The husband I wasn't meant to know

Chapter One: Shock + Return The first rule of investigative journalism was simple: If someone told you not to ask a question, ask it twice. I had spent my career priding myself on the former, which was probably why my editor thought I was brilliant, and the latter, which was most likely why my mother thought I was exhausting. “Bella.” I didn't look up. “Hmm?” “Your deadline was yesterday.” My fingers continued to fly over the keys. “It was technically this morning.” Marcus leaned against the doorframe of my office, crossing his arms over his chest. “It is three in the afternoon.” I glanced at the clock on my computer screen. 3:17 p.m. “That's still afternoon.” “Exactly.” I smiled. He didn't return the gesture. I turned back to my laptop, my eyes scanning the nearly completed article. It had taken me three weeks to dig up the information on the property development company, interviewing anonymous sources and double-checking financial records, and one particularly unpleasant morning spent waiting in a café for someone who never showed. The story wasn't over, not by a long shot, but it was close enough for my purposes. “I'll send it tonight.” “You said that yesterday.” “I was optimistic yesterday.” “You're always optimistic.” “It's one of my better qualities.” Marcus sighed. He was in his early forties, always dressed in meticulously ironed shirts and dark trousers, with glasses that perched precariously on the bridge of his nose more often than not. He always seemed to have some sort of literary classic balanced on the top of his head, and today, his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing a silver watch and a tan line that suggested he had seen more of the sun than I had in recent months. “Six-thirty.” “Seven.” “Six-thirty.” “Six-forty-five.” “Six-thirty.” I opened my mouth to argue again when my phone vibrated in my hand. Mum. Something in my chest twisted at the sight of her name. She never called me at work unless it was entirely necessary, and lately, it seemed like nothing was entirely necessary. I answered. “Hi, Mum.” “Bella.” I stopped smiling. Her voice was strange, frayed around the edges, as though she had spent the last few minutes trying to convince herself that nothing was wrong. “What happened?” “Nothing happened.” I sank back against the chair. That was her second mistake. “What's wrong?” “Can you meet me somewhere?” “When?” “Now.” I shot a look at Marcus over my shoulder, who raised an eyebrow at me. “I have work.” “I know.” There was a pause. “I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.” I closed my laptop. “Where?” “The café on Bellamy Street.” “When?” “Now, Bella.” I grabbed my coat. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.” “Come alone.” My hand halted in the middle of pulling my sleeve down my wrist. “Why?” She hesitated. “Please.” The call ended before I could ask another question. I stared at my phone for a long moment before turning to Marcus. “Everything okay?” “My mother.” His expression softened immediately. “Go.” “Six-thirty?” “Six-thirty.” I smiled. “See? You're learning flexibility.” “Bella.” “I'm going.” I slipped my laptop into my bag as I stood, fastening the zipper at the top. As I hurried past the elevator, I shot one last glance at the article on my screen. For some reason, I had the distinct impression that whatever it was my mother wanted to discuss over tea would be much harder to investigate than the property development company. I was right. It had started raining by the time I reached Bellamy Street, but it wasn't the thick, drenching rain that turned the city into a glossy mosaic of asphalt and water. It was something drier, colder, that left white streaks down the pavement and made the air smell of wet stone and cold air. I pulled my car up two streets away from the café and got out, my umbrella snapping open with a sharp crack. The wind immediately tried to turn it inside out. I sighed. “Of course.” I held the fabric against my chest and hurried the rest of the way, my reflection winking at me from the darkened windows of the closed shops. I looked good, if someone had asked. My dark brown hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, though a few stubborn wisps had escaped to frame my face, and I wore a navy-blue blouse tucked into a charcoal-grey blazer. My straight black trousers and knee-high boots made for a neat, if uncomfortable, ensemble, and the gold watch on my wrist was a gift from my mother on the day I had gotten my first proper job at the magazine. I slipped inside the café, the warmth of it wrapping around me like an old friend. It smelled of coffee and cinnamon, and soft music played overhead as I pushed my damp curls out of my face. I spotted my mother almost immediately, seated in the far corner with her back to the wall. She always looked this put together, even when she was worried. Elena Gates was a woman who knew how to dress, even in the midst of a crisis. Today, she wore a dove-gray dress under a camel-coloured coat, her dark hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. Small pearl earrings caught the light as she moved. But it was the untouched tea in front of her that made me pause. “You haven't drunk it.” She looked up as I drew closer. “What?” “Your tea.” Her eyes followed my line of sight, and she let out a small laugh. “Oh.” I sat down across from her. “You called me like someone had died.” “Bella.” “I'm serious.” She gave me a tired smile. “I needed to see you.” “Why?” She didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached for her cup and stopped herself. A prickle of unease went up my spine. “What's going on?” She looked at me for a long moment, and then said softly, “Daniel Black wants to marry you.” I laughed, because it was the only sensible response. My mother didn't laugh. The smile died off my face as I stared at her. “Sorry. He wants to marry me?” I blinked. “Daniel Black?” “Yes.” “Daniel Black as in Jayden's uncle?” “Yes.” “The Daniel Black who owns Blackwell Holdings?” “Yes.” “The man I haven't spoken to since—” “Yes.” I stopped there. The memory of the last conversation I'd had with him looped unpleasantly in my head. Daniel Black had always been a name associated with Jayden's, a successful businessman who was older and wealthier and, until recently, entirely uninterested in me. “Why would he want to marry me?” My mother's fingers tightened around her teacup. “He believes the arrangement would be beneficial for both of us.” I stared at her. “Arrangement?” “Yes.” “That's not marriage.” “I know.” “Then what is it?” “A contract.” I leaned back, my heart beating a little faster. “You're telling me a thirty-five-year-old billionaire is proposing to me because of a contract?” My mother gave me a warning look. “Don't call him ridiculous.” “I'm not calling him ridiculous. I'm calling the situation ridiculous.” “He can help us.” There it was. The sentence. I hated it. “With what?” “The house.” My smile died as I stared at her. “What about the house?” She looked down at her hands. “The legal dispute has worsened.” My stomach twisted. “What legal dispute?” She didn't answer. “Mom.” “We could lose it.” I stared at her, the words hanging in the air between us, and suddenly the noise of the café seemed very far away. The house. Our house. The old stone building on the hill, with the sprawling garden and the long windows that overlooked the valley. The house where I had spent my childhood, climbing the oak tree at the back and wandering the wide corridors of the mansion with my father, who had died two years ago. The room where his study was still kept, with his books on the shelf and the old boxes stacked in the corner, with his writing on the labels. Losing it would be like losing him all over again. “Why didn't you tell me?” “Because I wanted to handle it.” “You've been handling it for weeks.” “I thought I could.” “And now you can't?” She looked at me, something like guilt in her eyes. “No.” I swallowed. “Why Daniel?” “He has the resources to handle it.” “How?” “He has influence.” “That isn't an answer.” “He can make the problem disappear.” I stared at her. “And all he wants in exchange is me?” She didn't say anything, and I laughed softly. “That sounds incredibly normal.” “Bella.” “No. I'm sorry. I'm trying to understand.” My mother reached into her handbag and pulled out an envelope, cream-coloured and thick. My name was written on the front in elegant script. Bella Gates. I looked at it for a long moment before taking it from her. “What is it?” “His proposal.” I opened it and read the note inside, my eyes scanning the words. Miss Gates, I understand that this proposal is unexpected. I am prepared to offer a marriage arrangement that will resolve your immediate circumstances and will provide certain benefits to both parties. If you are willing to discuss the terms, I will meet you tomorrow evening. Daniel Black. I looked up at my mother. “That's it?” She nodded. “No flowers?” “Bella.” “No dramatic declaration of love?” “He isn't that kind of man.” “Apparently not.” I folded the note and looked at it for a moment longer. “I won't do it.” My mother closed her eyes. “You should meet him first.” “Why?” “Because you deserve to understand what you're refusing.” I frowned. “There's something you're not telling me.” She looked away. My heart gave a sudden, sharp twist. “Mom.” “There are things you don't understand.” “Then explain them to me.” “I can't.” “Why?” She didn't answer. I leaned forward. “Who told you about the marriage?” “Daniel.” “How does he know so much about us?” “He knows things.” “What things?” “I don't know.” I stared at her. She wasn't lying to me. She was giving me reasons that made no sense, confirming every suspicion I had without actually saying anything at all. Then, without thinking about it, I asked, “What happened when I was eight?” Her face went completely still. I noticed. Of course I noticed. “What?” “The summer I was eight.” She swallowed. “Why are you asking?” “Because you just reacted like I've asked the wrong question.” “You're imagining things.” “Am I?” She looked away, her gaze drifting to the window where the rain was still falling in steady streams. “Bella, don't ask Daniel about that summer.” A chill ran down my spine. “Why?” “Please.” “Mom.” “Some things are better left alone.” I stared at her, my heart pounding in my ears. The journalist in me was screaming for me to press her, to dig, to find out what she was so desperately trying to keep from me. The daughter in me wanted to believe her. The problem was that the daughter in me had already been lied to. I stood. “Fine.” She looked up. “I'll meet him.” Relief bloomed in her eyes. “But I'm not agreeing to anything.” The relief evaporated instantly. I picked up my bag as she said quietly, “Be careful.” “With Daniel?” She nodded. “Why?” She looked at me, her expression unusually pained. “Because,” she whispered, “he already knows you.” The next evening, I arrived at Daniel Black's residence seven minutes early. I told myself it was because I was punctual. The truth was, I had spent the entire day thinking about what my mother had said, and the less I liked it. The house was set back from the road behind high iron gates, and it was all modern stone and glass, with dark wooden accents and lots of warm lighting. Trees lined the driveway, their branches swaying gently in the evening breeze. I pulled my car up to the front door and sat for another thirty seconds, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Tonight, I had worn an emerald-green dress that fell just below my knees and moved with me as I shifted my weight from one hip to the other. The bodice was low but not revealing, the sleeves barely reaching my wrists, and I wore black heels and a thin gold bracelet. My dark brown hair was loose, cascading over my shoulders in soft waves, and I had put on small gold earrings that caught the light as I moved. I looked good. That was all that mattered. I stepped out of the car, and the gates opened before I reached for the intercom. “That's unsettling.” The security guard nearby gave me a strange look before I continued towards the house, my heels clicking against the stone floor as I walked inside. The front door opened at my approach, and a man in a dark suit stepped aside. “Miss Gates.” “Bella is fine.” “Mr. Black is expecting you.” “Apparently.” I stepped inside, and the first thing I noticed was how quiet the house was. The second thing I noticed was that it didn't feel like a family home. There were no pictures on the walls, no toys lying around on the floor, nothing to indicate that anyone but the staff lived here. Everything was pristine, as though it were a hotel. A vase of white flowers stood beside a large abstract painting on the wall, and dark furniture was arranged neatly around the room. There was a long staircase that curved up the wall, and the air smelled faintly of cedar and citrus. I pulled off my coat. “Where should I—” “Leave it.” I turned. Daniel Black was standing in the doorway to the sitting room. I only had time to take in the dark hair, the chiseled features, the tailored black shirt and dark trousers, the simple black watch on his wrist, before he looked at me. And I had the strange sensation that I was looking at him for the first time. His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable, but when he looked at me, I had the distinct impression that he was seeing me for the first time. “Bella.” I frowned. “You know my name.” “Yes.” “How?” “I pay attention.” “That isn't an answer.” His mouth quirked into a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. “I didn't think you'd accept an easy answer.” Interesting. He gestured to the sitting room. “Please.” I followed him inside. We sat down opposite each other, and a minute later, a tray with two cups of coffee appeared on the table between us. I looked at it. “I said I didn't want anything.” “I know.” “Then why did you order it?” “You looked like you needed it.” I stared at him. “You've been watching me for thirty seconds.” “Longer.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. His expression changed, as though he had been waiting for me to say them. “How much longer?” Daniel leaned back against the seat. “Your mother told you about the house.” “Yes.” “And the marriage.” “Yes.” “Then you know why you're here.” “No.” His eyebrows raised in surprise. “I know what you're offering. I don't know why you're offering it.” Silence stretched between us. I leaned forward. “Why me?” Daniel's gaze was steady, his fingers steepled in front of him. “I believe the arrangement is practical.” “That's not a reason.” “It is to me.” “You don't know me.” “I know enough.” “From where?” He didn't answer. I smiled, though there was no humor in it. “That's what I thought.” I stood. “If this is a business arrangement, I'll have my lawyer look over the contract.” “I expected you to.” “And if the terms are ridiculous, I'll refuse.” “That's your right.” I picked up my bag as he spoke again. “You still bite the inside of your cheek when you're nervous.” I froze, my tongue pressing against my teeth, my heart pounding in my ears. “How do you know that?” He didn't answer. I turned around slowly. “Daniel.” His face was unreadable. “You've met me before.” “No.” “Then how do you know?” He looked at me for a long moment. “You were eight.” My heart gave a sudden, sharp twist. “What?” “You were eight years old.” The room seemed to have gotten colder. A memory surfaced, disjointed and strange. Water. Sunlight. A red bicycle. A boy's voice. Someone calling my name. Then, nothing. I pressed my fingers to my temples. “Where?” Daniel's jaw tightened. “Near the lake.” I stared at him. “How do you know that?” “I was there.” My breath caught in my throat. “No.” “Yes.” “I don't remember you.” “I know.” Something about the way he said it made my skin crawl. I stepped closer. “Who were you?” Daniel looked away, for the first time since I'd met him, and I had the distinct impression that he was afraid. Then, slowly, he turned back to me. “You should ask your mother.” I almost laughed. “My mother won't tell me.” “Then ask her again.” “Why?” He didn't say anything, and I turned and picked up my coat. “I'll think about your proposal.” Daniel nodded, and as I turned to leave, he spoke again. “Bella.” I paused. His expression was unreadable, but there was something like regret in his eyes. “If you decide to investigate your past,” he said, “don't start with me.” I frowned. “Why?” His eyes held mine. “Because I'm not the beginning.” I waited. “Then what is?” Daniel's voice was quiet. “The summer you were eight.” I stepped outside, and the cool night air greeted me. As I looked out at the dark road beyond the gates, I wondered if my mother was right to keep me from asking about that summer. Daniel was right to want me to start asking about it. And somehow, that frightened me more than the marriage proposal ever could.