Page 63 of The Beast

Chapter Twenty

The back showroom is quiet, which isn’t a surprise as it’s well past three in the morning. But I couldn’t sleep. I’d only intended to take a quick walk and clear my head. Instead, my feet carried me here, the only place that’s ever truly felt like mine.

Now, I’m curled up on the old velvet couch, shoes kicked off, a glass of whiskey in my hand as I stare at a canvas I haven’t looked at in months. Stillwater, he called it. Swirls of blue and green and silver that look like water caught mid-motion. Like a lake holding its breath.

I remember the day he painted it.

We’d driven upstate for a weekend away from the city, away from our families, away from everything that made our relationship complicated. We’d rented a cabin by a lake so still it looked like glass. We spent most of our first morning in bed, our bodies sated and tangled.

I can still remember the way the sunlight had streamed through the curtains, painting golden stripes across his face as he moved above me. The way he’d laughed when I pulled him back down for one more kiss. The way everything had felt possible, like the world was ours and nothing could ever touch us.

Then he’d led me outside, a blanket around my shoulders, and we’d sat on the dock watching the water.

“That’s what you are to me,” he’d said after a few moments. “Still on the surface. But underneath...” He’d pulled me closer, pressed his lips to my temple. “Underneath, you’re a whole world I want to explore.”

He’d started the painting that afternoon, then worked late into the night while I’d dozed on the couch. When the sun urged me awake the next morning, he was still at the easel, and the canvas was alive with motion and muted colors.

“Hey.”

He’d looked up, clearly startled. I grinned, certain I’d just pulled him from what I called his artistic trance. I nodded toward the canvas. “It’s beautiful.”

His eyes met mine. “It is,” he said. “It’s you.”

Now, I close my eyes as the memory washes over me, both sweet and painful.

I take a long swallow of whiskey, letting the burn chase away the softness. I can’t afford softness right now. Can’t afford to remember the man he used to be when the man he’s become is systematically trying to destroy me.

I take another sip of whiskey and let my eyes drift to another canvas. This one is smaller, more intimate—a study of hands intertwined, painted in shades of gold and shadow. My hands and his. I’d watched him paint it one lazy Sunday afternoon, sitting across from him in his studio while rain streaked the windows.

Memories. Each of these canvases comes complete with memories. And right now it feels like torture being here. Loss and longing and only the tiniest bit of hope because at least he’s alive.

But he’s no longer mine.

How do I live with that?

I’m about to stand and force myself back to my suite when I hear footsteps, and my heart picks up tempo. Not Chris—he’d have called out when he realized the alarm’s disabled. Not David—once he’s asleep, it takes a marching band to rouse him. Not Harper, she’d have texted first. And definitely not my father. I’d have felt the air turning to ice.

Gabriel.

“The gallery’s closed,” I say flatly. “And I’m not in the mood.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t leave, either. I can feel him standing there, watching me the way he’s been watching me for days. Like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve. Like I’m prey he’s not sure he wants to devour.

“Are you here to torture me some more?” My voice is hard, and I still don’t turn around. “Because I’ve already had a lovely conversation with my father, so I’ve met today’s quota for emotional abuse.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, “Isabella.”

Something in his voice makes my heart skitter. Something broken. Something raw.

And, dammit, before I can order myself not to, I turn.

Gabriel stands in the doorway, looking completely destroyed. There’s no other word for it. The cold mask he’s been wearing since he walked back into my life is gone, shattered into a thousand pieces, and underneath it is devastation. His eyes are bloodshot. His posture tense, his arms stiff at his sides. He looks like a man who’s just watched his entire world collapse around him and doesn’t know how to stand in the rubble.

Good.

But the thought rings hollow. Because even now—even after everything he’s done to me—seeing him in pain makes something hard twist in my chest. Some stupid, stubborn part of me still wants to go to him. Still wants to smooth the anguish and tell him everything will be okay.