Page 36 of The Beast

“That painting wasn’t yours to take.”

“Isn’t it?” He moves closer, and I know I should step back, should maintain distance, but my feet won’t cooperate. “I created it. I poured my soul into it. I painted you in it—every line, every shadow, every desperate reach toward a light you’d never touch.” His voice drops. “And then you took everything else from me. So yes, Isabella. I’d say it’s mine.”

“I didn’t take anything from you!” The words tear out of me. “And I’m done defending myself.”

“And you built a shrine.” He gestures at the walls around us. “Yes, I can see that. Very touching. The grieving girlfriend, keeping the flame alive.” His lip curls. “Tell me, did you cry real tears when you hung these pieces? Or were you just calculating how much they’d be worth?”

“I loved you, you son-of-a-bitch. I still do. So dammit, don’t make me hate you.”

He lifts a brow. “Touchy.”

I fight the urge to knee him in the balls, then say, very calmly, “I gave your work an audience. I found good homes for it—people who actually appreciate what you created. And the money?” I step closer, driven by a rage I can barely contain. “I already told you about the scholarships and grants, and unless you’re a total idiot, you checked up on that. So you know that hundreds of young artists are getting chances they never would have had otherwise. All in LaBete’s name. I did that, you arrogant prick. I did it because I wanted your legacy to mean something.”

Something flickers in his expression. There and gone, too fast to read.

“I hate that you believe I could hurt you,” I say. “That you could look at me and see a murderer.”

Something shifts behind his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or doubt. Then it’s gone, locked away behind that frozen mask.

But it was there. I know it. And that little thing called hope flutters in my belly.

“You decided for me. You and the men who left me bleeding at that cabin. Your eyes watching me die.”

“Goddammit. Did that fire kill your brain cells? I didn’t hurt you. I would never hurt you. I didn’t know what happened to you. I spent months trying to find answers, and every door I opened slammed shut in my face.”

My voice breaks, and I struggle to find it again.

“I gave up,” I finally whisper. “Eventually, I just gave up. I brush away hot tears. “Maybe if I’d kept it up another day, another week, I would have found you. But I stopped. I stopped because I let myself believe you were dead. And I was wrong.” The tears flow freely now.

“Months,” he says. “You investigated for months.”

“Yes. Of course. I thought someone had murdered the man I was going to spend my life with, and I was supposed to just accept the official story and move on?”

I shake my head. “I did everything I could think of. I hired private investigators. I bribed police contacts. I dug through my father’s files when he wasn’t looking.”

He’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “Your father’s files.”

“He hated you—we both know that. And I know he used to go through my room. So maybe he knew about the cabin.” I shrug. “But I didn’t find anything. Not surprising. We both know my father’s the kind of prick who knows how to hold his secrets close.”

“You hate him.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but I answer anyway. “That should hardly be news to you. The only reason I’m still in his orbit is to get the Monarch. Get it, cut it loose from the Hart Properties portfolio, and build it into something of my own.”

“The Monarch,” he says, with a tinge of menace in his voice. “You mean the property I’m going to dismantle piece by piece? The gaming commission investigations are just the beginning. By the time I’m done, it’ll be worth pennies on the dollar. And then I’ll buy what’s left of your father’s empire and burn it to the ground. Sorry, sweetheart. Your inheritance is my prey.”

It takes a moment for the full, horrible truth to sink in.

The Monarch is my escape. My future.

And he’s going to destroy it.

I force myself to hold his gaze. “What am I in all this?”

Something flickers in his eyes—there and gone. “Sweetheart, you’re the whole point.”

“Then look at me.” I step closer, refusing to flinch. “Really look at me. And tell me you see a killer.”

He doesn’t answer.