Page 30 of The Beast

Chapter Ten

It’s three minutes to eleven when I hurry back into the Monarch. Which means I’m due to meet with my father in eighteen minutes. And that means the warm and fuzzy buds of hope that Anissa planted inside me are about to get shattered—because no way am I meeting with my dad before explaining myself to David.

In the elevator, I silently will the car to go faster. It doesn’t, and I make a mental note to speak to the elevator gods about forcing these devices to do my bidding.

I am manager, hear me roar.

I grin. Yeah, that talk with Anissa definitely kicked my mood up a few notches. Gabriel may be throwing darts at that picture of David and me, but at least I know he hasn’t stopped loving me. No matter what horrible things he might think I did. More importantly, deep down, he must know I didn’t—and wouldn’t—ever hurt him.

Then the doors open at my suite, and suddenly I’m remembering the way I bolted from David last night. So much for not hurting people.

I dump my purse on the table by the door, kick off my shoes, then hurry to David’s room. I hesitate for a moment, then tap softly.

Nothing.

I tap again, this time a little louder. “David? You up?”

Silence.

I try the handle, and the door swings open, revealing his rumpled bed. Damn.

Not that I’m all that eager for the awkward, I bolted after sex because my ex is alive talk, but at the same time, that’s a conversation I much prefer to chatting with Daddy Dearest.

Mostly, I want to do this now while I still have the nerve. So even though it will make me even more late to my meeting with Father, I shoot David a quick text asking if we can grab a coffee. When his answer doesn’t come right away, I sigh, then hurry to my bedroom to change into my corporate armor. Then I head out for the task I want to put off. Not just for the day, but for all eternity.

But I can’t ditch my dad. I need answers. And not about gaming licenses and vendor contracts and slot machine repair. Father may think that’s the extent of our agenda, but he’d be wrong. I want answers that matter.

And I’m getting them today.

I want to storm into his office, metaphorical guns blazing, accusations— Did you do it? Did you try to kill the man I love? Did you use my name while your thugs beat him and shot him, and left him for dead?

He’ll deny everything, of course. He’ll look at me with those cold eyes and tell me I’m being hysterical, emotional, foolish. He’ll remind me of everything he’s done for me, everything he’s given me, everything I stand to lose if I push too hard.

And then he’ll find a way to punish me for asking.

All true. But I don’t slow down. I grab my bag, and I’m out the door. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe I should wait, plan, think this through. But I need to look him in the eye. I need to see his face when I tell him I know what he did.

The elevator ride down to the executive level feels endless. I use the time to rehearse what I’m going to say, but the words keep tangling in my head. How do you accuse your own father of attempted murder? Even a father as vile as mine. How do you have that conversation?

By the time I step out, my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

My father’s office takes up an entire corner of the floor—a sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the boardwalk and the ocean beyond. I can even see The Obsidian, and that gives me strength.

Mina sits at the reception desk outside his door, examining her manicure like it’s the most important task she’ll accomplish all day. It probably is. She looks up when I approach and gives me that smile. The one that says fuck you while pretending to be friendly.

“Isabella.” She draws out my name like we’re old friends. “Your father is in a meeting.”

“I’ll wait.”

“It may be some time.” She’s enjoying this. “Perhaps you could schedule an appointment for later this afternoon.”

“I said I’ll wait.”

She waves a hand toward the sitting area, her nails catching the light. “Suit yourself.”

I don’t sit. Instead, I pace the length of the waiting area, too wired to stay still. The clock on the wall ticks off the seconds with excruciating slowness. This, I know, is my punishment for being four minutes late.

I think. I pace. And I think some more.