Page 3 of The Beast

I keep my eyes on his as I wait for his next volley. Probably some sort of pop quiz about the laws governing gambling venues.

It doesn’t come. Instead, he asks, “And the gallery?”

My heart stutters, and I have to work to keep my expression flat. “What about it?”

His jaw tightens. “We’ve talked about this, Isabella. You’ll need to scale back your involvement. Running a major casino property requires your full attention.”

That’s my problem now.

The words fly out of me—but sadly, only in my mind. What my mouth says is, “Of course, Father. That’s a given.” I keep my face bland and hope he can’t see the lie. “The gallery practically runs itself at this point. Chris manages the day-to-day operations, and he does an excellent job. I only need to be involved for major exhibitions and acquisitions.”

All true. The gallery may have become world famous over the last few years for the LaBete originals and the other abstract pieces we curate, but Chris—my assistant manager and one of the few people in this world I trust completely—could run the place blindfolded.

If I had to, I really could just walk away. But I never will. La Galerie LaBete is all I have left of Gabriel.

That, however, is a Fun Little Factoid that Father really doesn’t need to know. So, I just look at my father, my expression bland, as if I’m finally, truly not giving a fuck about the gallery, and happy to let Chris step in.

Father studies me for a long moment, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to push. Waiting for him to demand that I choose between the casino and the gallery. Between the future he’s planned for me and the past that I can’t let go.

Finally, he nods. “Good. I’m glad you finally understand. The Monarch comes first, child. Always.”

“Of course.”

He releases my shoulder and moves away, but it’s not until he disappears into the crowd of Manhattan’s power players and Atlantic City’s high rollers that I can finally breathe again.

Half an hour and two glasses of champagne later, I scan the ballroom, looking for Harper Lang, my bestie. I catch sight of her near the terrace doors, partially hidden behind a massive floral arrangement, watching me with those pale gray eyes that see far too much.

She tilts her head slightly— you okay?

I lift my champagne flute in a small salute—I’m fine—because that’s the lie we both need right now.

Harper and I met back when Gabriel was still alive. Back when I was young enough to believe that love could conquer anything and naive enough to think that my father’s approval was something I could eventually earn. She’d been best friends with Gabriel since childhood, with her, Gabriel, and his younger brother Elliott, making an unlikely trio that somehow worked. She’d loved Gabriel, too, in the same non-romantic way that I love David, and she’d been the one who held me when I got the news about the fire.

And she’s the one who knows, without me ever having said it out loud, that I’m still in love with a dead man.

She makes her way through the crowd toward me with the kind of easy confidence that comes from knowing how to work a room. A PR professional, Harper can charm a journalist, schmooze a critic, and manage a crisis all before lunch. She’s wearing red tonight, because why fall in line with black tie only if you can be Harper?

“Your father’s in rare form tonight,” she murmurs when she reaches my side, pushing a fall of unruly ebony curls out of her eyes. With her mix of black, German, and Asian heritage, she’s got a style and beauty that rivals the models she often hires.

Now, she hands me a fresh champagne flute.

“He wants to make sure I don’t embarrass him. Like I’m going to jump up on a table and announce that I can’t possibly marry David.”

“Probably true.” Harper’s tone is dry. She’s known me long enough to understand the complex dance I do with my father as I try to make myself believe that I’m a competent exec and not a pawn on Father’s chessboard.

Except I am a pawn on Father’s chessboard. Reality, meet hope.

She reaches out to squeeze my hand. “I wish I could make it all better.”

“It’s as good as it can be, I guess.” I lift a shoulder. “I mean, at least I really love David. Just not, you know, that way.”

Her eyes narrow.

“What?”

“There’s something else bothering you.”

I grimace. “You really do know me too well.”