The Name of the Game (In Which Gaston Makes a Bet)

Chapter 1: The Bet

Gaston's signature guffaw echoed throughout the tavern, nearly drowned out by the screams of the other patrons. His last joke had ended on a rather risqué note, projecting the entire pub into a riot. The beer had been flowing freely since the sun went down and already everybody was feeling the rush of being tipsy, so they were more susceptible to the hunter's off-color brand of humor than usual.

LeFou had left the tavern some time ago, as the pork loin they'd had for dinner hadn't agreed with his stomach, but even without his hype man Gaston managed to have the entire pub in tears, hanging onto his every word. He was the de facto king of this castle, and he presided over his domain with pride. All his life, he'd had the entirety of the village eating out of his proverbial palm. The nights he spent at the tavern were especially his favorite, when all eyes and ears were on him, and anything he did or said was treated as gospel.

Gaston would've been cut out for politics. With his charms, as well as his luscious hair, debonair smile, dimpled chin, and dashing good looks, he'd fare just as well as any of those stuffy, out-of-touch aristocrats. Probably even better.

Maybe he'd consider running for mayor in the next election.

As the bar quieted down, the conversation began to shift to the subject of Gaston's last punchline: women. One woman, in particular, was always a hot topic in the village, and the discussion seemed to shift naturally to focus on her, as it often did.

"That girl is strange, no question," one man said.

"Strange, but special!" another added.

"No denying she's a funny girl, that Belle," a woman near the front muttered wistfully.

"It's a pity and a sin, she doesn't quite fit in," the older woman beside her agreed.

Belle, the inventor's daughter. Arguably the most beautiful girl in their poor provincial town in France, she was also the most unusual, with an unbecoming habit of always reading.

"She's always got that dreamy, far-off look."

"And 'er nose stuck in a book!"

"Well, it's no wonder that her name means 'beauty!' Her looks have got no parallel."

"But behind that fair façade, I'm afraid she's rather odd."

A pensive look came over Gaston's face where he sat at the head of the room, his blue eyes narrowing as he listened to the side conversations as they happened around him. It was true: for a woman, Belle was odd, but what did a little abnormality mean to Gaston? Aphrodite's legendary beauty surely paled in comparison to Belle's, and that's all that mattered: beauty. Attractiveness. Good looks.

Good looks meant good breeding. Good breeding meant strong, healthy sons. Heirs to Gaston's name and lineage. His bloodline deserved–nay, required–the best brooding mare there was. And Belle certainly fit the bill.

But Belle was a challenge, a closed book that Gaston couldn't read even if he managed to pry the covers apart. Prior to meeting Belle, he'd never encountered a conquest that he couldn't... well, conquer. That's what Belle was: a conquest. Something to be conquered. A prize to be both won and possessed. She'd be the perfect trophy to add to his collection.

Trophy wife, that is.

The thought had never occurred to Gaston before, and he slowly straightened up in his seat as it dawned on him. It only made sense that the two handsomest people in town should marry, and then go on to have handsome children together. The bulging hunter could see it now: waltzing about town with Belle on his arm, showing her off. She'd be the perfect barefooted wife, content to spend her days cooking and cleaning and breeding. Doting on his every whim.