Beauty, a Hate Story the End

The stars actually aligned.

Anteros went to get some water and food since I hadn’t eaten anything in almost two days. I sat on the white fur rug, the organza of my dress spread around me in a shimmery cascade. I smiled, content, happy to have my fairytale stay stitched in place. I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling, at the beautiful maple logs, vaulted and lofted. I was safe in this safe house Anteros had brought me to because he loved me.

With a deep exhale, I acknowledged that I had to tell him about my sickness.

I had to.

There weren’t any secrets between us anymore. If we were going to rule this underworld together, I had to let him know the truth. When he got back, I was going to tell him what was going on with me—the real reason I’d slept for two days. I worked the inside of my cheek, counting the knots and striations in the different logs in the ceiling, before rolling to my side and looking to where Anteros had gone.

Something caught my eye—a corner of paper stuck in one the floorboards, so small you could barely see it. Intrigued, I elbow-crawled over to it. I thought it might be a loose page belonging to one of his old books, but when I pulled it out, I recognized it instantly.

It wasn’t.

It couldn’t be.

After everything, it couldn’t be. My body revolted at the revelation. Nausea rolled my stomach, trembles wracked my body. He’d said he lost it, said he didn’t remember what it said, but here it was, in my hands.

The letter.

How could he? I bit the skin of my lip to stop the onslaught of emotion. I thought we were past this. I thought lies were over. A few days before I would have crushed it. I wouldn’t have said a word.

But not today.

Anteros came down the hallway, a glass of water in his hand and a plate of something that smelled delicious in the other. I eyed it, hating him even more, hating that he brought me wine and pasta and looked like sex, but had kept the letter without telling me.

“What is this?” I asked, afraid because I already knew the answer. A small smile curved his lips, but it fell when he saw what was in my hand. My gut twisted further. I’d had a small bit of hope—hope that he didn’t know what it was, that it had, I didn’t know, somehow gotten here on its own. Like it had sprouted legs and fucking walked.

But seeing his face, I knew. Slowly, I got up, holding on to the couch for support. Anteros set down the items on the mantel and came to me. His face was a mask, betraying nothing.

Rip it off. Stop fucking pretending.

I scoffed. Hypocrite.

“Read it. Right now,” I demanded. With careful steps, he closed the distance between us, face betraying nothing. But in his silence and in his mask, I had my answer. “You already have, haven’t you?” Pained wrinkles spread from the corners of his eyes and I had to turn away.

“Where did you find it?” he asked, tone unreadable.

“Where did I find it?” I spun back around. “Are you fucking kidding me? It was in the floor!” I pointed to the spot and he followed my finger. Something passed across his features, almost like irritation, but it wasn’t directed at me and it quickly vanished again to be replaced by that infuriating mask.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought…” I thought we were telling each other everything. I thought we were each other’s everything. I thought we were past this. I thought the lies were over. I thought we were going to fucking rule together.

God, I was such a fucking idiot.

He was a Beast.

Beasts didn’t change.

My, what pretty teeth you have—all the better to lie with.

“What was so bad that you had to lie?” I asked, hating the tremble in my voice. He tried to draw me into an embrace but I pushed him away. “What else are you keeping from me? Because I told you every ugly truth—stuff I’ve never told anyone. You know every goddamn thing.” Except that you’re getting sick again, a little voice whispered in my head. You didn’t tell him that.

“The letter is about you,” Anteros said. I didn’t understand his demeanor at all. He was scary calm, watching me like I was a vase about to tumble from a pedestal, and that just pissed me off more. If the letter was about me, I wanted to know. I would have been happy if he’d told me about it.

“How could it be about me?” I looked at the weathered paper like I could suddenly read Italian.

“It’s about your parents.” Still he spoke with that inscrutable pacific tone. My frown grew so deep I could practically feel the lines pressing into my skull. Finally I had something concrete about where I came from and who I was—why had he kept it from me?

“Maybe you should sit down.” Anteros gestured to the couch behind me.