Page 53 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

As Antonio pulls out my chair, his lips find that spot on my neck that makes my body remember our wedding night, when he took such care with my scars, when he made me feel whole again. The men beside me grunt something in Greek, the words sliding over me like coarse hospital sheets. I wish my mother had taught me her language instead of ballet positions, that I'd learned to speak the words that were her birthright.

But wishes are for fairytales, and this is no storybook ending. I survived cancer only to be imprisoned in stone walls. I found Naomi only to see her married off to Connor. This is my reality, and like those mornings when chemo had me retching into hospital toilets, I'll face it head-on.

As I take my seat, a chill runs down my spine, the kind that used to precede bad test results. Stefanos is staring at me, his eyes no longer carrying that easy charm from earlier. There's something darker there now—a need for revenge that reminds me too much of Antonio when he first locked me away.

It's like looking into a mirror, seeing my own thirst for retribution reflected back. But I've seen where that road leads—to that stone room, to those letters, to night after night of tears that no one hears.

And there's no way I'm letting myself get pulled under that tide again. I've fought too hard to keep my head above water. Through treatments, through isolation, through Antonio's betrayal.

Antonio's staring at me across the table like he senses the shift within me, like he can see the determination forming. His eyes—those same eyes that burned with hatred when he found his mother's letter, that darkened with desire when he tasted me—lock onto mine.

Memories of us crash through me. It's a montage of everything we've been to each other, everything we could have been.

But most of all, I think of Elena. Her little hands in mine as we twirled in the garden, her trust, her future. She's the one pure thing in all this darkness, worth fighting for.

So when I turn back to face the Greek brothers, my smile has the same steel I forged during those endless days in treatment. They want to play games? Fine. But they'd better know who they're dealing with.

I toss the script into the salted air, changing the scenario. "We can all pretend here," I say, my voice steadier than my SVT-prone heart. "We can have dinner and regale you with stories of love and trust. We might even make you laugh. But how about you tell us why you really came here? Because it's certainly not for the delicious food we're about to serve you."

I pause, inhaling deeply like before those vagal maneuvers that sometimes steadied my heart. "I was maybe planning to use you to escape this fortress. Because while Antonio and I had wanted to show you a mask of unity, we're dealing with what feels like centuries of betrayals and lies."

I half-expect Antonio to silence me with a look; that's what my father would have done. But instead, his attention stays fixed onme, his eyes not commanding but understanding. A silent "so we're doing this" hanging between us.

I'm not sure whether I believe his support, but right now, it doesn't matter. I continue, "Trust me when I say, this marriage may be on rocky ground, but there are people we'd defend to the bitter end. And you don't want to make an enemy out of us."

The words hang in the air, a challenge and a promise. I hold Stefanos' gaze, daring him to underestimate me, to write me off as just another pretty ballerina. Because he has no idea what I'm capable of, the lengths I'll go to protect what's mine.

In this twisted game of power and control, sometimes the only way to win is to change the rules. I may not have been quick at seeing through my father's lies—but I'm done being a pawn in someone else's game.

They exchange glances like doctors debating a treatment plan while Connor shifts almost imperceptibly, positioning himself to protect Naomi if needed.

Nikos is the first to reply, his eyes locking onto mine like he's trying to see past the walls I've built. And then he utters words that shatter my world:

"Your mother is alive. And she wants to see you."

The air vanishes from my lungs like someone's punched straight through my chest. My body goes cold, then hot, then ice-cold again, the same terrible cycle I endured during those first weeks of chemo when my body didn't know how to process what was happening to it.

"What?" The word scrapes out, barely audible. My throat closes up, my vision blurring at the edges. I grip the table hard enough that my knuckles turn white, the wood digging into my palms.

My mother.

Not dead.

Not buried.

Alive.

The truth crashes through me like a wrecking ball, demolishing every foundation I've built my life upon. Every memory of placing flowers at her grave. Every tear shed on the anniversary of her death. Every time my father used her memory to manipulate me, to control me, to justify his actions.

All lies.

I can't breathe. My chest constricts painfully, and for a second I think I'm having another SVT episode, but this is different. This is grief and rage and hope colliding into something so overwhelming it threatens to tear me apart.

Antonio's hand finds mine under the table, his grip tight enough to anchor me to reality. I don't look at him—can't look at him—but I feel his strength flowing into me, steadying me when everything else is spinning out of control.

"That can't be true," I whisper, but even as I deny it, something deep inside recognizes the truth. "She died. There was a funeral. I saw—" But what did I actually see? A closed casket. My father's performance of grief. Nothing concrete. Nothing real.

My mind races, connecting threads I never saw before. The grandmother's contract—that mysterious agreement everyone values so much. The one that requires me to be alive and living in this fortress for a year.

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