Page 36 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

She inhales deeply, gathering herself. "I'm trying to think. I burned the letters," she murmurs. "Your mother wanted me to burn them. I kept only her last one." Her brow furrows. "How many did my dad intercept that I never even received? What if she mentioned the tournament in one of them?" She shakes her head. "No. She was careful. Except in the last one..." Another deep breath. "Do you have letters from your mom? Did you keep any letters from her?"

"Yes. Why?" My muscles tense, anticipating whatever conclusion she's reaching.

"Because... what if... what if she didn't want to write those last letters? What if everything had already been decided ahead of time? What if my father made her write them?"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Heat floods my veins, and the Beast inside me roars for blood. Pummeling him would be too quick, too merciful. No. I'd make it slow. Make him feel every second of pain he's caused.

"I think my father knew everything," she says, the words barely above a whisper. "All the plans. All the doubts your mom was having. He was playing with us." Her eyes meet mine, therealization dawning in them clear as day. "He was always playing with us."

Chapter nineteen

Isabella

"He'salwaysbeenplayingme."

The realization drops inside me like a stone in water, sending ripples through my entire body. I can barely form the words as I stare at Antonio, whose face has transformed into something murderous and cold. For once, that rage isn't directed at me.

"Always," I repeat, the word splintering in my throat.

And here's the thing about truth. It doesn't just hurt. Itcarves. Each revelation about my father feels like another layer of skin being peeled away until there's nothing left but raw, exposed nerves. The weight of it crushes against my chest until breathing becomes an act of defiance.

I dig my nails into my palm, pressing hard enough to leave crescent moons in my flesh. Pain I can control. Pain that anchors me when everything else threatens to dissolve. My other hand clutches my water bottle so tightly the plastic crackles in protest.

I willnotcry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.

Because if I start, I might never stop.

"He's going to pay for everything," Antonio vows, his voice dropping to that dangerous growl that used to make my pulse race for entirely different reasons.

But now? Now it just sounds like more of the same. Another man deciding my fate. Another agenda where I'm just a pawn on someone else's chessboard.

Heat rises up my spine, crawling across my skin like wildfire. The anger doesn't just seep—it floods, drowning out the hurt, the betrayal, the stupid, naive hope I've been harboring that somewhere deep down, my father actually cared about me. That Antonio might see me as more than collateral damage in his revenge fantasy.

"Maybe I knew it," I say, lifting my chin. My voice comes out steady despite the hurricane raging inside. "Maybe I planned all of this, too."

Antonio's eyes narrow, that muscle in his jaw ticking like a bomb about to detonate.

"How can you be sure this isn't part of my master plan?" I continue, each word dripping with venom I didn't know I possessed. "After all, I'm responsible foreverything, right? I'm working hand in hand with my father." My smile feels like broken glass cutting into my cheeks. "Maybe that tournament was my idea... Maybe Henrik and I are in this together."

Something flickers across Antonio's face. Doubt, maybe. Suspicion. Like he's actually considering the possibility.

And thatfeels like a knife straight between my ribs.

A laugh escapes me, hollow and corrosive. "Whatever." The word tastes like ash on my tongue.

They both use me. Both decided what my role should be. A puppet dancing on strings I can't even see. The thing aboutpuppets, though? Cut enough strings and they collapse in a heap, lifeless and forgotten.

Antonio pushes to his feet, his chair scraping against the floor like nails on a chalkboard. There's something in his eyes I can't quite name—understanding, maybe. Or pity.

I don't want either. Not from him.

"Listen—" he starts.

"Don't," I snap, the word sharp enough to draw blood.

Memories flood in uninvited—my father's cologne, strong and familiar when he'd swing me up onto his shoulders. His proud smile when I performed my first arabesque. The way he'd smooth my hair back after nightmares, promising monsters weren't real.

Biggest lie he ever told me. The monster was him all along.

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