Stone Fox: The man who called her Bella

She was twenty-one when she met him. It was early spring where bright daffodils bloomed in the graveyard soil and church bells chimed through a sky still tinged with winter. Isobel had been walking home from her part-time job at the bookstore, a place that smelled of musk and forgotten romance etched in the spines of old paperbacks. She wasn’t looking for anything. She never had. Wanting had always seemed like a dangerous pursuit. Instead, she kept people at arm’s length, never letting them get too close. That way she could never be disappointed.

He was standing outside a café with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth and the kind of confidence that sparked envy in his rivals. Richard DeLuca. She didn’t know his name then — just that he smiled like he already knew hers. The spell was cast. She was his.

“You dropped something,” he said, bending to pick up a torn receipt she hadn’t noticed fall from her coat pocket. He handed it to her like it was a bouquet. She laughed, something involuntary and foreign. It had been so long since she’d felt seen — not watched, but noticed.

They began with coffee. Then dinners. Then he was waiting outside her shift more often than not, always leaning against the same lamp post, like he belonged there. He dressed well, in clothes that weren’t loud but had clearly been chosen carefully — pressed collars, Italian shoes. He opened doors. He called her bella. He never mentioned her father or her past or asked about the years she'd spent taking care of her mother and Sofia instead of chasing dreams. He made her feel like a person again — not a daughter, not a sister, not a ghost trying to atone for sins that weren’t hers. Despite the alienness of this, Isobel allowed herself to rest in the sweetness of being cared for and for a moment in time, it felt heavenly.

Richard was older — by nearly a decade — and carried himself with authority that didn’t invite too many questions. He spoke with confidence and often sermonised to his eager following about the dramas of the day, putting the world to rights. There was no doubt about it, he was charismatic and irresistibly captivating. Women swooned when he flashed that beguiling smile, men stood up straighter to catch his attention. He oozed charm like molten gold, dazzling to watch but fatal to touch.

There was something religious in the way Isobel followed him. She began to believe she’d been chosen for him, sanctified by their chemistry. She mistook the way he monopolised her time for devotion. When he asked her to quit the bookstore, he said it was because he didn’t want her tired. When he suggested she stop wearing red lipstick, it was because he thought her natural beauty was enough. When he teased her in front of his friends — about her soft voice, her shy laugh — it was always followed by a kiss on the forehead.

She never noticed the foundation being chipped away, not at first. Whispers of doubt hovered in her mind, albeit fleeting and quickly waved away like an irritating fly. Slowly, over time the whispers became louder but each time she convinced herself that she imagined it, Richard was her safety, her home and any doubts that crept in were reminders that she came from something broken so it was up to her to fix it, not blame him for saving her.

Richard DeLuca was a name spoken carefully in certain circles. He’d inherited his father’s construction business and “expanded” it, which meant something different depending on who you asked. Some said he was a brilliant entrepreneur. Others said he was a ghost — nothing in his name, but everything ran through him.

But in the city’s backstreets, in half-lit bars where old vinyl played and the air was thick with stories, they called him Tricky Dicky. It wasn’t something you’d hear in polite company. The nickname came from Crazy Lou, a woman with stringy hair, smeared lipstick, and a gaze like cracked porcelain. She was a fixture at Maria’s Bar, sitting in the corner booth no one else touched, muttering into her wine.

“Tricky Dicky,” she’d whisper to whoever was unfortunate enough to listen. “He’ll charm you with prayers and damn you with kisses. Man’s a sermon in a silk suit. He’ll make you think you’re flying just so he can watch you fall.”

No one took Lou seriously anymore. She was once beautiful, they said. Once dangerous. She’d dated Richard before Isobel — before the money and the manners and the laundering — and now she lived on the scraps of her own legend. Most thought she was mad. Maybe she was. But some truths sound like madness when no one wants to believe them.

Isobel saw Lou once, outside Maria’s, digging through her purse for a lighter. Their eyes met. Lou stared a moment too long.

“You’re the new one,” she said softly, almost like a prayer. “You don’t know yet. But you will.”

Isobel had smiled politely, confused. She didn’t mention it to Richard.

As the years passed, the shifts were imperceptible. She stopped seeing friends. Her wardrobe got quieter. She grew anxious before dinners, not sure which version of Richard she’d get that night — the poet or the prosecutor. He never raised a hand. He didn’t have to. He rewrote the rules of reality until she couldn’t tell if she was too sensitive or too selfish, too clingy or too cold. He made her feel like every grievance was her fault, like love was a test she was always one mistake away from failing. Her nerves were stained glass, ready to shatter at any moment.

By then, she rarely looked in mirrors. When she did, she saw a woman staring back at her, familiar but strange. There was a light flickering behind her eyes but it was slowly fading and one day she knew, it would disappear completely if she didn’t try and fan the flame. 

Still, she stayed. He had become her voice, her identity and her saviour. He was the only one who broke through the walls she had built so high. That must stand for something, or so she thought.

Years later, she’d look back and realise how well he played her. How subtle it was. Like a drop of poison in holy water. She wasn’t crazy — just caged.

But at the time, she loved him like a martyr. Because no one had taught her that devotion wasn’t supposed to hurt.