He Chose Her, The Desert Chose Me - Chapter 10: Chapter 10
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Arthur didn't push Bella away. The sleepless nights since Lilly's disappearance, combined with his erratic appetite, had drained him completely. Having Bella—gentle, patient Bella—by his side was an unexpected comfort, like a salve for his frayed nerves. She brought a quiet steadiness he hadn't realized he'd been craving.
That evening, Bella went all out at Arthur's villa—an elaborate spread of gourmet dishes, crystal glasses, even a vintage Bordeaux. Arthur, already drowning in his own thoughts, let her coax him into drinking far more than usual. The wine blurred the edges of his pain, but not enough.
By midnight, his movements were sluggish. He barely registered Bella guiding him upstairs, his steps unsteady. Then—skin against his, warm and deliberate. He jolted upright, adrenaline clearing the haze in an instant. There she was: Bella, naked, her eyes wide with a mix of hope and desperation.
"Arthur… you've loved me for years," she whispered, voice trembling. "Don't you want me?"
Rage ignited in his chest. He snatched a blanket and hurled it at her. "Get out," he snarled, ice in every syllable. "Never pull this again."
The hurt in her expression barely registered. He stormed out, the room crackling with tension. For days afterward, he avoided her, throwing himself into work and the search for Lilly—anything to claw back control of his unraveling world.
Three months later, Birmingham's elite were buzzing about the Meyer Group. A corporate phantom, it had materialized overnight, swallowing established players and reshaping the city's power structure. Foreign capital poured in; even the Four Families found themselves eclipsed.
At the helm were two enigmas: Daniel, the American chairman, and his fiancée, Sheren Meyer—the company's namesake and president. Gossip painted Daniel as doting to the point of obsession, a title once held by Arthur himself. Now, with Lilly gone, Birmingham had crowned a new "wife-guardian."
Arthur had heard enough to be intrigued. When he finally encountered them at a gala, he wasn't prepared.
The second Arthur strode into the ballroom, my breath hitched. There he was, flawless as ever, Bella radiant on his arm. He had no idea the woman across the room—poised, unrecognizable—was me. Three months of surgery and reinvention had buried Lilly for good. Or so I'd thought.
As they neared, I schooled my face into cool detachment. Daniel, ever unflappable, stood beside me, his chiseled features drawing glances.
Arthur extended a hand. "Mr. Daniel," he said, glass raised. "Arthur. I've been curious about you."
Daniel's lips quirked. The scar that once marked him was gone, leaving only striking symmetry. "The feeling's mutual," he replied. "Birmingham's golden boy—living up to the hype."
Their exchange was polite, perfunctory. Then Arthur's gaze landed on me. The room seemed to still. My pulse spiked—had I missed something?
I arched a brow, Sheren's practiced smile in place. "Mr. Arthur, if you stare any harder, your date might object."
He flinched, cheeks flushing. "Apologies," he muttered. "You just… remind me of someone."
"Good, I hope?" I sipped my champagne, feigning nonchalance.
"Very." His voice cracked. He drained his glass like it held answers.
All night, I felt his eyes on me. The irony burned: the woman he mourned was inches away, hidden behind a name he'd never heard and a face he'd never see.
That evening, Bella went all out at Arthur's villa—an elaborate spread of gourmet dishes, crystal glasses, even a vintage Bordeaux. Arthur, already drowning in his own thoughts, let her coax him into drinking far more than usual. The wine blurred the edges of his pain, but not enough.
By midnight, his movements were sluggish. He barely registered Bella guiding him upstairs, his steps unsteady. Then—skin against his, warm and deliberate. He jolted upright, adrenaline clearing the haze in an instant. There she was: Bella, naked, her eyes wide with a mix of hope and desperation.
"Arthur… you've loved me for years," she whispered, voice trembling. "Don't you want me?"
Rage ignited in his chest. He snatched a blanket and hurled it at her. "Get out," he snarled, ice in every syllable. "Never pull this again."
The hurt in her expression barely registered. He stormed out, the room crackling with tension. For days afterward, he avoided her, throwing himself into work and the search for Lilly—anything to claw back control of his unraveling world.
Three months later, Birmingham's elite were buzzing about the Meyer Group. A corporate phantom, it had materialized overnight, swallowing established players and reshaping the city's power structure. Foreign capital poured in; even the Four Families found themselves eclipsed.
At the helm were two enigmas: Daniel, the American chairman, and his fiancée, Sheren Meyer—the company's namesake and president. Gossip painted Daniel as doting to the point of obsession, a title once held by Arthur himself. Now, with Lilly gone, Birmingham had crowned a new "wife-guardian."
Arthur had heard enough to be intrigued. When he finally encountered them at a gala, he wasn't prepared.
The second Arthur strode into the ballroom, my breath hitched. There he was, flawless as ever, Bella radiant on his arm. He had no idea the woman across the room—poised, unrecognizable—was me. Three months of surgery and reinvention had buried Lilly for good. Or so I'd thought.
As they neared, I schooled my face into cool detachment. Daniel, ever unflappable, stood beside me, his chiseled features drawing glances.
Arthur extended a hand. "Mr. Daniel," he said, glass raised. "Arthur. I've been curious about you."
Daniel's lips quirked. The scar that once marked him was gone, leaving only striking symmetry. "The feeling's mutual," he replied. "Birmingham's golden boy—living up to the hype."
Their exchange was polite, perfunctory. Then Arthur's gaze landed on me. The room seemed to still. My pulse spiked—had I missed something?
I arched a brow, Sheren's practiced smile in place. "Mr. Arthur, if you stare any harder, your date might object."
He flinched, cheeks flushing. "Apologies," he muttered. "You just… remind me of someone."
"Good, I hope?" I sipped my champagne, feigning nonchalance.
"Very." His voice cracked. He drained his glass like it held answers.
All night, I felt his eyes on me. The irony burned: the woman he mourned was inches away, hidden behind a name he'd never heard and a face he'd never see.
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