The security footage flashes through my mind: Isabella entering, leaving with the necklaces. But the hallway cameras—they would have shown the exchange with my mother. Where was that footage?
"Jesus." The word escapes like a prayer as pieces click into terrible alignment.
My mother's voice echoes across time: "It's for the best, darling. That girl would only hold you back." The tickets to Switzerland appearing overnight, my boarding school admission expedited through "special connections." Being whisked away within 24 hours of the accusation, no chance to ask questions.
"We're being merciful, Ares," my father had explained, voice grave with false benevolence. "Most families would press charges, involve the police. But Jacob Wells conducted a thorough investigation as head of security. We have all the evidence we need. We're simply removing them from the property. That's generosity."
I'd believed them. Thanked them, even, for their supposed mercy.
But now, hearing Isabella's side of the story and knowing Wells received twenty thousand dollars from my father's shell company the day after Bella and Evelyn were evicted from the estate... the coincidence is too perfect, too damning. My gut twists with certainty that there's more to this story—layers of deception I'm only beginning to uncover.
Would my parents really orchestrate such an elaborate deception just to separate me from a girl they deemed unsuitable?
I grunt, a bitter sound that catches in my throat. The fact that I can't immediately dismiss the possibility says everything about who they truly are—and who I've always known them to be, beneath the veneer of respectability.
"She'll try to manipulate you, Ares. She'll claim innocence despite the evidence. It's what people like that do."
People like that. The contempt in my mother's voice when she'd said it. The way my father had nodded, adding, "The sooner you forget about them, the better."
My fingers curl into fists, knuckles whitening as each memory realigns itself, revealing the calculated precision of their manipulation. The careful walls I'd built around my childhood crumble, exposing the ugliness beneath.
My stomach churns as unwanted realization floods through: The girl I'd fallen for—the housekeeper's granddaughter—was an inconvenience to be removed, an obstacle in their perfectly orchestrated life plan.
Sharp needles of pain lance through my temples, but the thundering in my skull crystallizes into white-hot fury, burning away doubt's fog.
My entire existence unfolds before me like a corporate flow chart—each milestone, each decision, each "coincidence" meticulously engineered. From my first steps to my last board meeting, I've been molded into Saint Industries' perfect successor. Their puppet, dancing on strings of obligation and expectation. Until I severed those strings by refusing their hand-picked marriage match.
My gaze finds Isabella's face, and Evelyn's image floods my mind unbidden. Evelyn. The name cuts through my migraine like a blade. I need to hear her side as well.
"I need to speak with your grandmother."
Isabella goes perfectly still, tension radiating from her rigid shoulders. "You can't."
"Don't do this." Frustration bleeds into my voice. "I need to hear her side. Why didn't she fight back? Evelyn would never have just accepted—"
"Stop." The word explodes from her, raw and jagged. "You don't get to say her name like that. Like you ever gave a damn."
"I would have cared if I'd known the truth!" The words rip from my throat, desperate and wild.
She whirls on me, rage and hurt blazing in her eyes. "If you'd known the truth?" Her laugh is sharp enough to draw blood. "You didn't even try to find out the truth! You just stood there, silent, while they threw us out like garbage." Her voice cracks. "You didn't ask one question. Didn't try to see me, to hear my side. You just believed them, just like that."
Each word hits like a physical blow because she's right. God, she's right. The guilt rises like bile in my throat as I remember standing there, silent and useless.
But I had tried. That first night, I'd climbed out my window, desperate to reach her, to understand. Security caught me before I made it to the gates. The next morning, they showed me the security footage again and again, my mother's voice soft but relentless: "See how they took advantage of you, darling? A hormonal teenager from a good family—you were an easy target. This is why you need to stay with your own kind, people who understand our world."
My head and heart had been a war zone. Every instinct screamed that Isabella wouldn't steal, couldn't be capable of such betrayal. But there was the footage, playing on loop, and my parents' constant reminders of how naive I'd been, how blind to manipulation. By the time they shipped me to Switzerland, I didn't know what to believe anymore.
"You never even looked back," she continues, tears of fury gleaming in her eyes. "While your parents threw us out and made Grandma's life a living hell!"
"What are you talking about?" The confusion in my voice is genuine, and something dark flashes across her face.
"Oh, you don't know?" Her tone turns bitter as winter. "They blacklisted her from every decent job in Boston." Each word drops like acid, deliberate and burning. "Do you know what it's like watching your grandmother work three minimum wage jobs just to keep us afloat? To see her hands shake from exhaustion after sixteen-hour shifts? To hear her cry at night when she thought I was sleeping, wondering how she'd pay for my art supplies?"
My stomach lurches. "I need to talk to her. Now."
"You can't."
"Then I'll find her myself." I move toward the door, desperation clawing up my throat.
