Page 37 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

Was every memory just another manipulation? A breadcrumb trail to keep me docile, compliant, dancing to his tune without question? Was I nothing more than an investment he was cultivating for the highest return?

Bile burns a path up my throat, bitter and acidic.

"Bella," Antonio says, and there's an edge to his voice I haven't heard before.

"I said,don't." I swallow hard, focusing on the condensation beading on my water bottle, the cold seeping into my fingers. "I'm fine. Cool." The words come out mechanical, rehearsed. Like I'm playing a role in someone else's script. Again.

Another thought punctures the fog. "I wonder if my mom knew."

Antonio's brow furrows, and I can see the calculations running behind his eyes. His mother tried to save me. Mine either didn't know or didn't care enough to try.

I inhale deeply, air scraping down my throat like sandpaper. How pathetically naive was I to believe that my father's coldnesswas just his way of showing love? That somewhere beneath Antonio's revenge burned something warmer, something real?

The rage builds inside me, a tsunami gaining momentum. I want to scream until my throat bleeds. Want to tear this room apart piece by piece until there's nothing left but destruction to match what's happening inside me.

But then, movement catches my eye. Through the window, Elena jumps up and down, her smile brighter than the sun reflecting off the Mediterranean. Innocent. Trusting. Unscarred by the games adults play.

If I let this anger consume me, what happens to her? To Naomi? To me?

I'd become exactly what they expect. The broken doll, the discarded pawn, the footnote in their war. Collateral damage. Nothing more.

I refuse to give them that satisfaction.

I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache, forcing myself to breathe. To think. The past can't be rewritten, but the next chapter? That's still mine to claim.

"So... that dinner..." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Are you going to tell me more about what I need to do?"

Antonio leans against his desk, muscular arms crossed over his chest. A wince flashes across his face, gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

"You of all people don't need to pretend you're not using me, too." I measure each word carefully, dropping them between us like breadcrumbs marking my path through this darkness. "I'll help you. I'll help in whatever way I can. But I need that time with Naomi. I need more freedom. I want to make sure our old nanny and housekeeper are okay."

He nods, and the ease of his agreement sparks fresh suspicion. Nothing comes free in this world. Not for me.

"Just tell me what I need to do." A resigned sigh escapes me, heavy with things I'll never say aloud.

Antonio hesitates, like he's fighting some internal battle I'll never be privy to. The thought that we're both casualties of my father's machinations tugs at something I've tried to bury, and a bitter laugh bubbles up.

"Nevermind," I mutter when he raises an eyebrow.

"We'll practice the dinner tonight," he finally says.

I almost scoff at the absurdity. "I know how to eat."

Our eyes meet, and memories of formal dinners where my nervous fingers fumbled with crystal or dropped appetizers at the worst moments pass between us. Something flickers in his gaze—something that feels uncomfortably like the Antonio I used to know, not the Beast who locked me away.

"You know what I mean," I counter, the memory making my chest ache with unwanted nostalgia. "Fine, we'll practice that dinner. Great."

"Isabella, I—"

"Don't." My voice cracks despite my best efforts. "Whatever you want to say, just don't. Don't pretend you care."

I place the water bottle on his desk and stand, each movement deliberate, heavy with the weight of revelations I never wanted. My legs feel like they'll give out any second, but somehow they carry me toward the door, away from his burning gaze.

The walls seem to close in with each step, the air thinning until my lungs strain for oxygen. I push through it, focusing on each breath, each step. One foot in front of the other. Just like during chemo when my body felt like it belonged to someone else.

I slip through the door and press my back against it once it's closed, finally allowing myself one ragged, silent sob that tears through me like a hurricane. Just one. That's all I can afford.

I swallow the rest back down, tasting salt and fury and determination.

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