Chapter 4 - The Secret Behind the Bellamy Name
"Who is Claire Warren?"
Silence.
I stood in an empty consultation room at St. Catherine's, gripping my phone.
"Tristan?"
"Where did you hear that name?"
Not an answer.
My stomach tightened.
"I received something."
"What?"
"A photograph."
His voice changed immediately.
"What kind of photograph?"
"Of us leaving my apartment."
"Bianca, listen carefully. Are you alone?"
The sudden urgency frightened me more than the photograph had.
"I'm at the hospital."
"Stay there."
"Tristan—"
"Do not leave until I arrive."
"You're making this worse."
"I know."
"Then answer me. Who is Claire Warren?"
Another silence.
Finally he said, "Someone I knew."
"Knew how?"
"I'll explain in person."
I nearly laughed.
"That sentence has never made anyone feel better."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
He arrived in twelve.
Tristan entered the private conference room with Marcus and another security officer.
His expression was harder than I'd ever seen it.
"Show me."
I handed him the photograph.
He read the message.
His jaw tightened.
"Do you recognize the handwriting?"
"No."
"Who is Claire?"
He looked toward the security officer.
"Give us the room."
The men left.
Tristan remained standing.
For the first time since I'd known him, he appeared uncertain.
"Claire Warren worked for Bellamy Holdings."
I waited.
"Five years ago."
"What happened?"
"She was a financial analyst."
He sat across from me.
"She discovered irregularities inside one of our subsidiaries."
"What kind?"
"Kickbacks. Fraudulent contracts. Money being routed through shell vendors."
"And?"
"She reported it internally."
Something in his voice changed.
"I was still rebuilding the company after my father's death. The executive involved was one of his oldest partners."
"Who?"
"Victor Hale."
I recognized the name.
Bellamy Holdings' former chief operating officer.
"He denied everything," Tristan continued. "The board protected him. Claire became the target."
"What happened to her?"
"Her personal information leaked."
A chill passed through me.
"Just like mine."
His eyes met mine.
"Yes."
"Was she hurt?"
"Not physically."
"Then what?"
"Her reputation was destroyed. Anonymous stories claimed she'd fabricated evidence because she was romantically obsessed with me."
I stared at him.
"Were you involved with her?"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
"Never."
"Did people believe it?"
"Enough did."
He looked away.
"Claire resigned. Left New York. Eventually the fraud was proven. Hale was forced out."
"Eventually?"
"Six months later."
"And Claire?"
"I offered to restore her position. She refused."
I understood why.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I didn't think it mattered."
"It matters now."
"I know."
I held up the photograph.
"Is Victor Hale doing this?"
"I don't know."
"Would he?"
"Yes."
That answer frightened me.
"Where is he?"
"Still wealthy. Still connected. Still furious."
"At you?"
"At the fact that I exposed him after finally believing Claire."
I stared at Tristan.
"You didn't believe her originally."
Pain crossed his expression.
"No."
That truth mattered.
Not because I expected perfection.
Because I'd begun seeing Tristan as someone who always knew what was right.
He didn't.
He had failed someone.
And he knew it.
"I've regretted it every day," he said quietly.
I looked at the photograph again.
"What does this person want?"
"To scare you."
"It's working."
Tristan reached across the table.
I didn't take his hand immediately.
"Bianca."
"I'm angry."
"You should be."
"Your world followed me into my workplace."
"I know."
"You promised you'd protect my life."
"I promised I wouldn't disappear."
He paused.
"I never promised there would be no danger. I should have."
"That wouldn't have made it true."
He lowered his hand.
"I won't lie to you."
"Good."
"Then here's the truth. If Hale is behind this, he wants leverage against me."
"Why me?"
His eyes held mine.
"Because people know I care about you."
Those words should have felt romantic.
Instead they felt heavy.
I stood.
"I need time."
"Bianca—"
"I have patients."
He nodded.
Professionalism gave me somewhere to hide.
But hiding didn't make the problem disappear.
Two days later, another photograph arrived.
This time it was my mother leaving a grocery store in Pennsylvania.
I stopped breathing.
Beneath the picture was one sentence.
Everyone has something to lose.
I called Tristan immediately.
Within hours, security was arranged around my mother.
She hated it.
I hated explaining it.
"What have you gotten yourself into?" she asked.
"I'm not sure."
"Is this man dangerous?"
"No."
"His world is."
I had no response.
That evening, Tristan came to my apartment.
I opened the door but didn't invite him inside immediately.
"Did you know people might target me?"
"No."
"Did you suspect it?"
He hesitated.
"Not specifically."
"That's not what I asked."
His silence answered.
I stepped away from the door.
He entered.
Natalie had wisely gone elsewhere.
We stood in the living room.
"Why didn't you tell me everything before we started this?"
"Because I wanted one part of my life untouched by all of it."
I stared at him.
"So did I."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
"Bianca, I've spent most of my adult life assuming anyone close to me understood what came with my name."
"I'm not from your world."
"That's precisely why..."
He stopped.
"Why what?"
"Why I fell for you."
The room went silent.
Neither of us had used that language before.
My heart beat harder.
"You fell for me?"
He looked directly at me.
"Yes."
I swallowed.
"That's not fair."
"I know."
"I'm trying to be angry."
"You can be."
"You can't say something like that in the middle of an argument."
"I didn't plan it."
"You plan everything."
"Not you."
That broke something inside me.
The fear didn't disappear.
Neither did the anger.
But I understood him.
Tristan Bellamy controlled companies.
Deals.
Buildings.
Thousands of employees.
But he couldn't control what had happened between us.
Neither could I.
I crossed the room and took his hand.
"I'm still angry."
"I know."
"I'm still scared."
"I know."
"I'm not leaving tonight."
His shoulders dropped slightly.
It was the closest I'd ever seen him come to relief.
"Okay."
The investigation moved quickly after that.
Bellamy security traced the photographs to a freelance investigator who claimed he'd been hired through an anonymous intermediary.
Then another problem emerged.
Hospital administration summoned me.
A photograph of Tristan and me had been sent to the medical board with an anonymous allegation that I had given Eleanor Bellamy preferential treatment in exchange for a relationship with her son.
It was absurd.
But hospitals don't ignore allegations.
I was temporarily removed from Eleanor's follow-up case while the matter was reviewed.
I sat inside the chief medical officer's office and felt humiliation burn beneath my skin.
"Dr. Carter," he said, "this is procedural."
"I understand."
"No one is accusing you."
"Someone clearly is."
He sighed.
"Your documentation is excellent. Eleanor Bellamy received standard care."
"Then why am I sitting here?"
"Because someone wants you sitting here."
That sentence stayed with me.
That evening, I confronted Tristan.
"I can't keep doing this."
His face went still.
"What are you saying?"
"My career is everything I've worked for."
"I know."
"My mother is being followed by security because someone photographed her."
"I know."
"My hospital is investigating me."
"I'll fix it."
"No."
He stopped.
"You can't fix everything."
"I can help."
"That's different."
He looked at me.
"What do you want me to do?"
I had spent all day asking myself that question.
Finally I answered.
"I need space."
His eyes changed.
"How much?"
"I don't know."
"Bianca."
"Please."
He remained silent for several seconds.
Then he nodded.
"If that's what you need."
"It is."
He walked to the door.
Every instinct inside me wanted to stop him.
I didn't.
His hand rested on the handle.
Without turning, he said, "For what it's worth, I would give up every deal I'm working on before I'd let you lose your career because of me."
Then he left.
I stood alone in my apartment.
For the first time since accidentally entering that SUV, I wondered if meeting Tristan had been a mistake.
Three days passed.
No calls.
No messages.
He respected what I'd asked for.
I hated him a little for being good at it.
Then on Friday morning, Eleanor Bellamy appeared at St. Catherine's.
Walking with a cane.
Furious.
She marched directly toward me.
"Bianca Carter."
I blinked.
"Eleanor?"
"We need to talk."
"This is a hospital."
"I'm aware."
She pointed toward an empty family room.
"Inside."
I followed.
The moment the door closed, she looked at me.
"My son hasn't slept properly in three days."
"Eleanor—"
"And before you misunderstand me, I'm not here to tell you to forgive him."
I stopped.
She lowered herself carefully into a chair.
"I'm here because there is something Tristan didn't tell you."
A knot formed in my stomach.
"What?"
Eleanor looked toward the door.
Then back at me.
"The threats didn't begin with you."
I went still.
"What do you mean?"
Her expression became serious.
"Two months before you climbed into Tristan's SUV, somebody sent him a photograph of you."
May you like
And suddenly, everything I thought I knew about our accidental meeting changed.
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