I close my eyes, seeing her face—the way fear flickered across it when she mentioned my parents. What are you so afraid of, Red?
Maybe it's time I stop waiting for answers to come from her lips. Maybe it's time I do some digging of my own.
I pull up Ethan's number before I consciously make the decision.
"Hey, what's up?"
"I need you to dig into Saint Industries HR records, and get everything on Evelyn Jenkins."
"Isabella's grandmother?" The playfulness vanishes completely. "You sure you want to open this door?"
"Yes!" I run a hand through my hair, pacing the length of the suite. "Something's not adding up."
There's a pause on the other end. "Ares, man, sometimes the past should stay buried."
"Not this time."
"Your parents aren't going to like this." Ethan mutters.
"My parents don't like anything I do lately." I stop at the window, looking out over the Boston skyline. "Can you do it or not?"
"Of course I can."
"Then do it. And Ethan? Keep this quiet."
"Always do." He pauses. "But remember, your parents have eyes everywhere."
I end the call, letting my forehead rest against the cool glass. Below, the city stretches out, lights blinking on as dusk settles in. Somewhere out there, Isabella is probably working on her next piece, turning pain into beauty like she always could.
I think of Isabella's painting—those shattering necklaces, the hidden Saint Industries logo. The compass and the words "forever yours" woven into the shadows mock me now. Before I can stop it, I'm drowning in the memory: Isabella being guided through the mansion's marble halls, her red hair wild, tears streaming down her face. Our eyes met across that endless space, and her voice cracked as she pleaded, "Ares, please, just let me explain!" But I stood there, frozen, a coward in an expensive suit, watching as security escorted her out.
Guilt churns in my stomach as the memory fades. She begged me to listen, but I was the perfect heir then—too well-trained to question, too gullible to doubt what my parents presented as truth. Now, standing in this hotel room fifteen years later, I make a silent promise to the ghost of that terrified girl: I'm ready to listen, Red. Whatever truth you tried to tell me then, I'm finally ready to hear it.
5
Ares
Pain spikes behind my eyes as dawn creeps in, the skyline a blur of greys and purples. Headlines blur on my screen, but I can’t stop scrolling.
WESTWOOD HEIRESS "DEVASTATED" BY BROKEN ENGAGEMENT Jilted Jessica Westwood refuses to comment
SAINT INDUSTRIES STOCK DROPS AMID ENGAGEMENT SCANDAL Investors question stability as merger hangs in balance
Words swim before me, a dull throb building at my skull's base. The warning signs are familiar—screen-glow sensitivity, temples pulsing with each heartbeat. Still, I can't stop scrolling, searching for any mention of Isabella's name.
So far, no photos of me at her door. Small mercies.
My phone buzzes, sending pain spiking through my head. Ethan's message fills the screen:
Need to show you something. Coming to your suite.
Those few words make my stomach clench. I press fingers to my temples, fighting the growing pressure. Whatever he's discovered, I need a clear head.
Minutes later, Ethan strides in, usual swagger replaced by something darker. His sandy blonde hair looks ravaged, like he's been running hands through it all night. Shadows beneath hazel eyes match my own sleepless hours. Even his typically immaculate suit hangs rumpled—a warning sign. The leather portfolio in his hands makes my stomach twist.
"What did you find?" My voice scrapes like gravel.
Ethan chuckles, humorless. "Used your login to access archived financials. Started with Evelyn's employment file, but it was suspiciously clean—too clean. Like someone sanitized it."
