Page 58 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

"I thought it was a dream," I whisper, the memory washing over me like fever chills. The gentle pressure of a hand on my brow as I fought through the worst of the transplant side effects. The soft whisper of a lullaby in my ear when pain threatened to break me. The faint scent of jasmine and vanilla that always clung to her skin. "My nurses said it was the meds playing tricks... but it was really her."

"After that, let's just say, she lost some privileges." The clinical detachment in his voice makes my blood run cold.

"Is she a prisoner?" My fingers twist the fabric of my shirt, a habit from hospital days when IVs made it impossible to clench my fists.

"No." But his voice isn't as sure, and that tiny sliver of doubt is enough to send my heart racing in that dangerous flutter-skip pattern.

"She's not fine. She's sick," Stefanos cuts in, his voice like a scalpel slicing through tissue. There's an edge to his words, a bitterness that reminds me of those days when nurses whispered behind curtains, thinking I couldn't hear their pity. "She's dying. That's why she wants to see you. She didn't want us to tell you. But she doesn't make the fucking rules."

The news hits like that day my oncologist walked in with scan results, face already giving away what the words would confirm. Like the floor is suddenly gone and I'm in free fall, waiting for an impact that will shatter every bone.

Stefanos isn't done, though. His eyes flash with a fury that burns hotter than chemo ever did. "Also that little stunt she pulled at the hospital? Someone died because of her. Someone who mattered. And you guys only give a fuck about yourselves. You talk about nauseating? You reek."

As much as I want to argue, I recognize that tone—it's grief twisted into rage. I've heard it in my father's voice, in Antonio's, in my own when I screamed into pillows after treatments.There's a kernel of truth in his words that sticks like bile in my throat. I've been so focused on my own need for answers that I've forgotten about the bigger picture.

It's a bitter pill to swallow—worse than the handful I'd choke down each morning during treatment—but one I know I need to face if I'm ever going to find peace.

Stefanos stands up so quickly his chair vacillates before crashing to the floor, the sound echoing like those machines that flat-lined in rooms down the hall from mine. The sudden movement startles me, but somehow steadies my resolve.

"I need to see her," I whisper, the words forming before I can reconsider. "I have to see her." My hands shake worse than those first days of neuropathy, when my body betrayed me in new ways I hadn't imagined possible.

Because I know what I'm asking for. I know the risks, the danger I'm putting myself in—and if I'm finally being honest with myself, other people too. But I've survived my father, survived cancer, survived three months in stone isolation—I'll survive this.

Antonio's entire body tightens next to me, muscles coiled like mine before performances. I can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, the unspoken fear and anger and desperation that mirrors my own. But when he speaks, his voice is steady, resolute. "Fine," he says, and that one word claws its way inside my chest.

I shouldn't need his permission. After everything he's done, after locking me away like his personal little secret, I should be able to see my dying mother without him having a say.

And yet, hearing him agree sends relief flooding through me like those first clear scans after treatment ended. Because deep down, in a place I don't like to acknowledge, I know he wouldn't let me go if it wasn't safe.

I hate that I still need him, that I still find comfort in his presence despite everything he's done. But right now, I'm too raw, too fragile, like those days when my body was a battlefield and every breath felt like victory. I'll take whatever strength I can get, even if it comes from the Beast who once promised to destroy me.

Who knows if their story is even true?

"How do we make sure we can trust you?" Antonio asks, the question I was too afraid to voice hanging between us.

"We brought something for you," Alexandros replies, like he was expecting this. "Ask your man to bring the folder here."

I straighten my spine like before taking the stage, that familiar resolve settling in my bones. I've faced cancer. I've faced the Beast. I've faced my father's betrayal.

I'm not going to let my mother slip away from me now. Not without a fight.

Chapter thirty-four

Antonio

Francostalksintotheroom, his body coiled tight as a spring. His knuckles are bone-white around the folder he's clutching. Our eyes lock, and that single look tells me everything I need to know. If what we'd suspected hadn't been in that fucking laptop bag, there'd be bodies cooling on the floor by now.

"It was in their laptop bag, as described," he says, voice low and laced with warning.

I shove back my chair, the harsh scrape against stone making everyone flinch. Isabella's gaze burns into my back as I stride toward Franco, but I don't turn. Can't. Not with the fucking hurricane raging inside me that might tear this whole room apart if I let it loose.

Franco meets me halfway, pressing the folder into my hands like he's passing me a live grenade.

"You sure about this, boss?" His voice drops lower, meant only for me. "This could open up a whole new can of worms. Blow everything to hell."

The folder feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. My fingers dig into the edges hard enough to break skin. I stare into Franco's eyes—the eyes of a man who's stood beside me through blood and bullets, who's seen me carve my way through enemies with nothing but rage and a promise. He knows better than most what this could cost. What it's already cost.

"No," I admit, the word scraping my throat raw. "But I don't have a fucking choice. She needs this."

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