Page 12 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

My throat constricts with the thought.

Would this tiny shard of plate even do anything if it's Christos? What if there's more than one? Hiding in the bathroom feels like a joke, and under the bed? Even more so. I force my shaking to stop, trying to think clearly, but every plan screams "desperate". Then, as quickly as they came, the footsteps fade away, leaving me alone with my racing heart and the looming question: Will I ever find peace enough to sleep again?

Gripping the shard tighter, I move toward the window, its iron bars a constant reminder of my limited world. With a grunt, I wrench it open. The cold air brushes my face, grounding me. The moon's reflection on the ocean could make me believe I'm anywhere but here. That I'm not some pawn in a jail masquerading as a room. That my life hasn't turned into this. I refuse to let this cage define me. I've battled too hard for life, for each breath, each step, each dance. So what if my grace isn't what it used to be? Damn Antonio and his men, I will enjoythe moonlight even if it's nowhere near my dreams. So, I let the shard fall to the floor with a clatter. I don't ignore the fear still gripping my chest; I let it rush through me until it becomes one with the waves outside.

Stretching my arms above me, a small, defiant smile plays on my lips. It's like I'm a Phoenix rising from the ashes again.

After dancing for half an hour, I hide the shard back under my mattress, clean the blood and the last remnant of fear from my hand, and lay back in bed. This time, when I close my eyes, I remember the feeling of the air against my skin, the way my muscles obeyed me, the way I told the story all the way through my fingertips.

I imagine a ballet on a stage. I hear the music. The applause. And the laughter of Naomi and Elena after the dance.

And I promise myself that I'll find a way out of here, but in the meantime, I will hold on to those happy moments.

They won't break me.

As Signora Martha brings me my breakfast the next morning, I don't wait to see if today is the day Elena will be allowed to spend time with me again. Instead, using the Italian I know, I ask her to tell Antonio I'd like to see Elena.

That I'll come to the dinner and pretend but that I want to spend time with his daughter.

It's a risk, using Elena as leverage. If Antonio were anyone else, I might worry about exploiting an innocent child. But I've seen how Elena lit up during our dance, how she clung to me when Antonio tried to separate us. She needs this connection as much as I do. And if playing the dutiful wife at his precious dinner is the price for bringing some joy to a little girl's life, I'll pay it.

Even if it means smiling through his palm on the small of my back, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers to me, pretending for all the world that he doesn't hate me as much asI hate the way my body still responds to him. Even if it means remembering how his hands once mapped every inch of me, gentle and possessive all at once.

I'm not sure I really expressed myself correctly. With my luck, I may have asked to see Antonio instead. So, I write down the same message in English on a piece of paper to give to my former stepbrother.

Signora Martha's nod, accompanied by a knowing smile, assures me my message is heard, maybe even understood, beyond the words I've written.

And that she agrees with me.

And once again, I feel less alone.

Stronger.

I can't believe he said yes. Did his eyes widen at my bold request? Or did his jaw clench in annoyance? Or maybe he gave that signature dismissive shake of his head that used to make my stomach flip before I knew better.

He probably said yes because he thinks he can control me better at that dinner on Saturday. Give me a semblance of freedom and I'll be sweet as honey, playing the dutiful wife for his French allies. Maybe he doesn't know me at all.

It doesn't matter the reason. All I know is that I'm out of my decrepit and dark wing into the slightly less decrepit and dark main part of the fortress. These windows stretch taller, letting the sunlight dance on floors that whisper stories of centuries past. How many happy families and star-crossed lovers have these boards witnessed? And how many heartaches?

Last night's dream still clings to me like his scent once did – his hands mapping my body again, his mouth claiming placesthat made me arch and beg. In the dream, I didn't hate him. In the dream, I surrendered completely, pulling him closer as he whispered Italian endearments against my skin. I woke tangled in sheets, aching and furious with my treacherous body for still wanting what my mind knows is poison.

The aroma of citrus and garlic pasta wafts up from the kitchen below, filling the room with the promise of a meal I haven't tasted in ages. Surrounded by three bookshelves, I let myself daydream for a moment, imagining a life of freedom within these walls, dancing through these rooms, losing myself in books.

"Again!" Elena's enthusiastic claps break through my daydreaming. I smile, guiding her through another pas chassé, her laughter a melody in the stillness. Suddenly, she halts, adopting a grave expression and mimics a growl. "Mio papà..." she declares, pointing to herself before growling again. Is she imitating her father? The accuracy sends a burst of laughter from deep within me, uncontrollable and liberating. Then, with a gentle smile that softens the room, she twirls, her voice tender, "I... a bailerina." Her innocence in that moment, her pure joy in the dance, it unclenches something deep within, reminding me of dreams not yet lost.

"Ballerina," I affirm gently, and she nods in understanding.

Then, with a solemn expression, she touches her chest and says, "Figlia della bestia."

"Figlia," I echo softly, my voice a whisper of reflection. "Daughter..." The word hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken questions. Who is her mother? Is she Paola's child? The thought twists something painful in my chest. I think about Paola's triumphant smile as she slid her arms around Antonio that last morning. "He's mine now," she'd said. Did she give him this beautiful child before disappearing? Or worse – is she still in hisbed, still claimed by those same hands that once worshipped my body?

Or is Antonio some kind of Bluebeard, collecting wives who disappear when they displease him? The thought sends a chill down my spine. Elena clearly has no mother figure. What happened to the woman who birthed her? Is she dead like Bluebeard's wives, locked away like me, or simply cast aside when Antonio finished with her?

A part of me aches to be whatever Elena needs in this moment. Her finger then turns towards me, "Principesa," she declares, and adds in clear English, "Tangled."

I can't help but smile, running a hand through my short locks. "Too short of hair or you think I'm her at the end of the movie?" I play along, the lightness in our exchange a brief escape from the weight of our reality.

Elena's laughter rings out again, but it tightens my chest. Her innocence, her questions, they're so pure yet painfully poignant. I, too, long for an escape from this tower, a real-life Rapunzel. Then, drawing nearer, Elena takes my hand, guiding me to a book she's eager to share. It's the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast. She points to me, "Bella," then looks at me with eyes brimming with curiosity. "Are you Bella?" she asks, indicating the book cover, and adds in Italian, "My father is the Beast." Her growl, meant to mimic, carries a note of melancholy this time.

---