More camera flashes illuminate the wall of windows. But all I can focus on is the way she says my name—like it's both a curse and a prayer.
"Because I need to know. Tell me."
Her laugh is bitter, broken. "Why? So you can run back to them with whatever I say? So they can finish what they started fifteen years ago?"
"Isabella—"
"No." She straightens, green eyes blazing. "You don't get to come here, into my space, demanding answers after fifteen years of silence. You don't get to act concerned about my life now, not after—"
The rest of her words are cut off by pounding on the door. Voices echo—reporters, trying to get in. Shouting my name.
Fuck.
Isabella's eyes meet mine, panic replacing anger. "This is your fault. If they start digging into our past..."
The fear in her voice hits me like a physical blow. Before I can think better of it, I reach for her, my fingers grazing her arm. She flinches but doesn't pull away.
"I won't let them hurt you." The words come out fierce, protective.
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, confusion, before her walls slam back into place. "Like you didn't let them hurt me before?"
The accusation hangs between us as the pounding grows louder. She moves to the window, peering down at the growing crowd. The setting sun casts long shadows across her face, highlighting the tension in her jaw.
"There's a back exit," she says finally, not looking at me. "Through the service stairs. Use it."
"I'm not leaving until—"
"Damn it, Ares!" She whirls around, color high in her cheeks. "You want to know what happened? Fine. Your parents—" She cuts herself off, pressing her lips together. "No. I won't do this. Not with them out there, not with you storming in here demanding answers like you have any right—"
A camera flash explodes through the window, making her flinch. I move without thinking, stepping between her and the glass. "Isabella—"
"Don't." She backs away, but there's nowhere to go. Her easel wobbles behind her, a canvas teetering dangerously. "Just... don't."
I catch the canvas before it falls, and my breath catches. It's another self-portrait, but different from the one at the gallery. In this one, she's standing in what looks like the Saint estate garden, surrounded by the roses my mother was so proud of. But the roses are withered, dying, their petals scattered like drops of blood around her feet.
"Put that down." Her voice shakes.
"Is this how you see it?" The words scrape out of my throat. "That summer?"
"You don't get to ask me that." She snatches the canvas away.
"You're still thinking about—"
"Get out."
"No. You were going to tell me what you think my parents did. Finish it, Isabella. Please."
Something in my voice must reach her because she stills, studying my face like she's searching for something. Whatever she sees makes her shoulders slump.
"Why now?" she whispers.
The truth claws its way up my throat. "Because when you mentioned my parents at the club, I saw it—the same look you had at sixteen. No guilt. No deception. Just..." I swallow hard. "Just truth. The same truth you had when you promised never to lie to me."
She makes a sound—sharp and bitter, like breaking glass. "And you promised to always believe and protect me. How did that work out?"
The words hit like a physical blow. The reporters are still shouting, but their voices seem distant, unimportant compared to the weight of this moment.
"I want to hear your version," I say softly. "All of it."
