Page 66 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

Alexandros takes a measured step back, his hands still raised. "We need to call your mother within the next thirty minutes," he says, his tone turning businesslike. "Otherwise, they'll think something went wrong." He shrugs, the motion fluid and powerful. "And we have contingency plans in place."

The abrupt shift in his demeanor leaves me reeling, caught between the lingering heat of moments ago and the cold reality of our situation. I can only nod, not trusting my voice.

Antonio remains coiled and tense beside me, the knife still gripped tightly in his hand. I can practically hear his teeth grinding as he stares Alexandros down.

The charged silence stretches between us, the tension so palpable it's like a physical weight bearing down on me. My skin prickles with awareness, every nerve ending raw and exposed, attuned to the slightest shift in the room.

But this, whatever this is, it can't continue. Not here, not now. Not with an audience, and certainly not with my heart already torn in so many directions.

"Let's go," I whisper, the words sticking in my throat like shards of glass. Swallowing hard, I try again, mustering the strength that carried me through countless hospital rooms and sleepless nights. "Come on, Antonio."

Antonio nods, “Fine. But he better watch it,” he growls as we exit his office.

As we move to follow Alexandros, Antonio's hand finds the small of my back. Possessive. Protective. The intimacy of it, the silent claim, both comforts and terrifies me. Because in moments like these, between the violence and the threats, I can almost believe what we have is real.

And that's the most dangerous thought of all.

The door closes with a resounding finality—and I focus on what’s ahead. All that matters right now is making sure our guests are still breathing, that we haven't just lit a match in a room full of dynamite. That, and finding the strength to call my mother - a woman I thought I'd lost forever, whose face has started to fade in my memories like an old photograph.

And make sure Elena stays safe.

Because while I may have given up on my own happily ever after, while I may have learned the hard way that fairy tales are just pretty lies... I refuse to let Elena pay the price for our mistakes.

No matter what it takes. No matter how deep the scars run.

Because that's what you do for the ones you love. And in this twisted fairy tale of ours, I refuse to believe even the Beast would sacrifice his daughter to the same altar of revenge that holds the ashes of our past.

“Are you ready?” My husband asks me with his calloused fingers caressing my hand.

“As ready as I can be,” I reply as we enter the dining room and I hear my mom’s voice through the phone Nikos is holding.

“Isabella.”

Chapter forty

Antonio

"Isabella..."Hermother'svoicerepeats. It's a fading echo, but it's there.

Isabella's reaction is immediate and visceral. Her eyes widen, her lips part in a silent gasp, and her whole body goes rigid. I can see the conflict warring in her eyes - hope battling with disbelief, longing fighting against years of ingrained caution. Her fingers twitch at her sides, like she wants to reach out and touch the phone, to make this moment real.

And as much as I know Isabella needs this moment, I can't shake the questions rattling around in my skull. Questions that demand fucking answers, that claw at my insides until I feel like I'm going to explode. The room suddenly feels too small, too hot. The tension in the air is so thick I could cut it with a knife, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Isabella inches forward, but she seems suspended in time—like she's not quite sure any of this is real. Like she can't dare tohope for a sliver of truth in this world of lies we've been living in. The soft rustle of her dress against the hardwood floor is unnaturally loud in the silence.

I'm one of the reasons why she doubts everything, but damn, she needs to be careful. We need to be careful. My fingers twitch, itching to reach for the knife I grabbed from my office. The weight of it against my ribs is a constant reminder of the danger we're in, even here in our own fortress.

"I thought I was coming for dinner and here I am for a show," Connor chuckles, drinking a beer someone must have brought him. I should be aware of every movement in this room, but my focus is split between Isabella and potential threats.

Naomi shakes her head, focused on her best friend. Like I am.

"Are you going to talk to your damn mother or just stand there like a frozen puppet that you are?" Stefanos grits out, and I'm going to fucking deck him. He's going to be my own personal punching bag if he doesn't shut up.

"Give her time," Isabella's mom says as Nikos settles the phone on the table, against a forgotten bottle of wine.

"She could have had this discussion in private," I note, even though I didn't want her to. Who knows if her mother will be telling the truth? But none of the Greek brothers asked for it, either.

I scan the room, taking in the Greek brothers and their varying shades of brooding. Stefanos looks like he's one wrong move away from painting the walls red, his jaw clenched so tight I'm surprised his teeth haven't shattered. He held it together earlier, but now? Now, I can practically feel the murderous intent rolling off him in waves.

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