What were you paid two million for?
My parents' faces flash through my mind, Mother's perfectly composed smile, Father's stern authority. Every childhood memory suddenly feels tainted, viewed through a lens of suspicion. How many secrets lie buried beneath the polished surface of the Saint name?
Only one way to find out.
6
Bella
Paint drips from my brush, crimson tears falling onto another ruined canvas. My hands won't stop shaking, colors bleeding together like running mascara. Dawn creeps through my loft windows, casting accusatory shadows across my discarded attempts—each canvas bearing the raw marks of my turmoil. Dark paint slashes across pristine white, turning beauty into something wounded and feral.
"This isn't me walking away, Red."
That nickname. Fifteen years since it last touched my ears, and he just... I grab my phone, fingers trembling as I scroll through carefully curated Aerosmith playlists. Because of course I have different ones for every emotional crisis—"Screw You and Your Family Empire," "Why Did He Have to Come Back," and my personal favorite, "Paint Through the Pain." Steven Tyler's been my therapist longer than I care to admit.
"Angel" starts playing, my finger hovering over the skip button. The first notes hit, dragging me back to that summer night in the staff cottage. Ares, drunk on stolen wine and teenage love, wielding a wooden spoon microphone. His perfect hair disheveled, shirt untucked, spinning me around our tiny kitchen while belting lyrics completely off-key.
"Baby, you're my angel..." He'd pulled me close, breath warm against my ear. "Get it? Because you are. My angel."
I'd rolled my eyes, but my heart performed Olympic-level gymnastics. "You're such a dork."
"Yeah, but I'm your dork."
God, we were so young. So stupid. So convinced love could conquer anything.
I slam the skip button so hard my phone nearly launches from trembling fingers. Too soft. Too romantic. Too everything.
"Crazy" blasts instead, bass drowning rational thought. The irony of my song choice isn't lost on me, but at least I've upgraded from yesterday's three-hour "Dream On" marathon.
My voice joins Tyler's, raw and desperate, using my paint brush as a makeshift microphone. The familiar melody wraps around me like armor as I turn back to my easel. Evelyn used to say I had the voice of a strangled cat but the soul of a rock star. God, I miss her laugh.
My fingers find Ares's business card on my workbench, its edges worn from hours of handling. His private number stares back at me, written in elegant script. The Saint family crest catches the light, and suddenly I'm sixteen again, the panic burning through my veins as my grandmother and I are being escorted from the estate, my tears pouring as Olivia Saint's voice rings out: "Thieves have no place here."
I crank the volume higher, letting the music drown out the memories. "Damn you, Ares Saint." The words echo off my loft's high ceilings, bouncing back like accusations over the music.
Yesterday's confrontation plays on repeat in my mind, competing with the song's rhythm. Knowing that he saw my painting at Luminous—I never meant for him to see that piece. Never meant for anyone to understand the words woven into the background. Forever yours. His last promise before everything fell apart.
My head throbs from lack of sleep, but closing my eyes is worse. Ares’s gaze, the painting, the weight of his questions—none of it fades. Not even with the volume cranked so high it vibrates the windows.
My phone buzzes through the noise, Emma's name lighting up the screen: Breakfast at Joe's? We're worried about you. All of us.
Of course they are. Emma, Alisha, and Amanda—the only ones who know the full story. I type back a quick yes before I can change my mind.
An hour later, I slide into our usual booth at Joe's. The familiar scent of coffee and maple syrup makes my empty stomach growl. Three concerned faces look up as I approach, each reflecting a different shade of worry.
"Oh, Bella." Amanda's brown eyes scan my face. "When's the last time you slept?"
"Define sleep." I reach for the coffee Emma pushes toward me, hands still trembling. Paint stains my fingernails—evidence of my sleepless battle with art.
"Your exhibition's soon," Emma says softly. "You need rest."
The mention of the exhibition sends fresh anxiety spiraling through me. The biggest showcase of my career, and now...
Amanda leans forward, voice dropping. "Have you seen him? Since that night at Six-Pack?"
"Oh yeah." I take another sip of coffee, aiming for casual but missing by miles. "He showed up at my loft yesterday."
Coffee sloshes as three hands slam onto the table.
