"He what?" Alisha's voice rises sharply.
"At your home?" Emma's eyes go wide.
"Details. Now." Amanda's usual cheer vanishes.
The coffee burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain. It's better than the ache in my chest. "He showed up, demanded answers, and I told him to leave. End of story."
"Except it's not." Alisha reaches across the table, steadying my shaking hands. "Bella, you're vibrating with tension. And don't think we haven't noticed the paint under your nails. How many canvases did you destroy last night?"
"Just one," I whisper, then immediately regret the admission.
"Maybe..." Emma starts, then hesitates when we all look at her. "Maybe he's different now. People can change. Fifteen years is a long time."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "People like him don't change, Em. People like him—like his family—they just get better at hiding who they really are." My voice cracks on the last words.
"All the more reason to be careful," Alisha warns, protectiveness radiating from her. "The Saints don't forgive and forget."
"I know," I cut her off, not wanting to hear the rest. Not wanting to acknowledge the fear that's been gnawing at me since he appeared at my door. "I know what they're capable of."
"Did he say why he came?" Amanda asks, her usual bubbly demeanor subdued.
I stare into my mug, remembering the intensity in his eyes when he mentioned the painting. The way his voice roughened when he demanded to know about those words. Forever yours.
"He visited Luminous. Saw my piece." The admission feels like surrendering a secret. "The self-portrait."
Understanding dawns on their faces as they realize what it represents.
"Shit." Alisha sits back. "No wonder he showed up. That painting is practically a billboard screaming 'unfinished business.'"
I never should have shown it there. Why did I let Elliot convince me? I should have kept it private.
"It wasn't intended for him." But even as I say it, I know it's a lie. Every brush stroke, every hidden detail—who else could it have been for?
Amanda's phone buzzes, and when she glances at the screen, her eyes widen.
"What's wrong?" The fear in my voice surprises even me.
"Now I understand why you're so tense." Amanda's voice drops low. "You conveniently forgot to mention Ares brought a paparazzi parade to your door."
"What?" Emma nearly chokes on her coffee, eyes wide.
My stomach plummets as Amanda turns her phone toward me. The headline screams in bold letters:
"SAINT HEIR'S SECRET RENDEZVOUS: Did billionaire Ares Saint break engagement for this woman?"
"There's more." Amanda swipes through her phone, voice rising. "Photos of him entering your building, sneaking out the back, and—" she pauses, eyes widening, "—Jesus, Bella. This shot through your studio window... you two look..."
"Intimate," I whisper, the word tasting like ash. The photo stares back at me: Ares's body angled protectively in front of mine, tension crackling between us like visible electricity. Perfect tabloid fodder.
"Those vultures scaled buildings to get to you?" Alisha's protective fury ignites. "This is exactly what I meant about the Saints. They're like a circus that destroys everything in its path."
"Oh God." My fingers tremble again, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the mug's rim. "No, no, no..."
"Bella, breathe." Emma's hand finds mine across the table, but I can barely feel it.
All I can see are the photos from fifteen years ago, the ones Olivia Saint wielded like weapons. Images that painted me as a thief, a gold-digger, that destroyed my grandmother's reputation along with mine. If history repeats itself...
"The article's trending," Amanda says softly, her usual bubbly demeanor gone. "Boston's social circle is already buzzing."
