Page 99 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
33
BAILEY
The lounge is too quiet.
I sit on the edge of the velvet sofa, my hands knotted in my lap, nails biting into my palm. The air smells like cigars and old wood polish, heavy and cloying. The fireplace flickers, even though it’s warm in here, and the shadows it throws across the Spanish tiles make me feel like I’m in someone else’s dream.
Friedburg walks in, steady despite the weight of years, his odd neon golf clothes glowing faintly under the golden light. His smile is faint, practiced, meant to soothe.
David trails in behind him.
My brain resets and my breath leaves me in a rush. I bolt upright, heart hammering. “What the hell is this?”
David smiles. “Bailey.” He says my name like it belongs to him, like he has the right.
I take a step back, my calves hitting the couch. “Why is he here?” I demand, looking at Friedburg, not David. “Why—what is going on?”
Friedburg holds up a hand, calm, like he’s addressing a boardroom. “Sit, Bailey. Please.”
I can’t keep the sharp laugh from breaking out of me. “Do you have any idea?—”
“I do.” Friedburg interrupts. “I know David. I know you. And I know what families need.” He moves closer, clasping his hands in front of him. “I’m an old man, Ms. Beausoleil. I believe in traditional values. A husband and wife. Children with both parents. Strong foundations. What this country is losing.”
My stomach drops. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” he says simply. His gaze flicks between me and David, warm, grandfatherly even. “That’s why we’re here. That’s why he funded the picture. So you would have a vehicle worthy of your talent, something to put you where you deserve to be. Because he loves you. Because he loves his family. It’s time to put the past behind you, and move forward with your husband.”
The words make my skin crawl. My throat tightens, my vision sharp around the edges. The words rasp out of me. “Are you out of your mind?”
David’s smile doesn’t falter. He steps forward slightly, hands loose at his sides, every line of him screaming confidence. “This is what’s best for you. For all of us. We belong together.”
“No.” The word tears out of me before I can think, harsh and loud in the quiet lounge. My whole body shakes, but I force myself to hold Friedburg’s eyes. “No. You don’t understand. You can’t. This isn’t about reconciliation, it isn’t about some fantasy of a family. David doesn’t love me. He never loved me.”
David’s eyes flash, just for a second, before he pastes the smile back on.
“Bailey—” Friedburg starts, his voice still patient, his eyes still kind.
“He abused me, Greg. For years. And I let everyone think I was fine, because it was easier than telling the truth, easier than ripping our kids from their father. But it wasn’t fine. It was bruises. It was cuts. It was terror. It was black eyes covered with makeup for the public eye. And now—” My throat tightens, tears burning the backs of my eyes. “Now I think he’s hurting our son too.”
Friedburg blinks, startled, his brows knitting. “What?”
David shakes his head quickly, his laugh soft and disbelieving. “She doesn’t mean that. She’s confused. She’s angry. She makes things up when she’s cornered. Truly, she should be medicated, but she refused when her therapist offered.”
I glare at him, heat crawling up my throat. “I’m not making it up. Maeve told Wesley. She saw you push Eli. She. Saw. You.”
David’s smile falters again, then flickers back on. “Maeve is a child. She’s emotional. You know how girls get.”
I want to claw the smug expression off his face. My nails dig into my palms harder.
Friedburg looks between us, his expression unsettled now, less certain. “David…she’s saying you abused her. And your son. You told me?—”
“I told you the truth,” David cuts in smoothly, his voice dipped in honey. “I told you I love her. I love my children. That’s why I wanted her to have this role. That’s why I funded the film. WouldI spend that kind of money if I didn’t love her?” His gaze swings back to me. “Don’t you get it, Bailey? Don’t you see what I’ve done for you?”
My chest tightens like I’m choking. “You broke me. You brokeus. And now you’re standing here pretending it was love? You’re psychotic.”
David spreads his hands, a mockery of openness. “Love makes you do crazy things.”
“It wasn’t love,” I say. Each word tastes like blood in my mouth. “It was control. It was pain. It was excuses I memorized until they sounded real, neighbors I smiled at so no one would ask questions. He made me small, and quiet, and scared of my own house. He made me taste my own blood when he split my lip because I didn’t want to do things in the bedroom, Greg. He made me hate myself. That’s not love.”
