Sondra Worthington.
And he was kissing her.
I froze. Stared, sickness rising in my throat. He clasped her upper arms and broke the kiss, pushing her away from him as she gasped and stumbled backward. “Dammit, Sondra—” He spotted me and his face went pale. “Christ, Belle.”
I turned and ran back down the hall, shock thrumming through me, turning my skin hot, then cold, a choked sob bursting free. I put my hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t throw up, using my other hand to pull my dress up enough not to trip over my heels. As I rounded the corner, I ran into someone and he grabbed me, steadying me as the sob finally broke free. I looked up into the concerned eyes of Edwin Bruce.
“Isabelle? Are you okay?”
“Isabelle!” Brant called as he came up behind me, a note of desperation in his voice. I turned. His chest was rising and falling, his eyes were panicked. “Belle, that was not what it might have looked like.” In my peripheral vision, I saw Sondra sashaying in the other direction as if nothing of note had just happened . . . as if my world wasn’t crumbling around me.
Oh God, I felt sick. I was going to be sick. I’d seen Brant push Sondra away from him, but it was all too much. Too much, and I just wanted to go home. I shook my head, clenching my eyes shut for a moment. “I . . . I know,” I said, though I didn’t know that at all. “I don’t feel well. I need to leave, Brant.” I knew Sondra may take advantage of that decision, but at least I wouldn’t have to watch.
Brant glanced at Edwin Bruce behind me, his jaw clenching and unclenching, looking so tormented I almost felt bad for him. But not enough to want to stay. This was his world, one he knew how to navigate well. Not mine. “This is your night. Please. I don’t feel well.”
Brant let out a long breath, pushing his fingers through his hair as his eyes moved over my face. “I’ll call my driver—”
“I can take her home,” Edwin said. “Isabelle and I spent some time at the bar getting to know each other, and I was just leaving. My car is already waiting out back.”
Brant’s gaze moved to where Edwin stood, and he regarded him for several beats. He looked back at me, his shoulders dropping slightly. “Are you okay with that?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, his jaw ticking again. “I’ll get out of here the minute I can.” He raised his hand as if to touch my cheek but then dropped it. I nodded, turning away from Brant as Edwin led me toward an exit. I didn’t look back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Brant
“Thanks, Jacob,” I said to the doorman as the elevator closed between us. The ride to my penthouse was the longest minute of my damn life. I loosened my bow tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt so I could breathe a little bit easier. It didn’t help.
Edwin Bruce had texted me hours before and told me Belle had gotten home safely. I’d called the cell phone I’d bought her again and again, but she hadn’t answered. Fuck! She never answered that damn cell. I was constantly finding it somewhere, completely uncharged.
I’d left as soon as I possibly could, even though it meant eschewing some of the speeches and toasts I’d been expected to be at in different sections of the club.
I began punching in the code, my fingers stalling as my heart sped up. My breath came out in a sharp gasp as pictures flooded my mind of another room I’d walked into once after a woman had caught the man she trusted kissing another woman. So much blood . . . My skin broke out in a light sweat as I leaned my forehead against the wall. Stop it, Brant. Get a hold of yourself for Christ’s sake.
I stood straight, gathering myself as I punched in the code and pushed the door open. “Isabelle—” Her name died on my lips as I spotted her, sitting on the couch in jeans and a coat, her hands between her knees.
For a moment relief swept through me, but then my heart dropped to my feet. Her luggage was packed beside her. I approached her warily repeating her name, a question this time.
“Hi, Brant.” Her voice was soft, lacking in any emotion, and that scared me. My heart was thrumming against my ribs. What was this?
I glanced at her suitcase and then at her. “What’s going on, Belle?”
She sighed, tucking her hands more deeply between her legs, as if they were cold. My sudden impulse was to take them between my own, to warm them, to do anything to relieve even her most minor discomfort. “I’m leaving.”
For a moment I didn’t—couldn’t—speak. “Why?” It sounded choked, incredulous, but I couldn’t say I was honestly that surprised. You idiot, Brant. You damn idiot. “Belle, what you saw with Sondra—"
“I know you pushed her away, Brant. I saw that.”
“Of course I did. Sondra kissed me, Belle. I didn’t expect it, nor did I do anything to invite it.”
She stared at me for a moment, her eyes moving over my face, to my hands that were clenched at my sides. Hope flashed through me, a trickle of deep relief. What she’d seen had understandably upset her, but I could fix this. I could make this right.
“I would never cheat on you, Belle. I’m not like him. I’m not like my father.” Even I heard the intensity in my voice, the plea that she believed me. It was the truth.
She looked at me again for a long moment, nodding, though her expression contained . . . disappointment. “I believe you,” she said. “But I’m still leaving.”