Page 8 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

No matter the justification I drum up, I find myself speaking again, my words laced with a bitterness that's become too familiar. "Oh, and get ready to show your face." She doesn't so much as flick a glance my way, continuing to read as if I'm just a shadow in her world or not even on the same planet.

"What do you mean?" The question comes, her voice devoid of any evident concern, but the slight stiffness in her posture tells me she's not as unaffected as she appears.

"The French want to see you. The others, too. We'll arrange something." It's an order, not a request, and the ease with which I impose it, dictating her fate may not be solid as it once was. "That precious contract your grandmother set up? Everyone wants proof you're alive and well. Seems your father's spreading rumors. You're going to help me shut them down." I pause, watching for a reaction. "And never speak to my daughter again."

And I slam the door shut before she can throw my own words back at me, before her silent defiance can peel away the layers I've built up around myself, before I do something even more foolish than I've already allowed.

Chapter five

Isabella

Ittakesmeafull minute to unclench my jaw and feel my heartbeat settle into something resembling normal. I bring my hand to my chest. "It's okay," I whisper to myself and Cerberus nudges against me, rolling onto his back, seeming to sense the shift in the air. "You're a good boy," I murmur, stroking his fur, my thoughts swirling like a whirlwind.

The door's been closed for barely a minute, but my skin still burns where his gaze touched it. Three months of silence—ninety-four days of nothing—and suddenly there he is, standing in my prison like some dark fairy tale come to life, demanding answers about a daughter I didn't even know existed.

God, a daughter. He has a daughter.

That revelation and his words echo in my head, setting off tiny earthquakes: "The French want to see you." Translation: time to parade the prisoner around. Proof of life for whatever precious contract needs me breathing and unbroken. That mysteriousagreement my grandmother supposedly created that everyone in this twisted world seems to understand except me. Another thing to dangle just out of reach, like freedom, like answers, like anything resembling truth.

When Antonio stood there, all power and darkness, those stormy eyes fixed on me... I hate how my body remembered him. Hate how his voice—deep and commanding—still finds its way under my skin, leaving me wrestling with emotions I'd sworn I'd buried. Anger, sorrow, and worst of all, that stupid, misplaced longing that has no business surviving after what he did.

But I've listened to enough Taylor Swift break-up anthems to know this is muscle memory. Ashes of a fire that once burned. And nothing more.

"Give me a sec," I say more to myself than Cerberus, heading to the tiny bathroom. I grab a disinfecting wipe and kneel to clean the small crimson mark on the floor. Paint. It's just paint.

The way his eyes widened when he saw it though... for a split second, something that looked almost like fear flashed across his face. As if after ninety-four days of leaving me to rot, he suddenly cared whether I was breathing. Probably just worried his business deals would collapse if I wasn't "alive and well" as required. The contract's puppet master still needs his marionette.

Signora Martha, who's shown me more kindness than anyone in this fortress, brought me paints one afternoon. A small splash of color in my gray existence. I won't let her get in trouble for something she probably hid from him.

Him.

I wonder if his daughter paints.

My mind keeps on circling back to that word. Daughter.

His daughter.

He has a daughter.

My fingertips press harder into the paint stain, scrubbing like it might erase the heaviness in my chest. It's not jealousy. Despite my first thoughts when I found out about his secret family. Let’s face it. I wouldn't wish any connection to Antonio on anyone, especially not a child. But there's something else there, something that feels like mourning. For possibilities cancer might have stolen. For futures that died the moment he locked this door.

I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or simply shrug.

Staying quiet when he revealed that bombshell was hard enough. Not asking questions was worse. Who is her mother? Where is she? How old is Elena? Does she know about the wife her father keeps locked away like a shameful secret?

No. I refuse to let him back into my head. But I can't deny the adrenaline still rushing through my veins, demanding movement, demanding release.

"How about a dance?" I suggest, glancing at Cerberus who wags his tail in approval. The room is cramped, but I shuffle the bed aside, and Cerberus hops onto it, curling into a cozy ball.

Rising onto my toes, I find my rhythm in the silence, guided only by the distant crash of ocean waves against fortress walls. My arms sweep overhead, then lower gracefully. I rise again, sinking into pliés, channeling every flicker of emotion through my movements until my breath grows short and sweat beads along my hairline.

For these stolen moments, I'm not The Beast's imprisoned wife. I'm just me. The girl who once had Juilliard dreams lighting up her future. The girl who believed in music and movement and magic.

Pausing by the window, I gaze out, letting my mind wander to days past, to Naomi... to dreams destroyed.

"Principessa!"

Elena's high-pitched voice snaps me back to reality. How did they lose her again? So quickly?

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