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“Bring her by tonight. It’s about time you take your wife on a date. I’ll close up early.” Her stern look was back. “And you two can talk.”
The idea of sitting with Beatrice in his favorite, dimly lit restaurant was appealing. He used to conduct business out of there regularly. It was a safe place, even when he was a child, despite its links to the business.
“But, Montrell,” Giulia warned, punctuating her point with a raised finger, “you have to be honest with your wife tonight.”
He frowned. “I’ve always been honest with her.”
Her eyes studied him, but some of her scowl eased. “Then I’m worrying about nothing. Now, you clean this mess up. It’s not for your men to clean up your tantrums.”
“Yes, Miss Giulia,” he murmured. The conference room really was a mess.
Giulia nodded with satisfaction, careful as she made her way back to the door.
“Beatrice is the wife for me,” Montrell said, watching her pause to consider his words. “I can’t help wishing I’d gone after her years ago, but I don’t regret having her here now.”
Giulia shook her head. “Wishing for the past to change is a waste of time. Every step led you both to today.” She shook her finger at him. “You’re not God, Montrell. Don’t get too full of yourself. Remember, we’re on His timing, not our own. He knows what He’s doing.” She slipped out of the room.
Montrell wasn’t a religious person despite how hard Giulia had tried to make him one. He’d seen too much to believe there was a pattern to the world, but the idea that he and Beatrice were meant to be together was a nice one.
He looked around at the mess he’d made. Hopefully his sudden temper hadn’t ruined what he’d built with her so far.
Chapter 19
Beatrice made it all the way to her room before she realized she’d run away. She’d run from Montrell.
He’d kept her safe the night before. He’d let her cry and had held her tight. No one had ever done that for her. She’d been disappointed to wake up alone.
But when his hands had slammed on the table and he’d barked his order for everyone to leave, instinct had kicked in. Montrell had seemed angry, and she’d fled to the sound of something breaking behind her.
Her hands shook as she reached for the pearl cuffs she’d stared at for quite a while that morning before leaving them on top of her dresser. Tugging them into place made them feel more like handcuffs, but they perfectly hid the scars.
Montrell’s eyes had locked onto the scar in the conference room. Then they’d shuttered in a way she’d never seen before. When she’d mentioned not wanting to be alive, there had been a moment when Montrell had held her too tightly, but then his hands had become so gentle, and she’d felt safe and accepted.
When he’d actually seen the scars, he’d been angry. Anger never fed into gentleness, not in her experience. It fed into destruction, just as it had today.
But Montrell hadn’t taken his anger out on her. She reminded herself of that fact as her fingers brushed over the bracelets, making sure her scars were covered. She forced her feet to carry her out of the room.
She wasn’t afraid of Montrell, but repeating that fact in her head didn’t slow her heartbeat as she headed down the stairs.
The night before, she’d thought he understood, so she’d tried to leave her wrists bare for the first time since she’d earned the scars. But she hadn’t prepared him for them, hadn’t admitted to them. Wanting to die was different from trying to take your own life. She’d understood that when she couldn’t do it. Not that she blamed others who tried, or even succeeded in making the choice. She understood how they could, but when she’d faced her moment of choice, a yearning and euphoria had hit her. The razor had gone limp in her hands, and a sense of helplessness had followed because she was going to have to live in hell a while longer. Her husband had found her while she was grappling with her emotions, and he’d tried to finish what she started.
If she hadn’t hated him before that moment, it would have sealed that feeling for her. He’d proven that he controlled even that decision. The fear from him taking her choice away had made her cling all the more tightly to life.
She wanted Montrell to know that.
As the conference room door loomed closer, her steps slowed more and more. Not even her heels made a sound. She expected to hear more crashing inside. Instead she heard his voice, filled with so much emotion her own eyes filled.
“I wish I’d been the one to kill her husband.”
Beatrice knew that. Her hand rested on the door as she tried to gather the courage to open it.
“You always did have a savior complex,” she heard Giulia say.
Her stomach dropped. Montrell was protective and supportive and giving. He often put himself last. Not on purpose, but because he put everyone else first.
She’d realized that, but the idea that that was all it was for him, a habit, took away her nerve. Her hand dropped to her side as she tried to breathe through the disappointment.
The voice she’d been trying to quiet inside her mind spread, the one that told her Montrell hadn’t been holding himself back. No, he just didn’t want her that much. She could be anyone. Perhaps she was one in a long line of women he had saved.
