Silence stretches between us as I focus on my breathing, trying to quell the nausea that threatens to shatter what little dignity I have left. The last thing I need is to vomit in front of her.
God, what must she think of me now? Ares Saint, crumpled and weak in a dark hotel room.
Weakness is unacceptable for a Saint.
My father's voice slices through my consciousness, dragging me back to that first attack in Switzerland. The memory crashes over me with perfect clarity—our dorm room's fluorescent lights morphing into white-hot needles, Ethan's face swimming above mine, his trademark smirk replaced by naked fear.
"Ares? Christ, what's happening?"
"My head—" The words had strangled in my throat as the world tilted. "Something's wrong. Could be a brain bleed—"
"Shit." Ethan's voice cracked as he snatched his phone. "I'm calling an ambulance."
Those next hours blurred into a nightmare carousel of faces and sensations: paramedics' urgent voices, endless hospital corridors, the claustrophobic tomb of the MRI machine. Ethan never left, his presence a lifeline while my skull waged war against itself.
"Chronic migraine disorder." The neurologist's German accent had carved through my fog, clinical and precise. "Often stress-induced, among other triggers."
My father's laugh had shattered the sterile hospital air. "Stress?" Each word dripped with contempt. "He's seventeen. What could he possibly know about stress?"
"Mr. Saint, adolescent stress levels can significantly—"
"It's merely a headache." His voice had slammed down like a gavel. "An inconvenience we'll manage."
Inconvenience. Fifteen years later, and that word still burns like acid. As if my brain attempting suicide through my eye sockets was nothing more than a scheduling hiccup.
The medication seeps through my veins like warm honey, drawing a thick curtain across my thoughts. I fight it, unwilling to show weakness in front of Isabella, but my body surrenders anyway. Through the encroaching darkness, I feel phantom fingers brush my temple—so gentle I might have imagined it. Her touch is different now, more guarded than fifteen years ago, yet somehow infinitely more tender than memory allows.
"Shh." Her whisper floats somewhere between past and present. "Just sleep."
Consciousness slips away before I can catch it, but even as darkness claims me, my skin remembers the careful distance in her touch—a map of everything we've lost.
8
Ares
My eyes crack open to darkness, consciousness seeping back like molasses. Everything aches—my head, neck, my fucking soul. The migraine has receded to a dull throb, but the memory of pain lingers in my bones. My mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton, tongue thick and useless.
I fumble to get my phone from my pocket, squinting at the harsh blue light. 3:47 PM. Christ. I slept for over four hours—longer than I have in weeks. The medication knocked me out completely.
A shadow shifts by the window. My heart slams against my ribs as I blink, sure I'm hallucinating. But no—Isabella's here, curled on the stool like a content cat, her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
She stayed. Through my moment of complete vulnerability, when I was nothing but a shell of the composed Saint heir.
Then her words echo: "She died, Ares." Evelyn. Christ. My throat closes as memories assault me—chocolate chip cookies, gentle smiles.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady the storm brewing in my chest. My head's still too fragile for this emotional onslaught, but I can't tear my eyes from Isabella's sleeping form. She looks peaceful now, so different from that day fifteen years ago.
That fucking day.
The memory crashes over me like a tidal wave. I'd just returned from a three-day business trip with my father—one I hadn't wanted to attend. He'd confiscated my phone, insisting I needed to "focus on being the heir." All I could think about was getting back to Isabella, stealing a moment in our secret garden spot.
Instead, I walked into a nightmare.
"Wait in the living room," Mom had said, voice tight with something I couldn't name.
Then the voices started—sharp, urgent whispers from Father's study. The door opened, and my heart stopped at Isabella's cry. Multiple footsteps thundered down the hallway.
I remember every excruciating detail. How I moved toward the commotion like a puppet on strings, feet carrying me forward before my mind could catch up. The scene burned itself into my memory with cruel precision: Isabella and Evelyn being escorted out by our security team, Jacob and Finn flanking them like prison guards. Evelyn's fingers white-knuckled around Isabella's hand, her usually warm face drained of color. When Isabella's eyes found mine across the marble foyer, they held a desperate plea that haunts me still.
