Chapter 6 - THE WOMEN THEY PAID TO DISAPPEARNatalie Price lived in Jacksonville.
I made it in forty-three minutes.
I remember very little about the road.
Only Sam’s voice through the truck speakers.
“Gabriel never reached the house.”
“Where is he?”
“Sheriff’s deputies have him.”
“Was he armed?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
My grip tightened on the steering wheel.
“What?”
“Handgun in the vehicle.”
“Legal?”
“Registered to him. But given the protection order—”
“He wasn’t supposed to be near her.”
“No.”
“What did he say?”
“That he wanted to talk.”
Of course.
Men like Gabriel always wanted to “talk” after fists failed.
They wanted one more private conversation.
One more chance to redefine what had happened.
One more moment without witnesses.
“Is Chloe safe?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know he was armed?”
“No.”
“Don’t tell her until I get there.”
When I arrived, two sheriff’s vehicles were parked near the gate.
Gabriel sat handcuffed in the back of one.
He saw my truck.
Even through glass, I recognized the hatred.
I parked.
Deputy Lisa Warren approached.
“Mr. Harland?”
“Yes.”
“We arrested Mr. Bellamy for violating the temporary protective order.”
“How close did he get?”
“He stopped at the gate and demanded entry. Your security personnel instructed him to leave. He refused.”
“Why did you search the vehicle?”
“He told us there was a firearm.”
That surprised me.
“Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“Loaded?”
“Yes.”
I looked toward the cruiser.
“And his explanation?”
“He says he normally carries it.”
Maybe true.
Maybe not.
The law would decide.
I was too angry to speculate.
“Can I speak to him?”
Deputy Warren considered it.
“Briefly. From outside the vehicle.”
I walked over.
Gabriel leaned toward the window.
“This is your fault.”
I almost admired the consistency.
Everything was someone else’s fault.
“You drove here.”
“You took my wife.”
“She called me.”
“You poisoned her.”
“You put her in a hospital.”
His face twisted.
“She exaggerates everything.”
“Two cracked ribs.”
“She fell.”
“Bruises around both wrists.”
“She was hysterical.”
“The gun?”
That stopped him.
I moved closer to the window.
“You told her accidents happen.”
His eyes flickered.
“Who told you that?”
“So it happened.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You just did.”
He leaned back.
“You think you’re smart because you’ve got money.”
“No.”
“You’ve been laughing at us this entire time.”
“No.”
“You let everyone think you were some nobody.”
That sentence told me exactly what Victor had been discussing with him.
Gabriel did not care that his wife was afraid.
He cared that he had underestimated her father.
“I never told you I was nobody.”
“You hid it.”
“You never asked anything about me that didn’t involve money.”
He stared at me.
“When this is over, Chloe will come home.”
“No.”
“She loves me.”
“Maybe she did.”
“She still does.”
That possibility hurt because abuse rarely erased love immediately.
Sometimes it weaponized it.
I kept my voice calm.
“You need to stay away from her.”
“Or what?”
“Or the justice system handles you.”
He laughed.
“You really think my family is afraid of court?”
“No.”
I looked toward the Bellamy mansion miles away in my imagination.
“But they’re starting to be.”
Inside the ranch house, Chloe was sitting at the kitchen table when I entered.
She stood too quickly.
“Dad?”
“I’m here.”
“Sam won’t tell me what happened.”
I looked at him.
He nodded and left the room.
Chloe folded her arms.
“Was it Gabriel?”
“Yes.”
Her face went white.
“He came here?”
“He reached the gate.”
“Why?”
“He says he wanted to talk.”
She stared at the floor.
“Was he angry?”
“I didn’t speak to him until after police arrived.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Yes.”
Her breathing changed.
I pulled out a chair.
“Sit.”
“I don’t want to sit.”
“Okay.”
“He always comes after.”
“After what?”
“After he loses control.”
Her hands started trembling.
“He screams, then hits something, then me, then leaves. And afterward he comes back calm. Flowers. Food. Apologies. He cries. He says he’s sick and needs me.”
She pressed her palms against her temples.
“And every single time I believed that version was real.”
I stepped closer.
“Chloe.”
“What if I miss him?”
I said nothing.
She looked ashamed.
“What kind of person misses somebody who does that?”
“A person who spent years loving him.”
She began crying.
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
“I want to hate him.”
“You don’t have to feel the correct emotion on schedule.”
She sat finally.
“I just have to not go back.”
“Yes.”
She looked up.
“What if I’m weak?”
“Then we make sure you’re not alone when you feel weak.”
That became our plan.
Not dramatic revenge.
Not instant transformation.
Structure.
A trauma counselor.
An attorney independent from my companies.
A new phone.
Financial accounts Gabriel could not access.
Copies of identification.
Medication.
Sleep.
Food.
Safety.
Real recovery was frustratingly ordinary.
By afternoon, however, the Bellamys had launched a second attack.
A gossip website published an article titled:
INSIDE THE TROUBLED MARRIAGE OF GABRIEL BELLAMY AND “ERRATIC” HEIRESS CHLOE HARLAND.
HeIress.
For the first time, my identity was public.
The article described Chloe as “newly revealed daughter of transportation billionaire Charles Harland.”
It quoted an unnamed source claiming she had concealed her wealth from Gabriel.
That part was absurd.
Chloe did not know.
But facts were no longer the point.
The Bellamy narrative had changed.
Yesterday she was unstable.
Today she was a deceptive heiress who manipulated an innocent husband.
David called.
“Victor’s getting creative.”
“Source?”
“Almost certainly their PR firm.”
“Can we prove it?”
“Not yet.”
“Then we ignore it.”
“There’s another issue.”
I walked onto the porch.
“What?”
“Bellamy Hospitality is trying to refinance the three hotels securing our debt.”
“So?”
“They need our consent.”
“Why now?”
“Liquidity.”
I understood immediately.
Victor expected business consequences.
He was preparing.
“What does the agreement say?”
“We can refuse under certain conditions, but we need legitimate financial grounds.”
“Do we have them?”
“Possibly. Updated numbers are ugly.”
“Independent review.”
“Already ordered.”
“Good.”
David hesitated.
“You’re being painfully responsible.”
“Disappointed?”
“A little.”
I smiled for the first time in two days.
Then he continued.
“Charles, there’s something else on Preston’s drive.”
My smile disappeared.
“What?”
“A payment ledger.”
“For Natalie?”
“Not just Natalie.”
I gripped the porch railing.
“How many?”
“Four.”
“What do you mean, four?”
“Four women received payments through different Bellamy entities over eight years.”
“Connected to Gabriel?”
“Three definitely. One uncertain.”
I closed my eyes.
“Amounts?”
“Between seventy-five thousand and three hundred thousand.”
“NDAs?”
“Each one.”
“Find them.”
“We need to be careful.”
“I said find them, not harass them.”
“I know.”
“If they want nothing to do with this, we leave them alone.”
“Understood.”
That evening, Chloe ate half a sandwich.
It was the most she had eaten since leaving the hospital.
At eight, Detective Moreno called.
Gabriel would remain in custody overnight pending a hearing.
At nine, a judge extended Chloe’s protective order.
At ten, I finally showered.
At eleven, I found Chloe sitting alone on the porch.
The Florida night was warm.
Crickets filled the pasture.
She held one of Ellen’s old mugs.
I had kept several at the ranch.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.
“No.”
I sat beside her.
After a while, she said, “Mom would’ve known.”
It struck like a knife.
“She might have.”
“She always knew when I was lying.”
“She knew when everyone was lying.”
Chloe smiled weakly.
“She would be furious.”
“She would.”
“At me?”
I turned sharply.
“Never.”
She stared into the darkness.
“Sometimes I think I stayed because I was embarrassed to admit I made a mistake.”
“Marriage isn’t a restaurant order, Chloe.”
She laughed softly.
“What?”
“You don’t send it back because the steak is wrong.”
The laugh became a wince.
I continued.
“You made decisions based on the person he showed you. Then he changed the information.”
She was quiet.
“Will I ever feel normal?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t.”
She looked at me.
“Great speech, Dad.”
“But I know you.”
“And?”
“You rebuilt yourself after your mother died.”
“That took years.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want years.”
“I know.”
I put my arm around her carefully.
“Take tomorrow.”
She rested her head against my shoulder.
At 11:47, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then I opened the message.
My name is Natalie Price.
I heard what happened to Chloe.
I signed papers years ago saying I would never talk.
But if your daughter is willing to fight him, I am too.
Below the message was a photograph.
A young woman with stitches above her eyebrow.
Date stamped seven years earlier.
I read the message again.
Then I looked at Chloe.
Gabriel believed this story had started at 1:12 a.m.
It hadn’t.
May you like
It had started years before he ever met my daughter.
And the people his family paid to silence were beginning to speak.
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