Chapter 8
(Kelsey POV)
Bennett didn't leave Paris.
He changed tactics.
If terror didn't work, he would try pity.
Two days after the incident at the gallery, the headlines began to metastasize in the tabloids back home.
Mafia Prince Heartbroken: Estranged Wife Brainwashed by French Lover.
He was expertly painting himself as the victim. He was the devoted husband, fighting for the sanctity of his marriage against a predator who had seduced his vulnerable, confused wife.
It was laughable.
It was also effective.
My phone blew up with messages from old acquaintances, distant relatives, and social climbers, all urging me to "come to my senses."
I deleted them all without reading past the first line.
A week later, there was a charity gala at the Louvre. I had to go. It was essential for my networking, and hiding would only validate Bennett's narrative.
Judd was by my side.
He wore a tuxedo like he was born in it, the sharp tailoring unable to completely hide the lethal power in his frame. His hand on my lower back was warm, heavy, and grounding.
We were sipping champagne near the Winged Victory of Samothrace, the great stone wings stretching out above us, when the crowd suddenly parted.
Bennett walked in.
He looked haggard.
Calculatedly haggard.
His tie was slightly loose, askew at the collar. He hadn't shaved in two days, leaving a dusting of stubble that was meant to suggest despair. He walked straight toward me, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl.
Before Judd could step in to intercept him, Bennett dropped to his knees.
Right there on the cold marble floor.
"Kelsey," he said, his voice cracking with practiced perfection. "Please. Come home."
Cameras flashed like lightning storms in the periphery. The room went deathly quiet.
"I made a mistake," he said, loud enough for the back of the room to hear. "I was working too hard. I neglected you. But I love you. I have always loved only you."
He pulled a velvet ring box from his pocket and snapped it open.
It was a new ring. Bigger than the first one. A diamond meant to buy silence.
"Give me a chance to fix this."
The crowd murmured sympathetically. I could hear the whispers rippling through the elite.
Look at him. He's begging.
She's so cold.
I looked down at him.
I felt nothing. No pity. No anger. Just a bone-deep exhaustion.
"Stand up, Bennett," I said, my voice flat. "You're ruining your suit."
He looked up, his eyes wet with fake tears.
"Not until you say you'll come home."
I reached into my clutch.
My fingers closed around the cool metal of a small digital recorder. I had kept it on me since the day I left New York. Just in case.
I pulled it out and held it up.
I pressed play.
Bennett's voice, clear, arrogant, and dripping with disdain, cut through the hushed room like a knife.
"She's a Randolph. She stays until I say she goes. But you... you are the priority."
A pause. The static hiss of the recording filled the silence.
"She is... decorative. And right now, she is a broken decoration."
The recording ended with a click.
The silence in the room shifted instantly. It went from sympathetic to horrified.
Bennett froze on his knees.
His face drained of color. The "heartbroken husband" mask cracked and fell away, revealing the tyrant underneath.
I didn't say a word. I didn't have to.
I looked at the crowd. They were staring at him now, their expressions curdling into disgust and judgment.
Bennett scrambled to his feet, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.
"That... that was taken out of context!" he stammered, looking around wildly.
"Save it," I said.
I turned to walk away.
Bennett lunged for my arm, his teeth bared.
"You bitch-"
Judd moved faster than my eyes could track.
He stepped between us, a wall of muscle and aggression, his chest colliding with Bennett's. Bennett stumbled back, nearly losing his balance.
"Don't," Judd warned.
His voice was a low growl, vibrating with a promise of violence.
Bennett looked at Judd, then at me, and finally at the wall of phones filming him.
He realized he had lost the room.
He realized his narrative was dead.
"You'll regret this," he whispered to me, the venom finally audible.
"I already regret you," I said.
I took Judd's arm.
We walked out of the Louvre, leaving Bennett standing alone under the statue of victory.
He looked very, very small.
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