Page 55 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

"Please," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears. "If my mother is really alive, I need to know everything. No more secrets, no more lies. Just the truth."

She looks up at me then, her body inching closer until every point of contact between us burns like a brand. Her eyes shimmer with tears she refuses to shed, and it takes every ounce of control not to crush her against my chest, to whisper promises into her hair that I have no right to make. But I can't. Not when I don't know what the fuck is happening myself.

Then, like she suddenly remembers who I am—what I've done to her—she steps away. Straightens her spine. Becomes the dancer again, all controlled grace and steel. "I need to see her."

And isn't that just perfect? She's strongest when she should be breaking. My ballerina, my nightmare, my wife—standing amid ruins, demanding truth instead of comfort.

Maybe I've been wrong all along about which one of us is truly the Beast.

Chapter thirty-one

Isabella

Thethoughtsinmyhead aren't pirouetting with any grace I once commanded on stage. They're crashing and stumbling, more like those early days after chemo when my balance betrayed me—wild, uncoordinated, terrifying. Each one slams into the next, leaving me dizzy and gasping.

Did my father know?All this time, did he keep this secret locked away, letting me grieve for a mother who was still breathing? Why didn't she rush back to me? Why didn't she fight to tear me away from a life measured in blood vials and betrayals?

The buzzing under my skin intensifies like those minutes before the adenosine hit my system—that horrible knowing that my heart was about to stop before it could restart. The dress that felt like armor only minutes ago now constricts like those compression sleeves they used during treatment. The fabric scrapes against scars that will never fade, each breath shallowand strained, like when the mass was crushing my lungs and I couldn't even lie flat without pain radiating through my chest.

In this world of deceit, even air is a luxury that can be stolen.

"I need to see her," I repeat, my voice fracturing like bone beneath too much pressure. My eyes find Antonio's, and for once, I don't try to mask the desperation there. He still stands near me, his presence more steadying than I want to admit. His hand burns against the small of my back—not possessive now, but grounding, like he's ensuring I know he's here.

And then my throat closes like during those allergic reactions to treatment that had nurses rushing with epinephrine. The tears I've kept locked behind ribs that protected more than just my physical heart now spill over, hot and silent against cheeks that once only knew performance smiles.

What about his mother? Is Simona out there somewhere too, alive and hiding? Did everyone conspire against us—pawns in some game with rules we never learned? Or did she really die in Antonio's arms as he claims? As my father made sure I believed?

"The flowers," I manage, each word like glass in my throat. "My mother's favorite flowers. The ones your mom always got delivered. Did she... Is she...?"

Antonio's hand slides from my back to wrap around my waist, pulling me closer until I feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my body—faster than normal, but still strong. In that moment, I realize I'm clutching him as desperately as he's holding me—two survivors of different wars, trying to keep each other from disintegrating completely. His breath warms my ear as he rasps out my own unspoken question: "Is my mother alive?"

His tone still commands the room, still wholly the Beast, but beneath it thrums that tiny flicker of hope I recognize because it lived in my chest through every treatment, every night I stared at hospital ceilings counting tiles instead of stars. That voice thathaunts my nightmares and stars in too many of my dreams. That voice that can break me, build me, and send butterflies racing through my veins like the rush of medicine that's meant to heal but sometimes poisons.

Alexandros remains seated, his eyes narrowing as he watches our exchange. "She's dead," he growls, his words like those phone calls that come after midnight—the ones that only ever carry devastating news.

The confirmation hits me like a physical blow—not like Henrik's fists or the casual cruelty of strangers staring at my scars, but like that moment the doctor said "malignant" and the floor disappeared beneath me. My vision blurs at the edges, narrowing until all I can see is the cruel twist of Alexandros's mouth.

And just like that, the hollowness expands in my chest—that same void that swallowed me whole when they said "stage four," when Antonio locked me away, when I realized my body might never dance again. It devours the desperate hope I didn't even realize I was nurturing.

Because for a heartbeat—one traitorous, dangerous heartbeat—I dared to imagine us discovering that both of us have been fighting a war that was never ours. That Antonio and I could shed these roles that have been carved into us like my surgical scars. That maybe, just maybe, we could turn our lives around and escape this charade that has consumed us for years.

But as I stand there, reality presses down on me like those lead blankets during radiation. The truth crushes harder than Antonio's hand ever could.

We can't. And we won't.

Too much has happened, too much pain has calcified in wounds that were never ours to bear, but that he inflicted upon me nonetheless—as if breaking me into pieces too small toever reassemble was his only purpose. As if my suffering could somehow balance the scales tilted by his.

I feel Alexandros's eyes on us, narrow and calculating, like those specialists who discussed my "case" while I lay there, desperately trying not to cry. And in that moment, I find myself curling further into Antonio's embrace, not out of weakness, but out of a primal need to keep him tethered to this reality. I press myself against him, letting his warmth envelop me for precious seconds, feeling the Beast's mask slip away, even if only in the space between heartbeats.

But the despair in his gaze quickly hardens, replaced by that cold, calculated fury that used to make me flinch but now only leaves me hollow. "You have a lot of explaining to do," he growls, his voice low and dangerous, like those machines that monitored my failing body. "And trust me, you better do it quickly." The threat weaves through each syllable, a promise of retribution if answers don't satisfy.

And I want to scream, to rage against the injustice with the same fury I once directed at cancer cells multiplying in my lymph nodes. I want to tear at the invisible chains binding me to this life, to this man who knows my body better than the doctors who saved it, until my fingers bleed and my voice gives out completely. But I know it's futile. We're too deeply entrenched in this web of lies and betrayal, too wounded to heal clean.

And the worst part? A traitorous piece of me—the same piece that sometimes missed the hospital's predictable rhythms after going home—doesn't want to be free. Doesn't want to let go of the twisted comfort of his arms around me, of the one person who's seen all my scars and still made me feel beautiful, even if just for one night.

I hate that I both long to see my mother and dread the truth hiding behind her disappearance and her lies. I hate that I both want to flee and stay.

"Interesting," Alexandros observes, like I'm just another medical anomaly to be studied, a curious case that defies expectations. His smile spreads slowly, and I can't tell if it's understanding or danger that glints in his eyes. He leans back in his chair. "Your mother would love to see you. How about we sit down and talk about the past for a moment? Then, maybe the future might become clearer."

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