We eat in companionable quiet, the silence as nourishing as the food itself. Until, finally, the question I've been desperate to ask but terrified to hear the answer to slips out in a hoarse murmur.
"How is he?"
Ethan's chopsticks freeze halfway to his mouth, the muscles in his throat working as he weighs his response with careful consideration.
"He's...okay." The words are measured, cautious—a truth, but not the entire truth. "Working a lot."
I nod, the knot in my chest constricting around the confirmation that Ares is just as shattered as I am right now. These tiny crumbs of information are all I can allow myself, the only morsels my battered heart can digest without shattering into a million inextinguishable pieces.
"I was going through Gran's things earlier." The abrupt change of subject is more a desperate pivot than an attempt at misdirection. "Actually, I found a new diary of hers, tucked away in her old trunk. Hidden under her wedding dress of all places."
Ethan's eyes light up with interest, a welcome shift from the simmering storm lurking behind his gaze. "Yeah? Any embarrassing stories about teenage Ares in there? God knows I need more ammunition against him."
Despite everything, a small huff of laughter escapes me at the thought. I reach for the worn leather journal I'd discovered earlier, the one that felt heavier with secrets than the others. The scent of old paper and Gran's favorite lavender perfume envelops me like a warm embrace.
"I haven't had the chance to read this one yet," I say, running my fingers over the warped cover. "But knowing Gran, there's bound to be something good in here. She never missed a chance to document Ares being..." I pause, searching for the right word, "...less than graceful."
"Oh, do tell." Ethan leans forward, his earlier tension momentarily forgotten.
I flip through the yellowed pages, Gran's looping script as familiar as my own heartbeat. "Here's one..." I clear my throat, steadying my voice. "Listen to this..."
The words flow with practiced ease as I share the tale of ten-year-old Ares trying to sneak treats from Gran's kitchen, only to send an entire shelf of spices clattering to the floor in a cloud of cayenne and cinnamon.
For those few, blessed moments, the loft is filled with the rich baritone of Ethan's laughter mingling with my own—a balm against the hollowed-out ache in my soul. It's a glimpse of lightness, of joy, that I've been drowning without.
"That sounds like him." Ethan grins, eyes bright with fond exasperation. "Always so graceful, our Saint."
The endearment he uses for his best friend hangs in the air, a stark juxtaposition against the torment simmering in the canvases surrounding us. It's a reminder that Ethan knew Ares after I was already gone—after his parents shipped him to that Swiss boarding school with a head full of lies about my betrayal. He knew the Ares who was pieced back together after I supposedly shattered him, the one who learned to function with walls around his heart.
My smile falters as a new wave of guilt washes over me. I move closer to the couch, diary in hand, and settle onto the battered cushion beside Ethan. I need to share these memories—these fleeting moments where Ares was simply...happy. It's the only way to keep breathing.
I flip aimlessly through the aged pages, letting my fingers trail over Gran's handwriting. The faded scent of her perfume washes over me, and for a moment, I can almost imagine her warmth surrounding me, her soft hands brushing the hair from my face as she murmurs the soothing lullabies from my childhood.
It's then that I notice it—two pages seeming to cling together, the delicate paper edges melded into one. Frowning, I carefully pry them apart, half-expecting to find another cherished memory trapped between the fragile pages.
But what flutters into my lap is no ink-scrawled entry. It's a folded envelope, yellowed and brittle with age, the outside bearing a single word in Gran's flowing hand: "Evidence."
My breath catches in my throat as I carefully open the tattered envelope and let the contents spill out—a folded sheet of paper, the crisp creases still razor-sharp despite the years. As I unfold it, something cold and leaden settles in the pit of my stomach.
Because there, inked in an unknown calligraphy, is a list of names, and... a string of numbers. I don't understand what I'm looking at, but the names leap out with strange familiarity:
"Cayman Holdings. Helios Enterprises. Project Cerberus & Omega."
The chopsticks clatter to the floor, long-forgotten, as Ethan sits up ramrod straight beside me. His hand darts out, snatching the paper from my grasp as his eyes scan the list in a fevered daze.
"No fucking way." The expletive hisses through his clenched teeth, jaw ticking rapidly. "Holy fucking shit, Bella. This is Theodore Saint's handwriting."
My eyes fly to his, wide with a combination of fear and tentative, fragile hope. "What? A-are you sure?"
He nods once, a sharp, impatient jerk of his head. "I'd recognize it anywhere. All those goddamn contracts, those fucking board meeting notes." His fist clenches around the paper, the crisp edge slicing into his palm hard enough to draw blood. "This is his hand, Bella. I'd stake my life on it."
My heart thunders in my ears, the roaring rush of blood drowning out every other sound.
Ethan's eyes are blazing, the intensity of his focus bordering on feverish as it darts between the list and me. "Bella…" He leans in, hand finding my wrist in a grip just shy of bruising. "If this is what I think it is, if this is the key to unlocking those encrypted files..." A savage grin twists his lips, more a promise of violence than true joy. "Then everything is about to change. Everything."
The implications crash over me in waves, a deluge of terrifying possibility. Is this is the key, the missing piece that can unravel Theodore Saint's entire web of lies and manipulation?
The thought is so staggering, so monumental, that it steals the breath from my lungs. I can only gape at Ethan, at the burning intensity blazing in his eyes, as he gives my wrist one last emphatic squeeze.
