to see this through." I hold his gaze. "I'm done hiding. I'm done letting other people fight my battles."
Something flickers in Rogue's expression. Pride, maybe. Or recognition.
"You stay behind me until I say otherwise. Understood?"
"Understood."
He nods once, then turns to Demi. "Get King. Tell him we've got company."
The main room feels different when I walk in.
The club has assembled — not in a threatening formation, nothing so obvious, but they're there.
Diesel by the bar, arms folded across his massive chest. Ghost leaning against the wall near the back hallway, looking bored in a way that's somehow more menacing than aggression.
King in one of the armchairs, relaxed, like he's just waiting for a show to start.
And Lock — silent, still, standing near the door with those flat eyes that give nothing away.
Rogue positions himself in the center of the room, and I hang back in the hallway. Watching. Waiting.
The front door opens.
Preston's hired muscle comes in first. Four of them, big men in dark suits.
They spread out, trying to establish presence, but I can see the uncertainty in the way they move.
They're used to intimidating people who scare easy.
The leather, the patches, the men watching them with flat, unimpressed eyes — they don't know how to read any of it.
And then Preston walks in.
He looks exactly the same. Perfectly tailored suit, blonde hair artfully styled, that smile that used to make me feel like I'd won something. Like being chosen by him was a prize I should be grateful for. Now it just makes my stomach turn.
His eyes scan the room, cataloging the bar, the pool table, the leather-clad men watching him with expressions ranging from bored to murderous. If he's intimidated, he doesn't show it. Preston has never been intimidated by anything in his life. Money has always insulated him from consequences.
His gaze lands on Rogue, and his smile widens.
"I'm looking for my fiancée," he says pleasantly, like he's asking for directions. "I believe she's been staying here."
"Your fiancée?" Rogue's voice is casual. Almost friendly. "Don't know anything about that. We did take in a woman a few days back, though. She was running from some rich prick who thought he owned her." He tilts his head. "That you?"
Preston's smile doesn't waver, but something cold flickers in his eyes. "There seems to be a misunderstanding. Arabella and I had a disagreement. She got emotional, you know how women can be, and made some impulsive decisions. I'm simply here to bring her home where she belongs."
"Where she belongs." Rogue says the words slowly, like he's tasting them. "See, that's interesting. Because the way she tells it, she doesn't belong to you. Never did. And she's got the bruises to prove you had trouble accepting that."
For the first time, Preston's composure cracks. Just slightly — a tightening around his eyes, a barely perceptible flare of his nostrils.
"I don't know what she's told you, but Arabella has always had a flair for the dramatic. Whatever she's claimed—"
"I haven't claimed anything."
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I step out from the hallway, and Preston's eyes snap to me.
For a moment, something flickers across his face. Satisfaction, maybe. Or triumph.
"There you are, sweetie." His voice goes soft, coaxing — the voice he used when he wanted something from me. "I've been so worried. Your father's been calling every day. Your mother is beside herself. You can't imagine what you've put us through."
"Don't call me sweetie."
The words come out steady. Stronger than I feel.
Preston blinks. "Arabella—"
"My name is Bella. And I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Sweetheart, be reasonable." He takes a step forward, and suddenly Rogue is there, blocking his path.
"That's close enough."
Preston looks at Rogue like he's looking at the help. That particular brand of contempt that old money reserves for anyone they consider beneath them.
"I don't know what she's told you," Preston says, still using that reasonable tone, "but this is a private matter between me and my fiancée. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement. Name your price."
"My price?"
"For your trouble. For putting her up, feeding her, whatever you've done." Preston reaches into his jacket, and three things happen simultaneously: Lock takes a step forward, Ghost's hand moves toward his hip, and Rogue goes very, very still.
But all Preston pulls out is a checkbook.
"I'm a reasonable man," he continues, completely oblivious to how close he just came to bleeding out in this room. "I understand that nothing in this world is free. So let's dispense with the posturing and talk numbers. Fifty thousand? A hundred?"
Rogue stares at him for a long moment. Then he laughs.
It's not a friendly sound.
"You think you can buy your way out of this?" He shakes his head, still laughing. "You walk into my clubhouse, insult my intelligence, and wave your checkbook around like that means something here?"
He takes a step closer to Preston, and for the first time, I see real fear flicker across my ex-fiancé's face.
"Let me explain something to you, since you seem to be having trouble understanding. Bella isn't property. She isn't something you can buy or sell or own. She's a person who made a choice — and she didn't choose you."
"She doesn't know what she wants. She's confused, emotional—"
"She knows exactly what she wants. And it isn't you." Rogue's voice drops lower. "Now here's what's going to happen. You're going to get back in your fancy car. You're going to drive back to whatever country club you crawled out of. And you're going to forget Arabella Macintosh ever existed."
"And if I don't?"
"Then things get a lot less pleasant for you."
Preston draws himself up, trying to regain his dignity. "Are you threatening me? Do you have any idea who I am? Who my family is? I have connections that could make your life very difficult—"
"You've got money and an ego," Rogue says flatly.
"In here, that doesn't mean shit. What I've got is a club full of men who've already decided they don't like you.
What I've got is a woman who's asked for my protection, and I take that seriously.
What I've got—" he gestures around the room, at the silent, watching men, "—is a lot of people who would be more than happy to show you what happens when you push us. "
One of Preston's men shifts, his hand moving toward his jacket.
Lock moves.
I don't even see it happen — one moment he's standing still as a statue, the next the hired muscle is on the ground, gasping, with Lock's boot on his chest. Nobody else has moved. Nobody else has even twitched. It's like watching a snake strike.
"Don't even fucking think about it," Lock says quietly, looking down at the man beneath his boot. It's the first words I've heard him speak all day.
The other three hired men freeze, hands raised, eyes wide. They're not used to this. They're used to intimidating accountants and middle managers, not men who've seen real violence and dealt plenty of their own.
"This going the way you planned?" Rogue asks Preston conversationally. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like your boys are out of their depth, you've got no cards left to play, and you're about thirty seconds away from finding out just how unpleasant things can get."
Preston's face has gone pale. The smug confidence is gone, replaced by something I've never seen on him before: genuine fear.
"You can't do this," he says, but his voice has lost its smoothness. "I'll have lawyers here within the hour. I'll have police—"
"And tell them what?" Rogue raises an eyebrow. "That you trespassed on private property with your armed goons, trying to force a woman to come with you against her will? Go ahead. Make that call. See how it plays out."
Silence stretches across the room.
Preston looks at me, and for a moment — just a moment — I see the man I thought I knew.
The charming, confident, golden boy who made me feel special for being chosen.
But I see him clearly now. The manipulation behind the charm.
The control behind the confidence. The emptiness where a soul should be.
"Arabella." His voice is different now. Smaller. "Please. We can work this out. Whatever I did wrong, I can fix it. You know I love you. Just come home, and we'll talk—"
"Don't lie." I step forward, past Rogue, and I feel the weight of every eye in the room on me. "You don't love me. You never did. You love the power. The control. The idea of having a wife who looks right, does what she's told, and comes from the right family."
I'm shaking, but my voice holds steady.
"I spent three years believing this was as good as it gets. That I should be grateful our families paired us off and called it love. That your affairs and your put-downs and your control were just the price I had to pay for security."
"My mother taught me that this was normal.
That men will be men, and women endure. But she was wrong, Preston.
She was wrong about everything. Because I've seen what a real man looks like now.
One who protects without possessing. Who wants me for me, not for what I represent.
Who would never in a million years make me feel the way you did. "