Page 5 of The Beast

Chapter Two

“We are just too pretty for our own good,” David says, scrolling through Harper’s phone to check out the snaps she took—and posted on social—while the official photographer did his thing. We make a damn fine couple.”

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “If only either one of us had the slightest hint of lust mixed in with that love thing.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then gives my shoulders a squeeze. “Plus, there’s that pesky problem of you not being attracted to nice guys.”

I roll my eyes but don’t argue. He pulls me close, comforting me while the party guests glance over, thinking it’s just a warm moment between the happy couple.

“Shall we make the circuit again, then escape to your suite?”

And there it is—another life lesson about how things aren’t always what they seem.

What I want is to escape right now, but if even one person misses that vision of happy, giddy Isabella Hart, I’ll never hear the end of it from Daddy Dearest.

So we mingle for the next half hour. Thirty long minutes of accepting congratulations from people whose names I don’t remember, making small talk about wedding venues and honeymoon destinations, and playing the role of the radiant bride-to-be.

When I can’t take it any longer, I pull David away, kiss his cheek, and tell him I need some space. Then I make him promise to tell anyone who asks that I went to the powder room.

That, of course, isn’t where I’m going.

The gallery is on the Monarch’s mezzanine level. In the weeks before he died, Gabe and I had finalized the paperwork to create an LLC for our new business as gallery owners. Then, after his death, I became the sole shareholder of the company we’d so goofily referred to as our baby.

Now I pause in front of the glass door and soak in the familiar colors and lines. Since the gallery is closed, the only light comes from dim security spots that illuminate each piece.

With a sigh, I key in my code—the date Gabriel and I first met, because I’m that pathetic—and slip inside, letting the door close behind me with a soft click.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful. The only place in this entire building that truly feels like home—and that includes my permanent, humongous suite on the penthouse level.

Originals hang on the walls, most with a price tag that would make even my father feel the pinch, but the art supports it, and we funnel most of the proceeds into the art community with scholarships and grants.

I run my fingertips over the sleek workstation near the entrance—one Gabe designed himself. I’d found his furniture sketches in a notebook after he died and hired the best carpenters I could find to bring them to life.

I can picture him watching those workmen, then hurling a measuring tape across the room if they didn’t get the cut just right.

He could be so patient and sweet. So loving. So gentle.

But he also had a temper, my Gabriel. How could he not, with so many ideas battling for attention in his head? And though I know he’d spent years verbally sparring with his father and brothers, he and I rarely argued. And when his temper flared, he was never violent toward me. His rages were always directed at himself, and usually inspired by some failure in translating his imagination to canvas.

“I miss you,” I whisper. Then, with a sigh, I make my way across the main gallery, past the vibrant abstracts and moody landscapes that showcase LaBete’s range, past the smaller studies and experimental pieces from his early days. Still stunning, but only hinting at the genius everyone missed while he was alive.

Only Leo and I know that the recently deceased international art sensation LaBete was none other than Gabriel Grimm, the golden heir of the Grimm empire, who painted in secret because his father would have seen it as a weakness. To Gabriel, every brushstroke was an act of rebellion, every canvas a middle finger to Elias Grimm’s expectations of what his eldest son should be.

I’ve kept his secret for years. Guarded it jealously, fiercely, like the last precious piece of him.

You’re stronger than you think.

Gabe’s words seem to curl around me.

Don’t let your father shape you. Only you. You decide who you are, Izzy. No one else.

I smile at the memory. And at the nickname. No one in my life except Gabe has ever called me Izzy.

“You’re an Izzy,” he’d said after our first kiss. “You’re soft like a Bella, but you have sharp edges, too. That’s good,” he’d added, tapping my lip with his fingertip when I scowled. “But it’s only for me and for you, okay? For now, at least. Izzy needs to get a little stronger before she shows herself to her father.”

I’d laughed, then bopped him on the head with the pillow beside me.

“I mean it,” he’d said. “When you need help pulling out your power, just remember who you really are—you’re Izzy.” Then he’d kissed me, and all my thoughts about Izzy or Bella or Isabella vanished. But he’d given me one hell of a gift that night.