Page 8 of The Beast

Despite everything, I can’t hold back my smile. “What are our movie options?”

“I may have bookmarked a few things.” He grabs the remote. “Princess Bride, Buffy, or stand-up comedy?”

“I can’t believe you planned this.”

“I planned for the possibility that my fake fiancée might bail early from her own engagement party and need a distraction.” He shrugs. “I know you, Bella.”

He does. That’s the thing. After twenty-plus years of friendship—summer camps and charity galas and school and all the glittering prison cells where children of dynasties are stored—David Mercer knows me better than almost anyone.

“The Princess Bride,” I decide. “I need Westley telling me that death cannot stop true love.”

Something flickers in David’s expression, but he nods and queues up the movie.

I change out of my gown in my bedroom, trading silk and diamonds for yoga pants and an oversized sweater. When I emerge, David has transformed the living room into a proper movie-watching nest—lights dimmed, cookies on a platter within reach, a soft blanket draped over the back of the couch.

“This is perfect,” I say.

He pats the cushion beside him. “Come on. Buttercup’s about to make some questionable life choices, and I need someone to mock her with me.”

I settle onto the couch, tucking my feet beneath me the way I’ve done a thousand times before. David spreads the small blanket over both of us, and I scoot closer to him so that I’m fully under the soft material. It’s warm and comfy, even though I can’t hide how many cookies I’m snarfing since our shoulders brush every time we reach for one.

Halfway through the movie, the cookies are gone. David sets the platter aside on the coffee table, and when he settles back, his arm comes around my shoulders, just as we’ve sat a million times before.

I lean into him, letting my head rest against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, slow and calm and comforting.

“Thank you,” I murmur. “For this.”

“That’s what friends are for.” His hand strokes my shoulder-length hair. “Whatever you need.”

On screen, Westley and Buttercup are navigating the Lightning Sand. I’m only half watching. The other half of me is marveling at how nice it feels to just be.

The movie plays on. Miracle Max. The storming of the castle. True love’s kiss.

“As you wish,” Westley says, and something in my chest cracks.

Gabriel used to say that to me. It was our silly little nod to this movie that morphed into our thing. As you wish, Izzy. However you need me. I’m yours.

Except it was a lie. Because how I need him is here and alive. But he’s not. And I’m in another man’s arms, wearing another man’s ring, preparing to spend the rest of my life with a friend I love. But it’s the wrong kind of love, even if he’s the right kind of friend.

David must sense the shift in my mood, because his hand stills in my hair. “You okay?”

“No.” The word comes out before I can stop it. “I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay in almost five years, and I don’t know if I ever will be again. I’m sorry. I hate dumping this on you, but—I’m just sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just holds me tighter, his chin resting on the top of my head.

“I keep waiting for it to fade.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “Everyone says time heals everything. But it doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like...learning to live with a piece of yourself missing. Like you just get better at ignoring the empty space where something vital used to be.”

“Maybe that’s what healing looks like. Not forgetting. Not moving on. Just learning that you can carry it and still have space for something new.”

I shrug. I don’t really want to be mollified. I want Gabriel. I always will. And right now, he doesn’t just take up space in my heart, he fills the space, leaving only corners and crannies that maybe—maybe—someone else could someday fill.

“It hurts,” I whisper. “But I don’t want to spend my life alone with his ghost.”

“He wouldn’t want you to. He’d want you to move on. And you can, you know.”

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe that there’s more to my future than this endless ache.

But I don’t.