Page 5 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

I won't lose myself. Not now. Not ever again. Not to him.

"Elena, sweetie, please wake up," I whisper, afraid he might recognize my voice, afraid my tone might betray everything I've worked to bury these past months. "Elena, it's really important, darling."

But dreams hold the little girl captive, her snores the only response to my increasingly desperate pleas.

Their voices begin to fade, retreating down the corridor, and ice spreads through my veins. The thought of Antonio coming any closer terrifies me, but the idea of Elena left here alone, undiscovered until Signora Marta brings my next meal, is worse.

I straighten my spine like before performances, when nerves threatened to shatter me before I'd even taken the stage. With every ounce of control I learned during those endless days in chemotherapy—when dignity was the only thing cancer couldn't take—I force my voice out, clear and strong despite the tremor beneath.

"SHE'S HERE! ELENA IS HERE!"

My shout stirs movement on the other side of the door. I rap my knuckles against the wood, hard enough to sting. "Stay right there, don't move. They're coming back."

Trapped on this side, I'm powerless to ensure she doesn't wander off toward those treacherous stairs that have haunted my nightmares.

"She's here!" I yell once more, voice cracking with the effort, before quickly adding for Elena's benefit, "We're playing a new game, Principessa. You have to shout for..."

But she cuts me off, small hands clapping with delight, her voice bubbling with excitement. "Papà!"

"Elena, my little girl," comes his relieved response.

I freeze, muscles locking like before a PET scan when the slightest movement could blur the truth. That wasn't just concern in his voice. That was pure, distilled fear masquerading as relief. The kind of terror that only comes from possibly losing someone you love beyond reason.

The warmth, the tenderness—they weren't for a child under his protection. They were for his daughter.

His daughter.

The room tilts sideways, gravity shifting like during those first days after chemo when my body forgot how to navigate stable ground. Three months locked away while Antonio plays father to this precious child who calls him "Papà" with such joy.

How many other truths has he hidden behind that scar? How many lives has he built while I rot in this stone cage? Does he have another wife tucked away in some sun-filled villa? More children who don't know I exist? Has our entire twisted story been nothing but a performance while his real life continues elsewhere?

The Beast who touched my scars like they were beautiful, who mapped my body with reverent hands just hours before condemning me—he's capable of creating life, of inspiring love in a child who delights in his presence.

Just not with me. Never with me.

The revelation crashes through my carefully constructed defenses. The early menopause from chemo treatments that might have stolen my chance at motherhood forever. The husband who can't stand the sight of me. The child who might have been mine in some other, kinder universe—if my body hadn't betrayed me, if Antonio hadn't hated me, if the world hadn't conspired to make us enemies instead of family.

I hear something in that commandingly soft tone as he murmurs to Signora Marta. Elena's wail cuts through thesilence, raw and piercing, as they pull her away from her hiding place.

"Bella!" she screams, her voice fading as they retreat down the corridor.

A less observant prisoner might think Antonio left with them, but three months in isolation have honed my senses to predator-sharp. I can feel him there, on the other side of this door that's become my world.

And that scent… that's what gives him away. Sandalwood.

That scent that once made my pulse race for entirely different reasons.

That scent that clings to memory like his hands once clung to my hips, his mouth to my neck, his fingers tracing scars like they were masterpieces instead of medical casualties.

That scent that whispered promises while he planned my destruction, claimed me as his in a charade so convincing I almost believed it myself.

My hands tremble against my sides. I want to scream at myself to maintain composure. He choreographed this entire performance, perfected the art of cruelty while I mistook it for tenderness. He touched my cancer scars like they were beautiful only to carve new ones that no surgeon could repair.

That scent is him loving me to better break me.

I won't cry. I refuse to shed another tear over the Beast who locked me away.

With my pulse hammering against my throat and my calves cramping from standing too still—like during those endless stage waits when the music was about to start—I wait for him to speak.

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