Page 33 of Hunter

“No, Bella,” he says fiercely. His arms wrap around my back, and I strain to look up into his eyes. Our bodies slam together, and I’m unsure what to do with my free hands. I place them on his upper arms, against my better judgment. “You grew before my eyes. The girl I fell in love with began that page, but it’s a woman who dances now. Your confidence, your fire, it was all there, and I love it. I would give you anything to be engulfed in it, even for one night.”

“Are you saying you are a secret fan of my moves, Mr. Devane?” The sentence leaves my lips laden with sexual innuendo. My will to reject him falls away pathetically. “Have you watched many of the videos?”

“Every one, Bella, at least twice but probably more.” His eyes flick away toward the sign on the wall. There is no denying the sexual chemistry here between us. He wants me, and he’s making damn sure I know. “Do you like the studio?” he asks, changing the subject from my videos and body to something less tempting. I am both relieved and disappointed, having moved through an abundance of emotional states in a matter of minutes.

“I love it,” I whisper, rising on tiptoe. Our height difference means he must lean down to kiss me. Our lips connect, and the past two decades disintegrate. We are back in our wedding night hotel room, enjoying each other again. My fingers slide up his arms, the taut muscles firm beneath the tips. He tightens his hold on my body, my breasts squashed against him. His form is rock solid, mine soft and malleable. The sensation feels both alien and familiar, something we had in the past, even if the time was fleeting.

“You feel so good, Bella,” he tells me, his hands dropping to my ass. He squeezes, pushing my body harder against his, and there is no mistaking the hard dick in his pants. “I’ve wanted this for so damn long. I’ve missed you.”

“You can’t miss something you never had.” Unwanted tears begin to fall, and I bury my face in his chest. I will them to pass, to disappear and never return. Too many tears have been shed over this man—I don’t want to cry anymore, but it can’t be helped. Twenty years of loss have come to a crescendo today, and we are standing here raw in front of each other with our scars on full display.

“Bella,” he says, pulling back, his hands raising to my shoulders. “If the hundreds of letters between us don’t prove we were together, I don’t know what will. I still write them.”

I look up, and he’s staring down, his expression a mix of wonder and uncertainty. The admission that left his lips is unexpected, and I’m not sure if he meant to tell me.

“You still write to me?” He nods. “Can I read them?”

He hesitates, and for a moment I wonder if his claim was a lie. Has he been writing me letters for twenty years but never posted them beyond the first year? Back then, a letter would arrive each week, but after I didn’t respond it became monthly. Eventually, on our first wedding anniversary, the final one arrived, accepting my decision to be apart. It had brought both a sense of relief and sadness. He had given up on us, even though I had done so months before. It still broke my heart.

What began as embarrassment, pain, and broken hope grew into a void that could never be crossed. With each passing year, Hunter seemed further away. But I see now that to him, I was never gone, just unreachable. He saw me as his wife whether he touched me or not, and suddenly, our time apart made much more sense.

The focus on my health, the constant security team, and a credit card always available for whatever I needed. My spending has never been questioned, and my schedule has never been altered, but he’s been with me, watching from a distance every step of the way. Silently, he held my hand to ensure I was safe and as happy as he could make me.

His fingers trail down the tops of my arms over my sports jacket. Even with the barrier between us, my skin tingles under his touch. As they pass over my elbows and make their way to retake my hands, he breathes deeply, his chest rising and falling dramatically beneath his shirt. My stomach clenches and my toes curl as feelings I’ve not felt in years resurface. I swallow as he closes his eyes then reopens them.

“I’m not asking for forever, Bella,” he says. “We’re not there yet, but will you allow me to give you the wedding night you truly deserved? Just you and me, no threats, no broken promises. Just us.”

“I don’t know, Hunter. I can’t commit,” I whisper, my eyes flicking to the doorway. This can’t be real. Perhaps I should run; this is insane. Sleeping with him isn’t conducive to my ultimate plan to leave. Letting our feelings resurface any more won’t help, but my body isn’t listening to my sense.

I don’t remember the pain as much as the shame. The door swinging open. My father’s voice calling me pathetic. The sheets weren’t enough to keep my dignity intact.

“I didn’t ask for forever. I asked for tonight.” He leans down and places his lips on my forehead. They are warm against my skin, and the gesture is the most loving act I’ve felt in years.

“You didn’t answer my question about reading your letters,” I prompt, and his cheeks flush a soft pink.

“Enjoy making your content,” he says, still not answering. “And if you want to live our wedding night the way we should have, meet me tonight at eight in the dining room.” With that, he releases my hands and turns to leave. Before reaching the doorway, he stops and looks over his shoulder. “Bella, think with your heart. I know I am. We both deserve to be happy at least once.” Then he’s gone.

Left staring at the closed studio door, I stand in the middle of the room and turn three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, taking in each element of what is in here. But the equipment, electronics, and mirrors are not the best thing Hunter has offered. He has supported my independence and freedom. That truth means more than any other ever could.

Chapter sixteen

Hunter’s Residence, London

Isabella

On screen, I feel alive again with my mask firmly in place. This studio will become my safe space to express myself while I live here. It will be where I retreat each day to lose myself in music and movement and forget the challenges the next months offer.

The hours pass unchecked as I create video after video, working down the content list I wanted to make this past week and haven’t. As I post the first one, my head is filled with hope and possibility, and comments begin streaming in, asking me about the new studio and admiring my page name boldly written on the wall.

The grin on my face says everything I need to know. With adrenaline pumping in my veins, I do something I never do and “go live.” After flicking on the camera, I proudly give my followers a tour of my page's new home. Emojis stream in, filled with love hearts and WOWs. Their positivity only makes me smile wider. I am back in my community, where I belong.

After my legs ache more than I can withstand, I retreat to my room. It’s only then that my earlier conversation with Hunter takes my attention. The music had allowed me to push our discussion to the back of my mind, and its distraction was welcome. Now, in only my own company, I need to face it.

Upon closing the door, my attention is piqued by a box on my bed. It is gray with pink roses detailed around the edges. As I step closer, I see it is filled with piles of soft pink envelopes stacked neatly then tied in bundles with pink ribbon. My name is written on each one in thick black pen. He gave me his letters.

My heart hammers in my chest as I pick up the first bundle, carefully untying the ribbon. I lower myself down onto the bed to sit. The ten envelopes in my hand all look identical, so I lay them out one by one on the soft sheets, deciding at random which to open. Inside is paper of the same color, folded in half. I open it to find a short letter addressed to me from Hunter with the date December 25, 2008 in the corner.

My Darling Isabella,

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