Chapter 3: The Forced Encounter

A sliver of cold light sliced through the darkness.

Belle stirred, her body a battlefield of pain.

Her limbs were leaden, her ribs screaming in protest at the mere attempt to move. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed through her skull, the sensation sharp and unforgiving. The sterile bite of hospital air filled her lungs, mingling with the distant beeping of machines that counted out the fragile rhythm of her existence.

She was alive.

The realization should have brought relief.

Instead, dread coiled in her stomach like a snake, tightening its grip.

Something was wrong.

The sheets beneath her were crisp, the mattress too firm, the walls around her a clinical shade of white, too pristine, too controlled.

This wasn’t her apartment.

It wasn’t even the cheap motel where she’d planned to disappear, where she could vanish into the background of the world and never be found.

No.

This place was a cage.

Belle forced her eyelids open, blinking against the oppressive fluorescence overhead. The room wavered, shadows flickering beyond the pale blue curtain separating her from the rest of the hospital ward.

Then, a presence.

Heavy. Unmistakable.

The air thickened.

The measured click of polished leather shoes against tile sent ice sliding down her spine.

She didn’t need to see him to know he was there.

Alistair Kensington.

A chair scraped against the floor, the sound sharp against the suffocating silence.

Belle didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

She wasn’t ready.

The tension stretched, suffocating.

And then, finally, she turned her head, slow, hesitant, as if looking at him would seal her fate.

And there he was.

Sitting in the chair beside her bed.

Watching her.

Alistair was a study in lethal restraint.

He was calm, composed, his tailored black suit immaculate despite the hour, the top button of his shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up just slightly as if he’d been too distracted, too furious, to finish dressing properly.

But his eyes, **those piercing, ice-blue eyes, **were anything but calm.

They locked onto her with a quiet, simmering intensity, as if he were a predator studying his prey, calculating her every move.

Belle’s pulse stuttered.

She had seen this man in the fragments of her memories. Had felt the heat of his touch, the weight of his body against hers in a night of reckless abandon.

But this man?

This wasn’t the same Alistair Kensington who had kissed her like she was oxygen and he was drowning.

This man was dangerous.

Her throat tightened.

"What, " The word came out cracked, barely more than air. She swallowed, wetting her lips, and tried again. "What are you doing here?"

Alistair didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he leaned forward, slow and deliberate, resting his forearms on his knees, his fingers laced together in an almost thoughtful manner.

Then, his lips parted, and the first words out of his mouth sent a shockwave through her chest.

"Why the hell are you here?"

Belle’s breath caught.

The question, **harsh, demanding, **cut through the fog of painkillers and exhaustion like a blade.

She tried to sit up, but her ribs rebelled, pain flaring so violently that she gasped, her fingers clutching at the sheets.

Alistair didn’t move.

Didn’t offer help.

Didn’t break eye contact.

"Why the hell were you outside my office?" His voice was calm but edged with something sharper, something restrained but lethal.

Memories flickered like shattered glass, the man in the suit, the whispered warning, the screech of tires against wet pavement.

It hadn’t been an accident.

Someone had wanted to stop her.

A chill slithered down her spine.

Alistair watched her too closely, too sharply.

“You’re hiding something.” His tone was a quiet accusation.

Belle forced her expression to remain blank. “And if I am?”

Alistair exhaled slowly, as if taming something far more dangerous beneath the surface. “Then that makes you a liability.”

A tremor passed through her, but she masked it with a sharp glare.

She couldn’t tell him the truth.

Not about the baby.

Not about the warning whispered in the dark.

Not about the man who had nearly run her off the road.

Alistair leaned back, tilting his head as he studied her, unimpressed by her silence.

“Were you following me?”

Belle’s stomach lurched. “What? No, ”

"Then why were you outside Kensington Enterprises?" His voice turned lethal.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Because what could she say?

That she had been trying to escape him? That she had been carrying his child while booking a one-way ticket to oblivion?

That someone had tried to kill her?

Alistair waited.

His fingers drummed once against the armrest of the chair, his patience wearing thin.

“You’re lying,” he murmured.

Belle sucked in a sharp breath.

Before she could speak, the door swung open.

A doctor entered, holding a file in his hands.

Belle’s blood ran cold.

The doctor, oblivious to the storm brewing in the room, glanced up, his gaze bouncing between her and Alistair before settling on the latter.

"Mr. Kensington," he said, polite but unreadable. "There’s something you need to know."

Alistair’s entire body tensed.

The doctor flipped open the file, scanning the page.

And then, 

His next words landed like a thunderclap.

“Miss Madrigal is pregnant.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Unrelenting.

Belle felt it in her bones, the moment the world tilted.

She didn’t dare look at Alistair.

But she felt it.

The shift.

The sharp inhale.

The unnatural stillness.

Alistair hadn’t moved.

For the first time since meeting him, he was utterly and completely frozen.

The doctor, oblivious, continued flipping through his notes.

“The tests confirm she’s about eleven weeks along. There was some initial concern about the stress from the accident, but both the mother and baby appear to be stable.”

Mother. Baby.

The words clawed through her skin, marking her with a reality she wasn’t ready to face.

Belle forced herself to breathe.

She wanted to stop this. To undo it.

To reach out and grab the doctor’s words from the air, shove them back into his mouth before they reached Alistair Kensington.

But it was too late.

Because Alistair finally moved.

Slowly, so slowly, he stood.

The chair barely made a sound as he straightened to his full, imposing height.

Belle braced herself, but when she finally dared to look at him, 

She wished she hadn’t.

His face was a mask of absolute control. No emotion. No reaction.

Just deep, unfathomable nothingness in his ice-blue eyes.

But Belle knew better.

She knew stillness was more dangerous than rage.

Alistair inhaled, deep and steady, before finally speaking.

“Leave us.”

The words were calm.

Too calm.

The doctor hesitated, then nodded and slipped out.

The door clicked shut.

And then there was nothing but silence.

Belle couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

Alistair’s gaze burned into her, searing through every wall she had built.

“How long?” His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

Belle swallowed, her throat dry. “What?”

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“How. Long.”

Belle’s stomach twisted.

“Eleven weeks.”

Alistair exhaled sharply.

His entire body was coiled tight, a predator ready to strike.

Belle forced herself to stand her ground.

She lifted her chin, her voice steady despite the storm brewing between them.

"It's none of your business, Alistair."