Cathleen's long lashes fluttered open, revealing a soft, pale light that sliced across the unfamiliar sheets. Her heart began to race as she frantically looked around the room, desperately trying to remember where she was. Panic clawed at her throat like sharp claws, threatening to consume her. But then, a dim memory rose to the surface and slowly softened the edges of her fear. Bella. Grandfather's unexpected visit. The pieces slowly fell into place as she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. The room smelled of fresh linen and lavender, the sunlight filtering in through sheer curtains like flecks of gold dust dancing on the walls. She could hear birds chirping outside, their cheerful melody bringing a sense of peace to her anxious mind. With each passing moment, Cathleen felt more and more at ease.
She rolled over on the bed, and she froze.
A line of moisture glistened on Xavier's sharply defined cheek, evidence of a single tear that had fallen. It seemed impossible. Xavier, known for his cold exterior and indifference to emotion, now wore an uncharacteristic vulnerability with this solitary mark. His face was not meant to display such weakness, yet there it was, dried and irrefutable.
"Xavier?" No answer.
Her gaze dropped, inch by agonizing inch, to where his large hands cradled Bella. The rough, calloused skin of his palms contrasted with the softness of her delicate body. With a gentle touch, he held her close, as if she were a precious treasure that he would do anything to protect. The man exuded a sense of strength and power, yet in this moment, he seemed almost vulnerable as he slept with an innocent child nestled in his arms. He was like a work of art-chiseled and hardened by life's trials but softened by the pure love he felt for this tiny being in his embrace.
"Time to wake up, princess," she whispered to Bella, not wanting to disturb this rare moment of tenderness from Xavier.
Cathleen reached out, intent on disentangling Bella from the web of Xavier's embrace. But before her fingers brushed the cotton onesie, the air shifted. The bed heaved as Xavier launched upright, eyes flaring wild and dangerous.
"Don't you fucking touch what belongs to me!"
The words slashed through the tranquil morning, raw and savage. Cathleen's heart leaped to her throat; her blood chilled. For a fleeting second, she glimpsed the barbarian beneath the businessman-the primal force that fought and fucked with equal ferocity.
"Xavier, it's me." Her voice wavered, but she held his gaze, steel sharpening her tone. "Calm down."
Recognition flickered in his storm-gray eyes, the tempest within them quelling as swiftly as it had arisen. He blinked, the monster receding, leaving only the man-a man fractured by nightmares and unseen battles.
"Sorry." The word was gruff, a handover of their daughter perfunctory. But his touch lingered, a silent plea for something Cathleen couldn't name.
"Get some rest," she murmured, taking Bella into her arms. She turned away, hiding the tremor in her hands, the questions crowding her mind. What demons haunted Xavier Knight? And what price would they pay when those demons demanded their due?
Cathleen cradled Bella, the infant's warmth a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in her bones. She navigated the hushed hallways, each step away from Xavier's volatile slumber peeling back layers of perplexity. His outburst was a jagged shard, lodged deep and unexplained. Last night he told her she should live for him during their lovemaking; this morning, he had tears-none of them wove together in any pattern she recognized.
Reaching Old Mr. Knight's door, her hand hovered, trepidation coiling in her gut. Her knock was a hesitant tap, betraying none of the courtroom confidence she wielded like a blade. The door creaked open, and she stepped into the dimly lit sanctuary of the patriarch.
Old Mr. Knight, propped against a mountain of pillows, his gaze immediately locked onto the bundle in Cathleen's arms. A smile cracked his weathered face, a fissure in the stoic façade he so often presented.
"Here comes the only thing that matters," he breathed out, the words carrying more weight than a testimony under oath.
"Hello, Bella, hello, my little sunbeam." His voice softened into a lullaby as he brushed a kiss upon the baby's forehead, a gesture so tender it felt like an intrusion to witness.
"Grandpa missed you so, so much," he whispered, yet his eyes lifted to Cathleen-a silent inquisition into her unsettled air.
She swallowed hard, the tightness in her throat an unwelcome companion. In the presence of such unguarded affection, her own walls felt too thin, threatening to crumble under the scrutiny of the old man who knew too much and felt too deeply.
"Everything alright, Cathleen?" The question came wrapped in concern, not accusation.
"Fine," she lied, the word as brittle as the façade she maintained. Bella squirmed in her arms, oblivious to the tension that hummed like a live wire in the room. Cathleen forced a smile, but it was a mask-flimsy and ill-fitting.
The old man's eyes never left her face, reading the lines of worry etched there. "You can talk to me," he offered the invitation hanging heavy between them. But how could she confess her fears and her doubts when she didn't fully understand them herself?
"Thank you," she managed, the gratitude genuine even if her voice shook. She looked down at Bella, the innocent caught in the crossfire of adult complexities, and knew that whatever storm was brewing, she'd weather it-for her, for Xavier, for the fragile bond they all shared.
"Let's sit," Old Mr. Knight said, patting the bed beside him. "We have much to discuss." But the man noticed that Cathleen wasn't herself, so he took Bella from her.
Old Mr. Knight cradled Bella in his arms, the slow cadence of an old lullaby vibrating against the stillness of the room. Cathleen watched, her chest tight, as he paced with a tenderness that belied his years.
"Do you know where Bella comes from?" His voice, a rasp of wisdom and worn edges, pulled her from her thoughts.
"No, father. I thought you named her." Her response hung in the air, fragile and uncertain.
The old man stopped his pacing and turned, eyes deep and knowing. "No, I didn't. Xavier named her. Bella was his late mother's middle name. Isabelle," he said, the name a sacred whisper as he resumed his gentle sway. "When he told me he named her Isabella, I knew he saw his mother in the little girl. Xavier and his mother were inseparable."
Cathleen's heart clenched-a gasp escaped her lips. The revelation sliced through the fog of confusion, drawing blood.
"Is that why he refused to let her die?" Her voice trembled, stripped raw with the implication.
The old man halted, the weight of years settling on his shoulders as he sat on the edge of the bed, Bella's innocence a stark contrast to the shadows in his gaze. He patted the mattress beside him, a silent summons.
Cathleen approached, her movements cautious, and perched next to him. Her skin prickled with unease.
"Cathy, don't be mad," he began, his voice low. "I knew Bella wasn't dead. But that was after I asked to see her grave when I noticed my son was lying about her death."
Cathleen's throat constricted; words lodged like thorns. She nodded for him to continue.
"When I saw her condition, I knew he was doing it so no one would tell him to give up on her." His eyes touched hers, heavy with sorrow. "There was no hope for Bella. I personally told him to let her go, but Xavier refused."
"Refused..." Cathleen echoed the taste of the word bitter.
"My son has never been to church," the old man confessed, "except when I took him as a boy. All his life, he's never been the church type. But I've seen him-praying, crying to God to save his little girl."
A silence engulfed them, thick with unspoken fears.
"Now, I am scared that he seems to be too overprotective of the two of you." His admission hung between them, a specter they could not ignore.
"Father, have you also noticed his sudden change?" Cathleen's question was tentative, probing the darkness for answers.
The old man nodded, his movements slow. "He loves the two of you," he said simply, the gravity of his words anchoring them to the moment.