Going to the en suite bathroom, she took a long, warm shower. Her meager belongings from her suitcases had already been unpacked. She wondered if it had been the butler or the maid who’d unpacked her clothes last night, when Santiago was giving her the house tour. She hoped it was the young maid. She felt uncomfortable at the thought of the supercilious butler looking down his nose at her simple clothing, all purchased from discount stores and washed many times.
“The servants think what I pay them to think,” Santiago had told her grandly yesterday.
But Belle’s own experience said otherwise. As a waitress, she’d been paid to serve breakfast and refill coffee; her opinion had always been her own. Her tart temper had gotten her in trouble more than once. Belle always believed in being polite, but that was different than letting a bully walk all over you.
“I have no interest in a silent doormat as a wife,” he’d told her.
It was obviously true in bed. It was also true that in some ways, he made her feel stronger, braver and like she could really be herself, without pretending. But if Santiago thought Belle could ever be some kind of high society trophy wife, he’d soon realize his mistake. She was just afraid she’d humiliate all of them in the process.
After brushing out her wet hair, she pulled on a clean T-shirt and pair of shorts. They were getting too tight around her belly. Maybe a new wardrobe wasn’t the worst idea, she thought. Brushing her teeth, she glanced at herself in the mirror. And heaven knew a stylist couldn’t hurt. It would have to be a brave stylist, though, to want to take her on.
Ignoring the elevator—it seemed so pretentious—she went down the gleaming back stairs. She was just grateful Santiago had given her a house tour, or she’d have gotten totally lost. Approaching the kitchen, she heard a woman laugh.
“He can’t be serious. We’re really expected to follow her orders? That nobody? It’s humiliating.”
Sucking in her breath, Belle stopped outside the kitchen door, listening.
“Humiliating or not, we’ll have to take her orders. At least for now.” The butler’s voice was scornful. “However ridiculous they might be. Who knows what she might want?”
A different woman said, “A stripper pole?”
“Silver bowls full of pork rinds,” the other suggested.
“But Mr. Velazquez has chosen her as his bride,” the butler intoned, “so we must pretend to obey her for as long as the marriage lasts. But do not worry. Once the brat is born, she’ll soon be kicked to the curb. Mr. Velazquez is seeing his lawyer today, hopefully drawing up an ironclad prenup...”
Belle must have made some noise, because the butler’s voice suddenly cut off. A second later, to her horror, his head peered around the door. Her own cheeks were aflame at being caught eavesdropping.
But Jones didn’t look ashamed. If anything, his expression was smug, even as he said politely, “Ah, good morning, Miss Langtry. Would you care for some breakfast?”
Belle had no idea how to react. He knew she’d overheard, but wasn’t remotely sorry. The butler was in charge here, not her, no matter what Santiago had said. Suddenly not the least bit hungry, she blurted out the first thing she thought of—the morning special she’d served at the diner. “Um...scrambled eggs and toast would be lovely... Maybe a little orange juice...”
“Of course, madam.”
But as she walked forward with hunched shoulders, he blocked her from the kitchen, and gestured smoothly down the hall. “We will serve you in the dining room, Miss Langtry. There are newspapers and juice and coffee already set out. Please make yourself comfortable.”
Comfortable was the last thing she felt as she ate alone at the end of a long table that would have seated twenty. Huge vases of fresh flowers made her nose itch, and she didn’t find the Financial Times enough company to block out the memory of the staff’s cruel words.
“Who knows what she might want?”
“A stripper’s pole?”
“Silver bowls full of pork rinds?”
“She’ll soon be kicked to the curb... Mr. Velazquez is seeing his lawyer today.”
Santiago hadn’t told her what his plans were today. He hadn’t even said goodbye. He’d just made love to her hot and hard in the night, then disappeared before dawn. Like always.
Was he really with his lawyer right now, devising some kind of ironclad prenuptial agreement?
Of course he was, she thought bitterly. He wouldn’t trust her, ever. That was what their marriage would be, in spite of all his fine words about friendship and partnership. It would be a business arrangement, based on a contract, where even the people running her own home despised her.
This mansion wasn’t home, she thought with despair, looking up at the soaring chandeliers, the high ceilings of the dining room. She didn’t belong here. She rubbed her belly. Neither did her baby.
She missed her brothers. She missed Letty, who was in Greece with her family. She missed her old friends back in Bluebell. Most of all, she missed having control over her life.
Why would any woman want to get pregnant by a billionaire, if it meant you’d always feel like an outsider? Would even her own child, raised in this environment, someday despise her?
Jones served her breakfast on a silver tray, then departed with a sweeping bow. But Belle saw his smirk. She managed to eat a few bites, but it all tasted like ash in her mouth. She was relieved when Kip, the muscular, tattooed bodyguard, appeared in the doorway.