"What the fuck is going on here?" A female voice cuts through the tension like a knife. The blonde positions herself between us, all five-foot-nothing of protective fury in four-inch stilettos. "Back the hell up, Saint, before I make you."
I hold my ground, unable to tear my eyes from Isabella's face. The question in her unfinished sentence hangs between us, heavy with implications I'm not ready to examine.
"It's fine, Alisha." Isabella's voice sounds hollow, distant. She's still looking at me with that unsettling expression, like she's solving a puzzle she never wanted to find.
"I'm done here," Isabella spits, but her eyes—those familiar green depths—tell a different story. They're swimming with confusion, hurt, and something dangerously close to recognition. The disconnect between her harsh tone and vulnerable gaze makes my stomach twist.
I open my mouth, but the blonde steps forward, perfectly manicured finger jabbing toward my chest.
"Listen up, billionaire boy. You've got exactly three seconds to turn around and walk away before I introduce your family jewels to my stiletto heel." Her smile is sweet as poison. "And trust me, that's one headline your PR team won't be able to spin."
Isabella grabs Alisha's arm, her knuckles white. "Come on. He's not worth another second." But she glances back, that same bewildered horror flickering across her features. "Let's get back to the others."
I watch them disappear around the corner, her auburn hair the last thing to vanish from sight. My fingers still tingle where they touched her skin. The memory of her pulse racing beneath my grip makes me want to punch something—preferably myself. After fifteen years, she still has the power to rip through every wall I've built, leaving me raw and bleeding.
The unfinished accusation echoes in my mind: "After all these years, you actually believe—"
Believe what? Security footage doesn't lie. I saw it with my own eyes—Isabella taking my mother's sapphire necklaces from the jewelry box. But something in her expression, in the horror that flashed across her face, plants a seed of doubt I can't shake.
I shove through the crowd, the bass pounding in sync with the rage coursing through my veins. The press of bodies, the thick air, the goddamn neon lights—it all closes in, suffocating. What had started as an escape now feels like another trap.
So when the VIP section comes into view, and I spot Ethan still entertaining his admirers, I growl.
"We're leaving."
Ethan's eyes snap to mine and instantly he switches from playboy to brother-in-arms. One look at my face and he knows this isn't a request.
"Ladies, I'm afraid the party's over." He delivers the news with a regretful charm that almost masks how quickly he's ditching them.
The brunette from earlier stops before me, letting her fingers walk up my chest. "Are you sure? I bet I could turn that sexy frown upside down." Her lips curve into what's probably meant to be a seductive pout.
I step back, breaking contact. "Not interested."
Her friend—the blonde—tries her luck with Ethan, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. "How about you, handsome? Night's still young."
"Darling, on any other evening, I'd be devastated to refuse." Ethan flashes that million-dollar grin. "But duty calls, and this"—he gestures between them—"will have to remain a beautiful what-if."
Night air hits my face as we exit while Boston's nightlife pulses around us—distant sirens, drunk laughter, music spilling from nearby bars. The city feels alive tonight, mocking my internal chaos. Ethan clicks the key fob, and his sleek rental Audi chirps in response, its black exterior gleaming under the streetlights.
"I'm driving," he announces, catching the keys when I reach for them. "You look like you might intentionally wrap us around a telephone pole."
The leather seat envelops me as I sink into the passenger side, the car's interior a sanctuary of climate-controlled quiet. Ethan navigates through late-night traffic with practiced ease, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against his thigh to music only he can hear.
"So," he drawls, city lights streaming past our tinted windows like shooting stars. "Want to tell me what kind of nuclear bomb just went off? Because that face you're making? That's your 'I either need to hit something or drink myself stupid' face."
I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes. "I ran into Isabella."
"Oh, shit." The playfulness drops from his voice immediately, replaced by genuine concern. "Isabella as in—"
"The girl who stole from my family? Yeah. That Isabella." My hands curl into fists, nails digging half-moons into my palms. The leather seat creaks beneath me as I shift uncomfortably.
"I was going to say the girl who had you bawling your eyes out for weeks in boarding school," Ethan says, his voice softening with the memory. "Remember how I found you on the roof that night? Shared my secret chocolate stash with you? And that bottle of scotch I'd been saving for graduation?" He glances over at me, his expression a mixture of nostalgia and worry. "First and only time I've ever seen Ares Saint completely fall apart."
I shoot him a withering glare that would silence most people, but Ethan just raises an eyebrow, unfazed after years of friendship.
"Fifteen fucking years," I mutter, staring at the dashboard as the city lights dance across it, "and I still—" The words die in my throat, choking me with their weight and all they imply.
"Still what?" Ethan asks, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, no trace of his usual sarcasm. The question hangs in the air between us, demanding an answer I'm not sure I can give.
