Her eyes lock with mine, and for a moment, I see past her walls, past fifteen years of hurt and anger, to the girl who made me feel seen.
"Your mother—" she starts, but her eyes snap to something behind me.
I turn to follow her gaze. There, balanced on the wide industrial windowsill outside her loft, a reporter has his camera pressed against the glass. The flash is already charging, the lens focused on our intimate standoff. The desperate vulture must have used the adjacent building's roof to access her windows.
"Shit." She grabs my arm, pulling me toward a door I hadn't noticed. "Storage room. Now."
"Isabella—"
"Unless you want your face splashed across every tabloid tomorrow, looking like the jilted ex-fiancé harassing another woman, move."
She shoves me through the door just as voices call my name. The storage closet is cramped and shadowed, the air thick with the scent of oil paints and turpentine. Canvases and stretchers lean against the walls, their edges digging into my back as Isabella shoves me inside. We're pressed close, her breath warm against my chest, the rapid flutter of her pulse visible at the base of her throat. Shelves groan under the weight of art supplies—brushes, palettes, half-empty jars of medium—casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across our faces.
"Don't. Move," she whispers, and then she's gone, closing the door behind her.
Through the thin wall, I hear her handling the chaos outside.
"Miss! Are you Ares Saint's new girlfriend?"
"How long have you known the Saints? Were you the reason for the broken engagement?"
The questions come rapid-fire, hungry and relentless. But Bella's voice cuts through their frenzy like ice.
"This is private property." Her tone is steel wrapped in silk. "You have exactly thirty seconds to leave before I call the police. And trust me, my friend at the Boston PD would love to arrest a few paparazzi tonight."
The reporters' voices fade. Seconds stretch into minutes, the space feeling smaller with each passing moment. The air grows thick with paint fumes and unspoken words. Finally, the door opens.
She steps back, allowing me to exit. The studio feels different now, charged with everything we've stirred up.
"Isabella—" Her name feels heavy on my tongue, weighted with all the times I've wanted to say it over the years.
She holds up a hand, and the gesture stops me cold. Her eyes are fixed on some point past my shoulder, like she can't bear to look at me directly. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the soft tap of rain starting against the windows.
I watch her throat work as she swallows, the way her fingers twist in the hem of her paint-stained shirt. She looks so familiar and yet so strange, the girl I loved transformed by time and pain into this fierce, guarded woman.
Finally, she meets my eyes, and the raw emotion there steals my breath.
"Not now." Her voice cracks slightly, betraying the composure she's fighting to maintain. "Just... not now."
Instead of arguing, I reach into my jacket and pull out a business card. For a moment, she just stares at it like it might bite.
"My private number," I say quietly. "For when you're ready to finish that conversation."
Her fingers brush mine as she takes the card, and that slight contact sends electricity racing up my arm. She starts to pull away, but I catch her wrist gently.
"This isn't me walking away, Red." The old nickname slips out before I can stop it, and I see her breath catch. "I'll give you space, but not for long. I need to hear your version. If you want to talk to me in person instead of on the phone, I'm staying at the Four Seasons."
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something in her gaze, pain, longing, fear, before she shutters it away.
"Goodbye, Ares."
She leads me to the back exit in silence, each step heavy with unspoken words. As I reach for the door handle, her voice stops me.
"Some answers..." she says softly, "might destroy everything you think you know."
I turn to look at her one last time, my jaw clenched tight. "Then destroy them."
The rain has stopped by the time I make it back to my hotel, but the clouds hang low and heavy, promising more to come. Isabella's words echo in my head: "Some answers might destroy everything you think you know."
