10. Bella

10

BELLA

A fter the first few weeks of being the live-in nanny in the Esposito house, I can confidently say that I’m happier than I can remember being in months. Within the first week, I start to feel settled in, finding my own routine amidst the routines I’m expected to follow for Cecelia and Danny. I go out for a run every day before dinner, and find that I’m starting to have more energy. I’ve always been fit, but keeping up my runs has helped me tone up even more, and it makes me feel stronger. I have dinner with Gabriel and the children every night, and by the time I’ve been in the house for nearly a month, I’ve started to feel like I belong here.

And I love the job. I love Cecelia and Danny, and although I worried about whether or not I’d be any good at taking care of children—especially when I never knew if I really wanted any of my own or if I just accepted that it was expected of me—I feel like I’ve fallen naturally into it.

It helps that Gabriel is a good boss. He’s friendly and kind, always making me feel welcome, and checking often to make sure that there’s nothing I need. I’ve noticed that he’s careful to keep physical space between us—he never sits close to me or comes within more than a couple arms’ length of me, and he never asks me any personal questions. In fact, since that second night when he asked me about my photography, I can’t think of any personal question he’s asked me at all.

But for me, that’s perfect. The physical distance he keeps means that I never have to worry about being touched. I never worry that he wants to touch me, that he’s angling for some way to get closer to me in hopes that something will happen between us. And his lack of prying for any personal information means that I don’t have to worry about whether or not to tell him the truth about what happened to me before I came here.

I don’t want to tell him the truth about it. I’m happy here, happier than I could have imagined being after everything that happened with Pyotr. But no matter how kind and understanding Gabriel is, I feel sure that would change if he knew that I was prone to panic attacks and nightmares, that the reasons I cover up and wear clothing too hot for the summer has nothing to do with low blood sugar or an iron disorder, like I’m sure he assumes.

I’ve done everything I can to avoid those things complicating my new life. My nightly run around the estate helps to make me extra tired by the end of the evening, and I take my sleeping pill every night to avoid the nightmares. Between those things and my job running after a nine-year-old and an eleven-year-old, I’m tired enough that I sleep hard every night. And despite the grogginess in the mornings from the pills, the exertion and sense of purpose make me feel better than I have in a long time.

“Let’s play a game in the living room after dinner,” Gabriel suggests that night over a dinner of homemade spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread. “A board game, maybe. Do you want to join, Bella?”

“Sure.” I nod, more than happy to join in. Most nights, I have joined them, whatever evening activity Gabriel, Cecelia, and Danny pick, whether it’s a movie, a game, or just relaxing in the living room. Occasionally, I’ll go up to my room early and relax, or watch something on my own, but I like the feeling of spending time with others who actually want me around. So much of my life before was lonely, with a father who tolerated my company and no one else. The warmth of having so many people around who actually enjoy each other is soothing, and I like being a part of whatever family activities take place every night.

We end up playing Monopoly around the coffee table in the living room, and Cecelia wins. Afterward, I take them upstairs to get ready for bed while Gabriel cleans up, grabbing my book to read in bed for a little while. I’m just about to change into something to sleep in when I realize I must have left the cashmere cardigan I was wearing earlier downstairs.

I hesitate, not wanting to go down and disturb Gabriel if he’s still in the living room. But it’s my favorite sweater to cozy up in while I read, one of my favorites, and so I toss the shorts and tank top I was about to change into onto the bed, and head back downstairs.

Gabriel is still sitting in the living room when I walk in, in one of the armchairs, with a book in his lap and a glass of wine in his hand. He looks up abruptly as I walk in, and a smile spreads across his face as soon as he sees me.

It’s nothing unusual—he’s often smiling, and he often seems pleased with me. But for some reason, in the low light of the room, this late at night with just the two of us here, the smile seems more intimate than it should be. I feel my heart leap up into my throat, my pulse fluttering there, and I pause just inside the room, suddenly wondering if I should turn around and flee back upstairs.

There’s no reason for that, I tell myself firmly. No reason to be silly. He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s just smiling at you. You’re the one making this weird.

“Do you need something, Bella?” Gabriel asks, and I shake off the disconcerting feeling, making a beeline for the couch.

“I forgot my sweater.” I grab it off of the couch, holding it up and briefly waving it, like a flag to prove that’s the reason I came downstairs. It occurs to me, as I do, that I shouldn’t really need a reason to come back down here, that it makes it seem like I’m guilty of something when the truth is that I have no idea why I feel faintly as if there’s something wrong with being here in the living room with Gabriel so late at night. Neither of us is doing anything wrong—he’s just sitting there, sipping his glass of wine?—

“Are you alright?” he asks, tilting his head slightly as he looks at me, and I nod quickly.

“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine. I just needed to come down and grab this.”

“Do you want to sit and have a drink with me?” He nods to his glass of wine. “There’s more in the kitchen; I can go and get you a glass if you like.”

I hesitate. Is it normal for a boss to ask their employee to sit and have a drink? But then again, as far as I know, most people don’t live with their boss. And Gabriel has said that he wants me to feel like I’m part of the family. I’m sure Agnes has sat in here and had a drink with him before.

I don’t normally drink, either. I can count the times I’ve had a glass of wine on one hand. But the idea is inviting—the living room is cozy and dimly lit, the house quiet with the children in bed, and it sounds nice. I like spending time with Gabriel, talking to him—probably more than I should.

I’m suddenly very aware that I’m still holding my sweater, that the loose white t-shirt that I’d thrown on with my jeans leaves my arms bare, even the scoop neck feeling a little too low, my collarbones exposed. “Sure,” I manage, quickly slipping on the cardigan, tugging it around me as I sink down onto the couch. “That sounds nice.”

“Alright.” Gabriel gets up smoothly, setting his glass on the side table. “I’ll be right back.”

I watch him stride out of the room, a shiver going down my spine. Every time I look at him— really look at him, I’m reminded of why, most of the time, I try to only give him passing glances. It hits me every time, how incredibly handsome he is. Like this, late at night in joggers and a t-shirt, he’s even more so. I can see the flex of his muscles under the t-shirt and catch a hint of tanned, olive skin where the shirt has ridden up ever so slightly at the waist. It makes my skin feel hot, and I swallow hard, pulling the cardigan closer around myself as I tuck my legs up underneath me on the couch.

The first man to make me really feel a spark of anything in months, and it would be a man who is completely off-limits to me. I used to notice men, before what Pyotr did to me, even if I’ve never seen anyone who seemed as handsome to me as Gabriel is, who made my skin heat and my breath come a little short when I look at him. But it’s better this way, I remind myself. At least with Gabriel, it can’t go anywhere. At least with him, neither of us ever have to feel the disappointment of trying, and all of my ugly memories raising their head at the wrong time, and stopping anything we might do together in its tracks.

Gabriel walks back into the room a minute later, a glass half-filled with red wine in his hand. He holds it out to me, and when I take it, my fingers graze briefly against his.

It feels like a shock. I almost recoil, nearly spilling the wine, but I manage not to. Instead, I take it out of his hand, but I can feel mine shaking, and I press the base of the wine glass against my thigh, trying to breathe normally. Something as small as my hand brushing against someone else’s shouldn’t make me feel like this. It shouldn’t make me feel panicky and afraid.

But for the first time, there’s something else under that feeling, a shiver of something that doesn’t feel like fear.

Gabriel sinks back down into his armchair, setting his book aside. “You seem like you’re settling in just fine,” he says, with a small smile on his face. “Has everything been good for you so far?”

I nod, taking a small sip of my wine. I don’t drink often enough to have opinions about wine, but it tastes just sweet enough that I like it, not too dry. “It’s been perfect,” I tell him honestly. “I didn’t really know what it would be like to have a job—” I let out a small, self-conscious laugh. “But it doesn’t really feel like a job, if I’m being honest.”

Gabriel chuckles at that. “In what way?”

“My friend Clara—she complains about hers a lot. Her coworkers, or issues she has with management, being overworked and not feeling like she’s adequately paid, that kind of thing. Stuff that I guess is normal, for jobs like that.”

“So I hear.” Gabriel shrugs, a bemused smile on his face. “I can’t say I’ve ever had to work that sort of job. I’ve been lucky, too, born into a family with wealth and business connections built in.”

“I’m sure you work hard, though,” I venture.

“I do,” he assures me. “But I work for myself, and I’m privileged enough to be able to pick and choose my business associates. If someone proves problematic or difficult, or if I simply don’t like them, I can usually cut them off easily enough and find someone else. People like your friend aren’t that lucky.” He pauses, taking another sip of his wine. “I’m glad you find this job enjoyable, and management to your liking.”

I can hear the teasing note in his voice at the last, and I feel an odd flutter in my chest. From anyone else, I’d think he was flirting. But he made it clear, at our first dinner, that he has no interest in that. That he doesn’t want any part in a romantic relationship, ever again. That’s why he hired me in the first place.

It’s sweet, I think, and a little sad. I’ve never been in love with anyone, so I don’t know how I’d feel about them moving on if I passed away. Maybe his wife would be horribly jealous if she knew, and that’s part of why he’s so sure he doesn’t ever want to try again. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to risk being hurt like that more than once.

I can understand the feeling of fearing pain—emotional or physical—enough that you never want to risk feeling it again. It’s why I’m huddling inside a cardigan right now on the couch, even though it’s warm enough in this room that I would be just fine in just my t-shirt. Why it’s a relief that the only man I’ve felt a spark of desire for since then is so off-limits that there’s no chance of having to actually face how I feel about it past that spark.

“I’m very happy here,” I tell him honestly, taking another sip of my wine. “I’m glad I ran into you that morning. I wouldn’t have thought to try to find something like this on my own.”

“It’s not something a lot of women in your position have the opportunity to do. But I think most of them are less opposed to getting married. Or maybe not.” Gabriel shrugs. “I won’t pretend to think I know their minds. And the whole system of arranged marriage is archaic, in my opinion.”

“My father would disagree with you,” I say wryly, shaking my head. “A lot of other fathers would, too, I think. They all seem to think it’s one of the backbones of our lifestyle. Especially for men like my father, who wants to climb higher. Marrying me to someone with influence is the only way to do that.”

“Well, we’ll put it off as long as we can.” Gabriel smiles, tilting his wine glass towards me, and takes another drink. I do, too, and I can feel the wine starting to warm me up, making my cardigan a little uncomfortable. I take a risk and push it up above my wrists, just a little. Gabriel’s gaze doesn’t immediately land on the sliver of bare skin, and that makes me feel better.

You’re not in some Victorian romance, I remind myself. He’s a normal man. He’s not going to be driven crazy by the sight of your wrists. You could sit here without the cardigan, and be just fine. But the idea of taking it off makes my stomach twist, uncomfortable shivers running up and down my arms. It feels like armor, like I’m too vulnerable with it gone.

“I’ve noticed you reading a lot,” Gabriel continues. It’s a hobby of mine, too. One that I’ve had a little more time for, recently, so thank you for that,” he adds with a laugh. “What do you like to read?”

“A little of everything, really. Thrillers, romance, fantasy—I’ll read just about anything if the story sounds good. I don’t really read nonfiction, though,” I admit. “I like reading about stories, not things that actually happened.”

“I do like a good nonfiction,” Gabriel says, picking up the book I’d seen him reading the other day. “I’ve always had an interest in history. I took a few British history classes for electives in college. But I’m partial to fantasy and thrillers, too. Maybe you can give me some suggestions.”

“Sure.” I realize I’ve been sipping steadily at my wine, and I feel more relaxed. The wine is definitely warming me up, and I tug my sleeves a little higher, up to my elbows. “There’s a thriller I’ve been reading that I’m almost done with—a girl gets a ride home from college and realizes the guy she’s in the car with might be a serial killer that’s been hunting girls on campus. It’s very tense. I’ve liked it so far. You can read it when I’m done, if you want?”

“We can compare notes, afterwards.” Gabriel tilts his head, looking at me curiously. “I always found it interesting—women who enjoyed books like that. About things that could so easily happen. Like listening to true crime podcasts,” he adds with a laugh. “That seems stressful.”

“Well, I don’t think it could happen to me. I didn’t get to go to college. And I always have a driver.” I laugh, too. “So I guess it doesn’t feel as real.”

I can’t help but wonder, briefly, what it would feel like to tell him the truth. Why reading about other people’s fear, other situations that are so different from what happened to me, can be comforting in a strange way. I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to finally talk to someone about it.

But I can’t. Even Clara, who I know, would listen and understand and hold me while I cried my way through it—I’ve never been able to tell her. I don’t know if it’s that I can’t relive it or that it will feel even more real if I say it out loud, but I can’t bring myself to talk about it.

I don’t know if I ever will.

Gabriel stands up. “Do you want another glass?” he asks, motioning to mine, and I nod without thinking. I’m enjoying our conversation, and this makes me feel more normal than I have in a while. It’s also something I could never do at my own home—sit and just drink a few glasses of wine—and it feels like it adds to the sense of freedom, of independence that’s been building since I left home.

“Coming right up,” Gabriel says with a grin, taking my glass and his and disappearing out into the hall. I sink a little further into the couch, relaxing into that warm, sleepy feeling that the wine has sent through me. I half wonder if I’ll even need my sleeping pill tonight, but I know I shouldn’t skip it. I can’t risk disturbing anyone in the house with my nightmares.

Gabriel comes back a moment later, handing me my glass, and sitting back down. “What else do you like to do for hobbies?” he asks curiously. “I know you like to run. Is there anything else you particularly enjoy?”

I hesitate. This feels more personal, closer to things that I only talk about with Clara. With someone I consider a close friend—or something else. But he looks genuinely interested, and I remember what my therapist told me, that I should try to find more people that I can open up to. That only having one close friend isn’t good for me.

“Photography,” I say finally. “I’ve always loved taking pictures.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. That’s something I’ve never been all that good at. I get photos of the children with my phone as often as I can—trying to keep memories and all of that—but I don’t think they’re particularly good.”

“I don’t know if mine are all that good either,” I admit with a small, self-conscious laugh. “But I like taking them, so I guess it doesn’t really matter. “It’s not like anyone else sees them.”

“What do you like so much about it?” Gabriel asks curiously, and I can feel a lump in my throat the instant he asks it, feel myself tensing.

I don’t know why, exactly, it’s so hard for me to talk about it. Maybe because my father has always been so dismissive of it, or because it feels like the only thing I have that’s really mine alone.

I feel protective of it. Like I don’t want to risk Gabriel dismissing the feelings I have as silly, or dramatic. Instead, I just shrug, taking another swallow of the wine. “I don’t know,” I tell him, as carelessly as I can manage. “It’s just fun.”

He almost looks as if he doesn’t quite believe me. Like he’s going to keep digging, asking more questions. The conversation is starting to feel too personal, and I wonder if I should just go back up to bed. I like Gabriel—maybe more than I should—but I don’t know if I want him to know me so well. The better he knows me, I think, the more likely it is that he won’t want me here any longer.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering for a while,” he asks instead, changing the topic, which surprises me. “When we ran into each other in the hall, you said your father was putting together another arranged marriage for you. What happened with the first one?”

I almost choke on my swallow of wine. My skin suddenly feels as if it’s crawling, the wine threatening to come back up. I shake my head, setting my glass down on the table in front of me. “You should ask him if you want to know,” I say quietly, as politely as I can manage. “I don’t really like to talk about it.”

Gabriel’s face smooths, the curiosity vanishing. “Of course,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to pry too much. I was just curious.”

“It’s okay,” I manage. “I just—I should probably go to bed. I’m getting tired?—”

I stand up, a little too quickly, and the moment I do, I can feel that the wine has hit me harder than I expected. I thought nearly two glasses of wine would be fine, but my head swims a little, and as I start to take a step, I trip.

My leg smacks against the coffee table, rocking it, and my wine glass tips over, cracking as it hits the side and rolls onto the floor. I let out a small cry of pain at the impact of my shin hitting the table. Out of the corner of my eye I see Gabriel leap up almost instantly, hurrying towards me as I grab for the wine glass.

“I’m so sorry,” I manage, kneeling down and grabbing for a napkin that was sitting on the table, trying to pick glass off of the hardwood floor with my other hand. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Gabriel kneels down in front of me, pressing a napkin to the pooling wine on the floor. “Accidents happen.” He looks down, towards my leg. “Are you alright? It sounds like you hit your leg pretty hard?—”

He looks up at me at the same time I look at him, our eyes meeting. I hadn’t realized how close he was to me until just that moment, and my pulse picks up, lodging somewhere in my throat as everything comes into sharp focus.

How close his hand is to mine, resting on the wine spill, our fingertips nearly touching. How we’re facing each other, close enough to kiss, his handsome face, those hazel eyes, and that wide mouth a breath away. How, if he wanted to, he could simply lean in, and?—

The air between us suddenly feels heavier, charged with something that I’m not prepared to examine. It prickles over my skin, my breath coming faster suddenly, and I see Gabriel’s gaze dip to my mouth. It stays there, for a long moment that seems to stretch out so much further than it actually does, and for that brief moment, I think he is going to kiss me.

For that brief moment, I think I might actually let him.

And then, just as quickly as it happened, it ends. Gabriel pulls back abruptly, that softened, worried expression on his face shuttering. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, and I think I see a flush on his neck. His shoulders are tense, and his eyes look darker in this light, more intense. My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel like I can’t suck in a full breath. For the first time, I don’t know if it’s desire or fear that’s making me feel this way.

He wanted to kiss me. He must have. What else would he be apologizing for? My heart races in my chest until it almost hurts, and I feel a sudden, overwhelming need to escape. A feeling so familiar that it transmutes desire to panic, even though Gabriel would never hurt me, even though what I need to escape from with him is the possibility of pleasure instead of pain.

The feeling of needing to run feels the same. I scramble to my feet, the throbbing in my shin bringing me back to the present, and I stammer out an apology, retreating. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, backing towards the door. “I’m going to go to bed—I’m sorry?—”

Gabriel says nothing, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve just fucked everything up somehow if, with one mistake, I’ve ruined the thing that means the most to me right now.

And underneath all of that, still heating my blood along with the wine, is the thought of that near-kiss.

I hurry up the stairs, half-running until I make it to my room, flinging myself inside and closing the door behind me. I lock it out of habit, leaning back against the door as I try to catch my breath, my blood racing and my skin tingling.

The sensation of desire confuses me. I’ve been attracted to men before, but Gabriel makes me feel something different, something more intense, more visceral than what I’ve felt in the past. If I’d felt it under normal circumstances, it would confuse me, but like this—wrapped up with my aversion to being touched and my fears of what will happen if someone gets close enough to me to discover all the ways my trauma has broken me—it feels impossible to sort out what that means. Why he makes me feel this odd, sharp desire that I’ve never experienced before.

Is it just because he feels safe? Because he seems to respect me? Because he treats me like an actual person, and not just a fuckable extension of my family name?

It could be all of those things, or some of them, or none of them. I don’t know how to begin to sort it out. And over all of that, pulsing in my mind like a neon sign, is the reminder that none of it really matters.

All of these thoughts, any possibility of something like that kiss happening, is completely inappropriate. He’s my employer. The key to me remaining free of my father, and independent. And at any rate—I bite my lip as another truth rears its head, one that stings more than the rest: he can’t really want me. He doesn’t know me well enough to really want me for myself—if he does have feelings of desire towards me, it’s just for my looks, like every other man. That thought feels disappointing—it stings a little.

But not enough to completely erase the memory of how my heart started to race when I looked up and saw how close his mouth was to mine.

I shrug out of my clothes, changing into my pajamas, and crawl into bed, sinking down under the blankets. Every time I picture it, his hazel eyes darkening as he looked down at my mouth, the closeness of his fingertips to mine, my heart starts to race and I feel that warmth flooding through me. I can feel it all the way down my body, in between my thighs, an ache that I haven’t felt in so long building, faintly pulsing.

Gingerly, I reach down, skating my fingertips over my stomach, just above the waistband of my pants. I haven’t touched myself in a long time, but that ache pulses a little more, teasing me with the possibility of pleasure. Of something that I haven’t even wanted in what feels like forever, even if it’s only been a few months.

I slip my fingertips beneath the soft material, sliding them a little further down. They meet the cotton edge of my panties, and my heart leaps a little in my chest—not out of fear, but out of anticipation. Do I want this? My breath catches in my throat, my pulse beating faster at the possibility of feeling pleasure again.

Gently, I slip my fingers under the edge of my panties, brushing them over the soft hair there, down a little further. I brush my finger over the outside of my folds, along the seam, and I’m startled to find that I’m wet.

I gasp softly, feeling the damp heat, pushing my finger between my folds. I feel slick and hot to the touch, all the way up to my clit, and my hips cant upwards as I brush my fingertip over it, biting my lip to keep from making a sound as pleasure arcs over my skin, my heart beating faster. It feels so good. I can’t keep myself from thinking about Gabriel, that near-kiss, imagining his mouth and his fingertips touching mine as I roll my finger over my clit, back and forth, the pleasure slowly building. My heart skips again in my chest as I realize that this might really be happening. That I might be on the verge of having an orgasm. It feels like a momentous occasion, that I’m capable of feeling arousal and pleasure again at all, much less that I can get myself to?—

That realization is all it takes to send me crashing back down.

The memory of Gabriel’s mouth close to mine is snatched away, replaced with a flood of other memories, memories that I’ve tried so hard to keep out. Of rough hands sliding over my skin, hot breath on my face and leering eyes, laughter, and crude jokes about who will get what part of me when Pyotr is finished. Those hands groping, squeezing, sliding over my wedding dress and under it, the brigadier in charge of Pyotr’s men warning the others not to let a finger slip inside me, lest they accidentally take what is still Pyotr’s to have. Even if he didn’t marry me. Even if he was just going to throw me away afterward.

I snatch my hand back, closing it into a fist, the feelings of arousal and anticipation suddenly replaced with revulsion and dread. I squeeze my thighs together, tears springing into my eyes as I roll onto my side, trying to fight back the memories, the feeling of hands crawling over my skin. The warmth in my blood is replaced with ice, and I shiver as I fumble for the drawer of my nightstand, grabbing the small bottle that holds my sleeping pills.

The escape from it won’t be pleasure, it will be nothingness. A sleep so heavy that not even dreams can penetrate it. It’s the only way I can get away from everything that haunts me.

Tears spill over, tracking their way down my cheeks as I shakily swallow the pill, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as I wait for it to take effect.

I was a fool for thinking that desire had any place in my life any longer. That I could enjoy even a fantasy without it being snatched away from me.

That part of my life is gone forever.