“Here we go,” I said under my breath as I plastered a smile on my face.
But then Brock’s hand was at the small of my back.
“I’m right here,” he murmured.
And I swear I melted right then and there.
The next hour or so was a blur of greeting people that I only saw once or twice a year, people I went out of my way not to get too close to.
But it was somehow made much more tolerable by Brock’s presence right there at my side, his hand a reassuring presence at the base of my spine, a touch that was both comforting and possessive at the same time.
“Miranda, you gorgeous creature!” a genuinely welcome voice called.
“Bellamy!” I said, turning with a smile.
“And who is the lucky…” Bellamy started, then broke off when he saw Brock turn. There was a moment, just a quick flash of something dark on Bellamy’s face before it was gone, and he was reaching out toward Brock. “Brock, long time,” he said as the two shook. “How did you get so lucky to be escorting the lovely Miranda Coulter?”
We’d agreed that it was best no one knew about my situation.
“I’m not sure,” Brock answered before I could think of something to say to brush it off. “But I am enjoying every moment. How have you been?”
“Oh, touring the world. Romancing beautiful women. The usual. Is that Teddy and his father over there?” he asked, looking past us toward the man standing beside a little person who was, objectively, a bit too young to be at the benefit. “Excuse me,” he said.
With that, he was gone.
“You know a surprising number of people here, considering you don’t live in the city,” I said when we were alone.
“I know Bellamy from our service days.”
“Bellamy was in the service?”
“Yes.”
“Bellamy?” I asked, incredulous.
“Hard to believe, but yes. What?” he asked, looking down at me with drawn-together brows.
Apparently, he could read me well.
Because I’d felt my stomach clench when I saw another familiar face. One with makeup that was just barely hiding some fresh bruises. Jenny. And her shitbag husband who had given those to her.
“Oh,” he said, following my gaze.
“She’s so isolated,” I said, feeling my heart break for her. “So cornered by his well-connected family.”
“All you can do is offer to help,” Brock said, his hand sliding a bit to squeeze my hip.
I had.
Several times.
Anytime I caught her alone in the bathroom at an event.
I couldn’t begin to understand the psychological damage that being so horrifically abused caused, but, clearly, her husband had beaten her down so much that she didn’t even realize she could rise again without him.
My heart always broke for her.
“Come on,” Brock said, leading me away from the crowd.