Page 57 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

Isabella's face flushes crimson, like she can't process what she's hearing. "Yes. She knew she was in danger. But unlike Agamemnon in the Greek tragedy, she was the one being hunted. We had spies inside the house. And we knew what he was planning. But we had to make sure she didn't. So she didn't change her routine." Alexandros leans forward, voice dropping. "That day she went to see you rehearse, she did get hit by a car. She could have died. We paid off someone long enough to declare her dead. Someone who had an accident not long after. We couldn't have loose ends. And we made sure there was a body in that casket."

As he lays it out—the plan, the fucking corpse in the casket—it's like being dragged into some twisted nightmare. The room suddenly suffocates, air heavy as lead. I tug at my collar, loosening the knot choking me with every word. The untouched food reeks now, making my stomach roll.

And deep down, something roars, raging against the unfairness. Why couldn't my mother have found a way out? Why didn't anyone step up for her?

Why the fuck didn't I?

Isabella's voice, barely above a whisper, drags me back from the edge. "Why not take me with her?"

Alexandros sighs, shoulders sagging like Atlas with the world crushing him. "She wanted to. Oh trust me, she wanted to. But your mom had paralyzing agents in her body when your father came to pay his respects. We couldn't risk her doing anything to jeopardize our plan."

He stops, gaze darting between us like he's trying to read our fucking minds. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. I can hearblood pounding in my ears, the clock ticking like a bomb ready to detonate.

"She heard him laugh," Alexandros continues, voice steady but it feels like he's shouting directly into my skull. "She heard him whisper she deserved to suffer even more. She heard him say he was going to make sure her daughter knew how to behave herself. He planned for you to make him proud."

I can't help glancing at Isabella, watching her shoulders tense, fingers gripping the table edge until knuckles turn bone-white. A muscle ticks in her jaw, fury simmering just beneath the surface. The urge to reach for her, to offer some comfort, nearly overwhelms me, but I force my hands to stay clenched in my lap.

I watch Isabella's face crumple, but she inhales deeply—not ready to break yet.

When she speaks again, there's steel in her voice that makes my spine straighten. "I disappointed him." She lifts her chin, eyes flashing with a pride that knocks the wind from my lungs. Pride mixed with a thousand swirling questions behind her gaze.

Because while her mother might not have had a choice about taking her that day... she didn't come back for her own daughter for years. The realization hits like a sucker punch, white-hot anger boiling up, burning my throat like acid. How could she leave her own flesh and blood to suffer? How could she stay away, knowing the hell Isabella was living? Makes me want to drag her back here, make her face what she's done, force her to feel even a fraction of the pain she caused.

Because the fact remains: She's still not fucking here.

"What about the contract?" I demand, jaw clenched so hard my teeth might shatter. "This precious agreement everyone's fighting over. The one supposedly crafted by Isabella's grandmother. Where does that fit into all this?"

Alexandros shifts, a subtle tell that makes my predatory instincts flare. "The contract was your mother's insurancepolicy, Isabella. After she... disappeared, she knew your father would try to control your future. So she made arrangements through your grandmother. The contract wasn't just about marriage or alliances—it was about protecting you."

"Protecting me?" Isabella's voice cracks slightly, hope and disbelief battling in those two words.

"Your mother knew the only way to shield you in our world was to create something even your father couldn't break. Something with enough power behind it that he'd have to honor its terms." Alexandros leans forward. "The signatures, the bloodlines involved—it was her way of ensuring you'd eventually have a path out."

Something doesn't add up, and my instincts are screaming. I narrow my eyes, fixing Alexandros with a glare that could melt the stone walls of this fortress, fingers curling into fists under the table. "What are you not saying?" My voice drops, each word dripping venom. The air between us crackles with secrets and lies, and I swear to Lucifer, if he's playing us, I'll tear him apart with my bare fucking hands.

Chapter thirty-three

Isabella

Myentirebodyiscoiled tight, every muscle tensed like before a grand jeté with my understudy waiting in the wings. I can feel my pulse hammering beneath my skin, that dangerous rhythm my cardiologist warned me about. The air in this room is suddenly too thin, too heavy with secrets that have festered for years.

Because Antonio is right. Alexandros is hiding something, and based on the way his jaw clenches—that tiny muscle jumping beneath his skin—he hates being called out on it.

"Did she know?" My voice doesn't waver, though inside I'm shattering like pointe shoes after final bow. The question burns my throat, scrapes past lips that suddenly feel too dry. "Did my mother know I spent nights crying for her? That I watched my father destroy himself searching for answers? That I danced until my feet bled because it was the only piece of her I had left?"

Memories of hospital rooms flood me: antiseptic smell burning my nostrils, the steady beep of monitors counting heartbeats I wasn't sure I wanted to keep. Endless hours of staring at ceiling tiles, thinking how different everything would be if she'd been there to hold my hand through chemo.

Turns out, she was alive the whole time.

Alexandros takes another infuriatingly slow sip of his drink, like we're discussing the weather instead of the shards of my broken past. The crystal catches light as he tips it back, reminding me of those IV bags that kept me breathing when cancer tried to steal my air.

"Fucking answer her. You know what she's asking." Antonio's voice is pure gravel and steel, and I shouldn't feel that flicker of gratitude warming my chest. It's ridiculous how my body still responds to him—like muscle memory from our wedding night that my heart has tried desperately to forget.

Naomi, who had been sitting back after dropping that bombshell about our parents' affair, leans forward. Her voice carries that familiar blend of snark and fierce protection that got me through those endless treatment days. "Everyone wants to know. You're hiding shit left and right, and you're hoping we're too shell-shocked to smell it. Well, you're throwing it in our faces, so of course we're smelling the shit."

Connor's lips twitch, and suddenly, a burst of laughter erupts from him, his hand finding Naomi's in a show of solidarity. "My wife is right. Your brand of bullshit is especially nauseating."

Alexandros sighs—a sound I've heard too many times from doctors before bad news. "The family had to keep your mother... restrained for a while. We had to make sure she didn't put herself in danger. She had to help us. She acted in the shadows." He pauses, and something like regret flickers across his face. "But she came to see you at the hospital. Going against everything we told her. She came to see you."

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