"No, we don’t."
A burst of white light flickers. Then another. My gaze drops to the sidewalk and ice floods my veins. Paparazzi. Their cameras like rifles, lenses fixed on me.
Isabella's face goes bone-white and her hands tremble.
"No, no, no..." Her voice breaks.
More flashes. Shouts from below.
"Mr. Saint! Is this your new girlfriend?"
"Ares! What about the engagement?"
"Is this why you left Jessica?"
Isabella stumbles back, eyes wild.
She stumbles away from me like I'm something dangerous.
And for the first time in fifteen years…
I wonder if I am.
"Is this a revenge romance?" a voice from the crowd hollers.
She flinches, and my body moves before my mind catches up. I lunge forward, shouldering through the narrowed doorway. Isabella presses herself against the wall as I slam the door shut, the lock clicking into place with a decisive snap. The reporters' voices become muffled, but their presence looms like a threat.
"What are you—" Her words cut off as footsteps thunder up the metal staircase. Her breathing becomes shallow and rapid. "No, no, no..." The whispered words escape like a prayer. "Why would you bring them here?" Her voice cracks wide open.
"I didn't know I was followed." I move away from the door, taking in her space. The loft is stunning—high ceilings stretching to exposed beams, walls a patchwork of brick and plaster. Canvases in various stages lean against walls, edges catching warm light from oversized windows.
"Get out." Her voice is steel, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she moves and stops beside her easel. "If they start digging, Ares—" Her knuckles turn white. "I can't..."
I step closer. "I went to Luminous. I saw the self portrait, Isabella."
She stills. "What?"
I watch her pulse jump at her throat. "Why did you create that piece?"
Her jaw tightens, and she takes a shaky breath. For a moment, she's sixteen again—vulnerable, hurt, before the walls slam back into place. "That's none of your business." She turns, walking towards the kitchen space. "Let yourself out. And tell your paparazzi friends to leave before I call the police."
I should leave. Should respect her wishes and walk away.
Instead, I follow her. "It's time we talk, Isabella."
She spins, fury radiating off her in waves. "There's nothing to talk about. You made your choice fifteen years ago."
"What were you going to say about my parents?"
Her eyes widen, then narrow, something dark and painful flickering across her face.
"Get out."
"Not until you finish those sentences you started at Six-Pack." I move closer, watching her retreat until her back hits her easel.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, paint-stained fingers curling into fists. When she speaks, her voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through me like a blade.
"Why do you care? It’s been fifteen years, Ares."
