As their conversation trailed away, Belle stood plastered against the wall feeling utterly, devastatingly, irreparably humiliated.
The handsome, legendary, born in a castle with a silver spoon in their mouths Bennett Brothers had competed to win her, a human being.
And she’d fallen for it. Not only with James but also, if not to the same extent, with Miles even though she’d always known something was off about him. Now she knew exactly what it was and, in hindsight, it was glaringly obvious.
Worse, Joy and Yasmin felt they needed to protect her like she was some naïve idiot unable to look out for herself.
Worse than that, they were right.
She was a stupid, silly, foolish, naïve idiot.
Belle choked back tears as she peeked around the corner and saw the hall deserted. Joy and Yasmin had disappeared.
Then she ran to her room like the very devil was at her back.
She had to get out of there.
Immediately.
She knew all along this wasn’t a safe place.
And she was right.
She should have listened to herself.
She now understood the reason she wrapped herself in cotton wool. To protect herself from this kind of irrevocable damage because it hurt worse than anything she could ever imagine. Worse than a broken arm. Worse than a sprained ankle. Worse than anything.
She threw open the door to her room and charged in only to come to an immediate, rocking halt.
And this was because Miles was lying on her bed clothed in his tuxedo without the jacket or tie but still wearing his shoes. He had his arms lifted, his head resting on his hands. He looked, for all the world, like a man in thoughtful repose.
When she arrived, his eyes turned to her, they took in her face, her hair, James’s shirt and they narrowed dangerously.
Then his voice, low and trembling with fury, came at her, lacerating her frayed nerves and exacerbating her already overwhelming humiliation.
“He f**ked you,” Miles declared.
At his awful but very true words, Belle jolted out of her horrified stance and ran to her handbag. Throwing her dress and shoes in the direction of her suitcase, she turned and dug in her purse to find her phone.
“You let him f**k you,” Miles’s voice said from behind her.
She pulled out her mobile and bent her head to it, her mind racing, her thumb touching the screen, her shaky hand making her call nearly impossible.
“Belle,” Miles called.
He was closer. She could hear it and she could feel it and it terrified her.
She hit the call button and put the phone to her ear.
“Belle, I’m talking to you.” Miles’s voice was changing, his tone had turned biting. She didn’t have to look at him to know his anger was fierce.
She’d heard that tone before, dozens of times and her fear escalated alarmingly.
The call connected and she asked to be put through to a taxi service.
“Belle, put down the f**king phone,” Miles demanded but the call went through and Belle moved. Digging in her bag, she pulled out a pair of jeans.
“Belle, I said put down the f**king phone.” Miles’s voice was getting louder but Belle, beginning to panic and almost unable to cope with her stifling humiliation, ignored him, focussing solely on escape.