I couldn't tell whether Benedict's words were a compliment or a cut.
"But I never expected," he turned his head, his gaze sweeping over me with a trace of scrutiny, "that your image would crumble in a single afternoon."
The words landed like a slap. My face burned.
"So, is this your sob story? I'm in the mood to listen. Go ahead."
I bit down on my lip. How was I supposed to explain?
That my ex-husband was a narcissist, a gold digger who'd leeched off me while pretending otherwise, a serial cheater. That he'd burned through every cent I had, sold my property out from under me, and torpedoed my career.
That I'd come here carrying the keepsake Cindy left me, hoping to ask for his help.
But in the daylight, pride had stopped me.
Was it melodramatic? Absurdly so. Would he believe any of it? Not a chance.
"Can't say it?" He let out a quiet laugh. There was no malice in it, but something else that made me flinch. Pity.
"Then let's try a different question." He pulled out a pack of wet wipes and held them out to me. "Your hands are covered in blood. You didn't even notice?"
I looked down. My palms were a mess. The crescent wounds my nails had dug were already dried over.
I'd been clenching my fists the entire time, hard enough to break skin.
"Clean up first." He pressed the wipes into my hand and started the car. "Here's the real question: where are you going?"
I said nothing.
He glanced at me, searching my eyes as if trying to confirm something, then pulled away from the curb.
"I happen to have a spare house."
Less than fifteen minutes later, Benedict dropped me off in front of a detached villa.
Miles was already waiting at the door. He and Miles went inside for about ten minutes, then came back out, texted me the entry code, said "Make yourself at home," and left.
I stood at the front door in a daze, clothes torn and filthy, feet still in those impossibly elegant heels.
From the terror of facing my ex, the desperate scramble to escape, to crossing paths with Benedict Fox.
My fate, it seemed, was being rewritten.
I slipped off the beautiful shoes, wiped the soles of my feet with a wet wipe, and tiptoed inside to look around.
Benedict had said I could stay here for the duration of the contract.
I was anxious, elated, and conflicted all at once.
Whose house was this? Could I really use it? If I lived here, my ex would never find me, right?
I looked down at myself, grimy and disheveled, standing in the middle of this pristine, immaculate house. I didn't know where to put myself.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Benedict.
"On loan. Return it in the same condition. Consider it an advance on your contract investment."
The moment I read those words, the tension drained out of my body. Tears slipped down my face and hit the phone screen before I could stop them.
A second message popped up almost immediately.
"There's food in the fridge. Don't starve. It'll hurt the project's bottom line."
I blinked, got up, walked to the kitchen, and opened the fridge. It was fully stocked.
He'd guessed I had no money, no time, and probably no energy to go grocery shopping, so he'd sent Miles ahead.
Before long, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door, but no one was there. A paper bag sat on the step.
Inside was a pair of slippers. Cotton, soft-soled, brand new.
No note on the bag. Nothing at all.
I picked up my phone and sent Benedict a message.
"Mr. Fox, slippers received. Thank you."
Three minutes later, a reply: "Mm. Floor's cold."
I stared at those two words, trying to picture his expression as he typed them.
Completely blank? Or the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth?
I realized I couldn't imagine it. But the strange thing was, I wanted to know.
I looked down at my bare feet, then at the soft-soled slippers.
My feet were starting to warm up. And my heart, I think, had gotten a little warmer too.
Cindy's family was just as kind as she had been.
