Page 5 of The Beast's Captive Bride
"I know it will." My voice comes out harder than I intend. "You're the only thing in this world that matters to Richard Lockhart."
A shadow passes over her face, something complicated and pained. "You're wrong about that."
"Am I?"
She sets down her spoon, meeting my eyes directly. There's that steel again, shining through her fear. "My father loves his reputation. His legacy. His control. I'm just... an extension of those things."
Her insight surprises me. It doesn't match the image I've built of Lockhart's sheltered, adored daughter.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I say, but there's less conviction in my voice than there should be.
"Don't I?" She laughs, but it's a hollow sound. "Why do you think I was out alone that night? I'd finally stood up to him. Told him I was moving out, getting my own place. He said if I left, I was dead to him." She looks down at her soup. "I guess now I might be."
I shouldn't care about her relationship with her father. It's irrelevant to my plans. And yet, I find myself leaning forward, drawn in by the quiet pain in her voice.
"What happened?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
She looks up, surprise flickering across her delicate features. She wasn't expecting interest from me, just as I wasn't expecting to feel it.
"I graduated college last month. Art history." Her fingers trace patterns on the tablecloth. "I want to work in a museum,maybe teach someday. Daddy thinks it's a waste of time. He had my life planned out—business school, then a position at his company, eventually taking over when he retires." She shakes her head. "But that's his dream, not mine."
I know this about Lockhart. His obsession with legacy, with control. It was one of the reasons he betrayed me—I wouldn't let him dictate terms, wouldn't bend to his will.
"So you defied him." I can't keep the approval from my voice.
"I tried." She takes a sip of tea. "He cut off my credit cards, froze my bank account. Said if I wanted independence, I could have it completely." Her mouth curves in a wry smile. "I was staying with a friend, looking for a job. That's where I was coming from when you... took me."
I should be glad to hear confirmation that Lockhart is exactly the controlling bastard I know him to be. Instead, I feel an unexpected surge of anger on her behalf.
"And yet you think he'll pay to get you back."
Something flickers in her eyes—hurt, resignation. "Oh, he'll pay. Not because he loves me, but because he can't stand to lose. Especially not to someone who hurt him before."
She's smarter than I gave her credit for. More perceptive. It's... inconvenient.
"Eat your soup before it gets cold," I say, because I can't think of any other response.
She obeys, and we sit in silence for a few minutes. I watch her hands, her face, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear. Each movement feels significant somehow, like I'm memorizing her without meaning to.
"What did he do to you?" she asks finally, setting down her spoon. "To make you hate him so much?"
I should lie. Or better yet, say nothing at all. My vendetta against Richard Lockhart is my business, not hers.
But those eyes are watching me, waiting. And for the first time in fifteen years, I want someone to know my side of the story.
"We were business partners," I say, the words feeling rusty in my mouth. "Built a company together from nothing. I had the vision, the technical skills. He had the connections, the polish." I gesture to myself, to the rough edges I've never bothered to smooth away. "I trusted him."
She nods, encouraging me to continue.
"He set me up. Made it look like I was embezzling funds, stealing client information. By the time I realized what was happening, he'd turned everyone against me—our board, our investors, even the woman I was going to marry." The old pain rises, familiar as breathing. "I confronted him, and he had his men beat me, cut me, and leave me for dead in an alley."
I expect to see fear in her eyes at this revelation of violence. Instead, there's something like compassion. It makes me uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry," she says softly.
"I don't want your pity."
"It's not pity." She reaches across the table as if to touch my hand, then thinks better of it. "It's recognition. Of pain."
