She breaks off, manicured hands trembling as she fumbles with her phone. "Richardson? Matthews? Someone get our lawyers here now!"
But her once-loyal sycophants melt away like morning frost, their backs turning as swiftly as their allegiances. The queen of Los Angeles society stands alone, her kingdom crumbling around her pointed stilettos. The perfect mask she's worn for decades cracks wide open, revealing the desperate, cornered woman beneath.
"Ares!" The shriek tears from her throat, raw and primal—a sound I've never heard from her perfectly controlled lips. "Fix this! Now!"
The heavy doors slam shut behind my parents, the sound echoing through the stunned silence like a gunshot. The air in the ballroom seems to crystallize, suspended in the moment between what was and what will be.
The room starts to spin, faces blurring into a kaleidoscope of shock and scandal around me. Whispers slice through the air like paper cuts—"embezzlement," "fraud," "arrest"—words that shouldn't belong in the same universe as the Saint name.
Isabella's hand finds mine, her fingers lacing through mine with fierce pressure, anchoring me as my world implodes. Her touch burns through the numbness spreading through my chest, reminding me to breathe.
Through the haze, I catch a glimpse of white Valentino disappearing through a side door. Jessica, ever the opportunist, already distancing herself from the sinking ship. No doubt tomorrow's papers will paint her as the innocent victim who barely escaped the Saint family's web of lies.
"What just—" My voice cracks, the words sticking in my suddenly dry throat. "How did you—"
A solid hand lands on my shoulder, steadying me. When I turn, Ethan's familiar grin cuts through the chaos, his eyes alight with a fierce satisfaction I've never seen before.
"Remember when I told you she was working on something big?" He nods toward Isabella, admiration clear in his expression. "Well, she found the missing papers."
"Evelyn's diary," Isabella explains softly, her fingers interlacing with mine. My head spins as I try to process everything. "But we went through all her diaries."
"Not this one. This was hidden away beneath her wedding dress."
Her free hand comes up to touch the compass necklace at her throat. "And inside—" She swallows hard. "Inside was a paper in your fathers handwriting with all the codes to decode every dirty secret, every illegal transaction."
"I don't..." I have to swallow past the tightness in my throat. "What will happen now?"
Isabella's hand tightens in mine. "Now?" A smile breaks across her face like sunshine after an endless night.
"Now we live, Sainty. Really live."
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest—raw and real and maybe a little broken. But broken things can be beautiful too. Isabella taught me that.
She presses her forehead to mine. The scent of her—paint and flowers and hope—wraps around me like a promise as she whispers. "Come home to me."
Home. Not to marble floors and empty echoes, but to paint-splattered hardwood and honest love. To morning light streaming through industrial windows, to the warmth of her skin against mine, to the life that's been waiting for me since the moment I first saw her.
I pull her closer, not caring about the hundreds of eyes watching, the phones still recording, the whispers still flying. Let them see. Let them all see what real love looks like—not the sanitized, society-approved version, but the messy, passionate, absolutely perfect truth of it.
"I love you," I breathe against her lips.
She pulls me closer with a tearful laugh and silences me with a kiss. The taste of her—salt and sweetness, pain and promise—floods my senses, washing away the bitterness of nine weeks apart.
The glittering world of wealth and pretense fades away, irrelevant now. We're done with that dance, ready to create something new—a life built on paint-stained fingers and rooftop dreams, on healing and hope and the kind of love that breaks chains.
I'm finally, truly free, and as we kiss, I like to think Evelyn is smiling down at us, her final act of protection bringing us back to where we always belonged—together.
33
Ares
The mahogany walls of the Los Angeles courthouse seem to close in around me as I watch my father stand before the judge, his Armani suit hanging loose on his frame after months in custody. Gone is the imposing figure who once ruled this city with an iron fist. In his place stands a man diminished, though his spine remains rigid with that familiar Saint pride that refuses to bend, even in defeat.
"Theodore Saint." Judge Morrison's voice echoes through the packed courtroom, each syllable weighted with gravity. "You have been found guilty of multiple counts of embezzlement, money laundering, conspiracy, and involvement in the death of Jacob Wells."
Red's fingers intertwine with mine, her artist's calluses rough against my palm. The familiar touch grounds me, keeps me from drowning in the surreal nature of this moment. Beside us, Ethan sits ramrod straight, his usual playful demeanor replaced by grim satisfaction.
"The evidence presented by the prosecution, including documents recovered from your private servers and testimony from former employees, paints a clear picture of decades of criminal activity." The judge adjusts her glasses, her expression stern as granite. "Your actions have destroyed lives, Mr. Saint. Your abuse of power and influence has left a trail of victims that this court cannot ignore."
