The cab drops us at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the entrance of the venue. Already, I can see the glitter of lights, hear the distant murmur of voices and soft music. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure Ethan must hear it.
"Last chance to back out," he says quietly.
I shake my head. "Not a chance."
We begin the walk up the stairs, each step bringing us closer to the confrontation that's been years in the making. Closer to Ares.
Ethan reaches for my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Time to end this chapter and start a new one."
I steel myself, determination burning in my chest like a flame. "Let's go get our Sainty back."
The venue looms before us, windows blazing with light, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses spilling out into the night. I take a deep breath.
This is it. The tipping point.
I step forward, ready to reclaim everything the Saints tried to take from me.
32
Ares
I stare at my phone, the blue light harsh against my eyes in the dim confines of my car. Nine weeks. Sixty-three days of suffocating under the weight of golden chains. Of waking up reaching for her, finding only cold sheets and colder reality.
The irony isn't lost on me—sitting in the exact same spot where I walked away from Jessica and my parents' carefully orchestrated engagement party months ago. Same venue, different headline.
"SAINT HEIR RETURNS: PRODIGAL SON RECONCILES WITH FAMILY EMPIRE"
My fingers clench around the phone until the edges bite into my palm. Theodore Saint's words leap from the screen like perfectly aimed daggers:
"Every family faces its challenges. Ares has found his way back home, where he belongs. The past is behind us, and Saint Industries remains stronger than ever with the next generation ready to take the helm."
The metallic taste of bile floods my mouth. Another pristine lie wrapped in PR silk. Like my public rejection never happened. Like Isabella—
The migraine spikes, sharp and merciless. My hands shake as I fumble for another pill, the bottle rattling accusingly in the silence. Nine weeks of this dance. Nine weeks of waking up in a cold sweat, dreaming of paint-stained fingers and rooftop stars. Of plans we made under an infinite sky—a school for broken kids, a future built on hope instead of power.
Now all I have are board meetings and carefully staged photo ops, each one feeling like another nail in a coffin I chose for myself. The dreams we shared that night seem as distant as those stars we watched together, fading into nothing under the harsh Los Angeles sun.
Thank god for Ethan's texts. "She's okay" feels like both salvation and torture, each message a lifeline I'm not sure I deserve to grab. Last week's update still burns in my memory: "She's painting again. Different now. Darker. She misses you, Saint."
I close my eyes, seeing her loft in perfect detail. The way morning light streams through those industrial windows, catching the dust motes dancing above fresh canvases. The smell of coffee and oil paint. The sound of her bare feet on paint-splattered hardwood.
Gone. All gone.
The venue's lights blur as I straighten my tie, the designer silk a noose around my throat. Another night, another performance. Crystal chandeliers cast their merciless glow over Los Angeles' elite, their diamonds and perfect smiles reflecting artificial light like predators' teeth.
"Ares, darling!"
Faces turn, whispers follow. I catch fragments as I weave through the crowd, each one a paper cut to my already bleeding soul.
"...broke off the engagement..."
"...quite the scandal..."
"...back in the fold now..."
My father's business associates nod respectfully. Their wives offer air kisses that never land. Everyone plays their part in this carefully choreographed dance of bullshit. Just like I play mine—the prodigal son, properly chastened, ready to take his place in the empire.
The familiar throb behind my eyes intensifies as I approach our table. Mother materializes from the crowd, her designer dress rustling with each calculated step. Everything about her is precisely orchestrated—from her perfectly coiffed hair to the predatory gleam in her eyes.
