Breaking Belle, page 1
Breaking Belle
Fatal Fables, Volume 1
Natalie Grace
Published by Natalie Grace, 2025.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
BREAKING BELLE
First edition. March 9, 2025.
Copyright © 2025 Natalie Grace.
ISBN: 979-8230811589
Written by Natalie Grace.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Breaking Belle
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For those who've endured the darkness but refuse to stay there.Your strength is louder than your silence.Your courage is brighter than your scars.This story is for you.
CONTENT WARNING:
Breaking Belle contains explicit scenes depicting domestic abuse, emotional and physical violence, coercion, sexual assault (not on page), toxic relationships, manipulation, and graphic violence. Themes explored are intense, dark, and emotionally challenging. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse, please seek help immediately. You are not alone.
Breaking Belle
The city’s distant hum used to soothe me. Now it mocked me, muffled by layers of thick glass and cold marble. I stirred, muscles aching quietly, each tender spot whispering painful reminders of a night I desperately wished to erase. Shadows pooled across the bedroom, early sunlight fighting its way through drawn curtains like fragile threads of hope I’d long abandoned.
I froze suddenly, heart tripping over itself, and listened for the breathing beside me. Heavy. Uneven. Still deep asleep. Relief mingled sharply with anxiety as I exhaled, carefully slipping from beneath the silk sheets that felt more like shackles with each passing day.
The chill of the marble floor shot up through my bones as I placed my feet down. I welcomed the cold bite, desperate for something—anything—to remind me I was still here, still breathing, still capable of feeling something other than numb despair. Quietly, I crossed the room to the bathroom, locking the door behind me with a gentle, almost fearful click.
This room had once felt like sanctuary. Now it felt too opulent, too pristine, as lifeless as a museum display. Gold fixtures gleamed coldly under my fingertips, mosaics glittered around mirrors, but the reflection staring back at me was dull, faded—someone I barely recognized anymore.
He had caught me unprepared last night, tearing down the careful mask I usually wore before I could even pretend to be asleep. Now, the truth was painfully clear: smudged mascara, eyes hollowed with fatigue, skin flushed and raw from where his touch had lingered too roughly. Leaning in, I splashed icy water across my face, scrubbing desperately to erase more than just makeup. I needed to wash away the memory of him.
Yet his scent clung stubbornly—stale whiskey, acrid cigars, the bitter edge of sweat tinged with secrets I’d never asked him to share. Secrets he whispered to others, places I’d never see. Water trickled down my neck, mixing with tears I refused to let fall, and I wondered bitterly if I’d ever feel truly clean again.
Three years. Three goddamn years I’d spent spiraling down this endless drain. At first, I believed his excuses—the demanding career, the late nights, the stress he drowned in ice-filled glasses. I’d swallowed every hollow apology, every whispered promise until the man I once loved dissolved into a stranger. A monster wearing his face.
The first slap had come exactly one year ago—I remembered marking the date in my diary, fingers trembling as ink blurred onto paper. A promise to myself that I’d never forget what he’d become.
Oversized sunglasses, silk scarves, and expensive foundation had become my armor, hiding bruises he wouldn’t allow anyone else to see. Adam despised pity, despised scandal even more.
Even my father had turned his back, seeing Adam as nothing short of perfect—the fault must lie with me. His words were a knife, slicing deep beneath my skin, leaving scars nobody else could see but I always felt.
This penthouse, this glittering cage, was plush yet suffocating. My dreams—my art, the curatorial career I’d once believed in—had faded beneath Adam’s possessive shadow. Once, I’d been poised to create something beautiful.
Now, I was just his.
I stepped under the shower’s icy spray, my breath catching sharply as it bit into my skin. Ritualistically—desperately—I scrubbed myself raw, trying to erase Adam’s touch. But no matter how hard I washed, his presence lingered, haunting my skin like an unshakable ghost.
My phone chimed softly from the bedroom, slicing through the fragile silence. My stomach lurched violently, dread clawing its way up my spine. Adam would lose it if he woke up and found me missing from his side. Quickly drying off, heart hammering in my chest, I crept back toward the bedroom on silent, careful steps, ears straining for the slightest sign he’d stirred. His deep, uneven breathing continued uninterrupted.
Relief flooded me briefly—until the moment my fingertips brushed against the phone. Without warning, his hand shot out, snapping painfully around my wrist like a vice. My heart exploded in panic, pulse racing wildly beneath his punishing grip.
Adam towered over me, eyes dark and glazed with remnants of last night’s indulgence, suspicion sharpening his features as he ripped the phone from my grasp. His voice was cruelly mocking as he read aloud, "Belle, it's Clara from the Montclair Gallery. Can we still meet today? Your pieces are incredible."
He tilted his head, his gaze slicing into mine, an arrogant smirk twisting his lips. "Planning a little reunion without telling me, sweetheart?"
My throat tightened painfully. I forced myself to speak without trembling, though it felt nearly impossible. "She’s just an old friend. It’s casual."
He laughed—a humorless, bitter sound—as he tossed my phone carelessly onto the bed. His fingers tightened further, bruising my skin. "Casual? This sounds professional. Are you keeping secrets, Bellissima?"
Summoning every ounce of courage, I forced my gaze to meet his cold stare. "It was nothing," I whispered firmly. "Just some old art pieces. Nothing important."
Adam leaned closer, so close I could smell the alcohol and expensive cologne mingling with my lavender body wash. "You know the rules, Belle," he whispered, voice dangerously soft. "No secrets. And absolutely no plans without me."
Slowly, I nodded, jaw clenched so tightly my teeth ached, pulse thundering painfully beneath his grip. "It was just a conversation. That’s all."
He studied me, lingering until the silence stretched into a slow, torturous agony. Finally, his grip relaxed just slightly—enough to remind me he could crush me if he wanted. The threat remained clear in his gaze. "Alright," he drawled lazily, releasing my wrist and leaving fresh red imprints in his wake. "But remember—I hate surprises."
I stood frozen, rooted to the floor as he sauntered casually out of the room, every arrogant step shattering another fragile shard of my dignity.
But beneath the bruises, beneath the ache in my bones, something stirred inside me. Something fierce and defiant, clawing its way through the wreckage he’d left behind.
I wasn’t broken yet.
THE DINING ROOM WAS a cavern of cold elegance, each ornate detail crafted to perfection yet utterly devoid of warmth. The massive table stretched endlessly between us, polished and pristine but painfully empty. I sat rigidly at my end, my fingertips tracing anxious patterns on the glossy surface as if I could carve comfort out of its smooth indifference.
Adam had insisted I wait for him tonight—rare, unexpected, and profoundly unsettling. Usually, these meals were solitary affairs, silent and oppressive. Tonight, though, he’d made his intentions clear, and I felt every bit like prey obediently awaiting the predator’s arrival.
Earlier, I'd briefly considered cooking—seared steak, those decadent sauces he used to love. But defiance, or maybe pure indifference, had won out. Instead, fragrant takeout boxes covered the table, their enticing scents mingling seductively in the air.
The antique grandfather clock ticked heavily, each relentless beat matching my anxious heartbeat, every second dragging out into a torturous eternity. Candlelight flickered softly beneath the crystal chandelier, casting shadows across the walls—silent, dancing warnings.
I picked absently at my salad, appetite completely forgotten, memories invading my mind without invitation. There had been nights—long ago now—when dinners had meant whispered secrets, soft laughter, and stolen touches beneath the table. Nights when Adam’s eyes had smoldered with passion rather than contempt.
The sharp click of footsteps shattered the delicate silence, snapping me back to reality. My breath caught sharply in my throat, heart hammering painfully. Slowly, I lifted my gaze as Adam’s shadow stretched ominously into the room. Lean, powerful, his silhouette filled the doorway, the dim lighting accentuating the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the cruelty I’d learned to fear—and beneath it, a faint, undeniable beauty I still shamefully craved.
Our eyes met—mine cautious, vulnerable; his calculating, unreadable. He took his seat opposite me deliberately slowly, letting his gaze rake over me openly, igniting unwanted heat beneath my skin.
“Smells good,” he remarked softly, his voice edged with danger. A sinful smirk curled his lips as his gaze lingered purposefully on my mouth. My cheeks flushed despite myself. Once, his voice alone had unraveled me. Now it stirred conflicting waves of
I swallowed thickly, forcing calm into my voice. “I ordered from that Thai place you mentioned last week,” I said quietly, betraying more vulnerability than I intended.
He raised an eyebrow, maddeningly casual, amused even. "Did you now?" His eyes sharpened, piercing through my careful façade as he reached leisurely for the pad thai. His fingers—elegant, strong, beautiful—played lazily with the utensils. Those same hands had caressed me gently once, then bruised me without hesitation. I hated my body for remembering, hated the way it responded eagerly to each calculated movement.
My throat tightened painfully, and I forced my eyes downward, desperate to ignore the treacherous heat simmering in my core, the lingering whispers of longing beneath all the bitterness.
Silence stretched taut between us, broken only by the subtle clink of silverware. Unable to help myself, I glanced up again. Adam watched me openly now, eyes dark with secrets I didn’t dare unravel. Slowly, deliberately, his lips parted, and his tongue traced over them, sending a primal pulse throbbing between my thighs. He knew exactly what he was doing, taunting me with memories of how those lips had felt against my skin, how his mouth had explored every inch of my body until I begged for mercy.
“Something on your mind, Belle?” Adam drawled, voice velvet-soft yet sharp with menace.
I shook my head slightly, barely breathing. “Just remembering,” I murmured honestly, unable to convincingly lie beneath the intensity of his stare.
He leaned forward, intrigue flickering dangerously in his narrowed eyes. "What exactly are you remembering?"
I hesitated, voice coming out breathless despite myself. “The way it used to be.”
He chuckled softly, darkly amused yet enticing, sending chills cascading down my spine. “And what way was that, sweetheart?” He twisted the nickname mockingly, cruelly seductive, fingers absently caressing the stem of his wine glass suggestively.
“You know exactly what I mean,” I whispered, voice trembling, every nerve painfully aware of him. The magnetic pull he always had on me was undeniable, even now—especially now.
Adam’s gaze sharpened, became unbearably intense. Slowly, deliberately, he rose and rounded the table toward me. Each step heightened my anxiety, pulse quickening into a frantic rhythm as he stopped directly behind my chair, leaning down until his mouth hovered dangerously close to my ear.
“Enlighten me, Belle,” he whispered, breath brushing against my skin like a dark caress. “Remind me of how good we used to be.” His fingertips traced gently, possessively down my bare arm, making my body stiffen in resistance and yearning all at once.
His lips grazed my neck lightly, a cruelly seductive tease. “Or maybe you prefer remembering the darker times?” His teeth grazed my earlobe, eliciting an involuntary shudder from deep within me. “I always enjoyed those more.”
My pulse betrayed me, throbbing traitorously beneath his touch. I hated this weakness—the twisted thrill mingling shamefully with fear. His hand gripped my chin roughly, forcing me to meet his hungry, demanding stare. Adam’s eyes burned fiercely, almost desperate, revealing something deeper than simple cruelty.
Just as his lips brushed mine, barely touching, his phone vibrated sharply against the table, breaking the spell. He froze, eyes narrowing, torn between desire and distraction. Finally, releasing me abruptly, painfully, he snatched the phone up, irritation flaring visibly as he scanned the screen.
“Excuse me,” he muttered coldly, turning toward his office without another glance, leaving me trembling, breathless, caught between profound relief and devastating disappointment.
I heard the distant clink of crystal, the familiar splash of whiskey into a glass, and sank back into my chair, shaken to my core. Anger, desire, shame—they tangled violently inside me. Adam was a storm, unpredictable and intoxicating. Dangerous yet irresistible.
I was drowning in him—and I had no idea how, or if, I’d ever break free.
I stacked the dirty dishes, each harsh clang of porcelain echoing through the suffocating silence of our penthouse. My heart was still racing, nerves frayed and raw from Adam’s earlier mind games. Methodically, I packed away leftovers, my hands trembling as I loaded the dishwasher, desperately trying to drown out memories of his lips grazing my skin, his cruel promises whispered like dark seductions into my ear.
Suddenly, Adam’s voice rose sharply from behind his closed office door—angry, agitated, words indistinct yet thick with menace. A violent crash punctuated his tirade, glass shattering against the marble floor. I froze, my pulse stuttering painfully. Every instinct screamed at me to run—to lock myself away and hide. But instead, propelled by a twisted blend of fear and morbid curiosity, I moved swiftly toward the sound.
Without knocking, I burst into his office, my heart slamming violently into my ribs. "What happened?" I demanded breathlessly, my eyes instantly landing on shattered crystal scattered across the polished marble.
Adam stood rigidly in the center of the room, his jaw clenched, eyes blazing with dark fury. He looked wild, unhinged—nothing like the composed, sophisticated man he presented to the world. Cold fear gripped my spine, and I immediately realized my mistake: I’d willingly entered the lion’s den.
"Did you know about this?" he growled, his voice dangerously calm despite the rage trembling visibly through his clenched fists.
"Know about what?" I asked, confusion genuine, my voice shaking as Adam swiftly closed the distance between us. Panic surged as he slammed the door shut behind me, trapping us both in this suffocating tension.
"Isabelle," he murmured, his voice chillingly soft, the deliberate use of my full name dripping venom, slicing down my spine like ice. "Who have you been talking to?"
"No one—I haven't told anyone anything!" My voice was desperate, trembling on a knife’s edge between truth and fear.
Adam’s mouth twisted cruelly, his fingers suddenly gripping my jaw, forcing my gaze upward. "Then explain the journalists hounding me, accusing me of things only you and I know," he snarled. His grip tightened mercilessly, pressing bruises into my flesh. "Do you have any idea what this could do to my reputation? Everything I’ve built?"
Tears blurred my vision, yet I forced myself to speak, each word painfully honest. "Clara—we just had coffee—she said it was about my art—"
He scoffed bitterly, cutting me off, his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Your art?" He mocked, leaning in, his breath hot, laced with whiskey and barely restrained wrath. "You mean your pathetic little sob story. Hoping she'd rescue you, Belle?"
"Adam, please," I choked out, my voice trembling despite my effort to hold steady. "I swear I didn’t know she’d twist—"
"Why do you keep pushing me?" His voice rose sharply, shaking with barely contained rage. "I don’t want to hurt you, Belle. But you never fucking learn." Without warning, he shoved me roughly against the wall, my head snapping back painfully, stars exploding in my vision.
Gasping, dazed, pain blossomed through my skull. Adam towered over me, voice dropping again to a dangerous whisper, fingertips brushing softly, seductively, against my trembling lips. "Maybe pain isn’t the lesson you need anymore," he murmured darkly, his eyes flashing with something twisted, something darker. "Maybe you need to be broken another way."
My stomach tightened with dread—and shamefully, something else, something darker, traitorous. Panic mixed cruelly with a forbidden heat. Adam saw it immediately, felt it beneath his fingertips, and his lips curled into a cold smile.
"Tonight," he whispered against my ear, his voice a velvet threat, his breath a caress that prickled across my skin with unwanted desire, "I'm going to fuck every last shred of defiance out of you." His lips grazed my neck, tasting the fear that pulsed beneath my skin, reveling in it. "And when I'm done, you'll be too broken to ever think of betraying me again."
Something fractured inside me then, unleashing a torrent of anger I’d buried for far too long. My eyes snapped open, ignited with fury. I’d danced this twisted tango for long enough. If death awaited me tonight, I would face it head-on, fearless and defiant.
