"Ares, please—" she'd said.
My mother's manicured hand gripped my arm. "Don't listen to her, darling. The evidence is quite clear. I'll show you once they're gone."
And she did, and I fell for it.
I push myself up from the bed, muscles protesting after hours of stillness. My feet carry me to where Isabella sleeps, curled up on the stool like she used to do in the library during our study sessions. Even in darkness, she glows—all soft curves and gentle breaths, red hair spilling over her shoulder like liquid fire.
My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to brush back that errant strand, to trace the slope of her cheek. But I can't. That right was forfeited fifteen years ago.
The living room's overhead lights make me wince. Migraine hangovers are bitches, but they're an old friend by now. Like a demanding ex who shows up uninvited and leaves you feeling wrung out.
I pace the suite, hyper-aware of her presence just feet away. Questions circle my mind like hungry sharks.
Suddenly another memory surfaces through the migraine fog, one I'd forgotten until now. Two weeks before the theft accusations, I'd been passing Father's office when I heard his voice—sharp, controlled, but with an edge I rarely heard.
"Mrs. Jenkins, I'm missing a very important piece of paper. Did you happen to see or find a piece of paper with my handwriting... while cleaning my office?"
I'd paused, curious about the tension in his tone. Through the partially open door, I saw Evelyn standing straight-backed in her familiar gray uniform, hands clasped in front of her.
"No, sir, I did not," she replied, her voice steady despite the tension in the room.
"And when you emptied the bins," Father's voice took on an odd intensity, "did you notice anything... unusual? Any documents that caught your attention?"
Even then, something about his urgency had seemed off. Father was always particular about his office, but this felt different. More desperate.
"Sir, I've been cleaning this office the same way I've done for years," Evelyn's voice remained dignified. "I empty the bins into the cleaning cart and take them straight to the dumpster. I don't look through the papers—never have, never will."
"And you're absolutely certain nothing caught your attention? Nothing seemed... out of place?"
"No, sir. Just regular cleaning, like always."
He'd dismissed her after that, but I remember the way his eyes followed her out, calculating and cold. As if he didn't quite believe her. At the time, I'd brushed it off as Father's usual perfectionism. Now...
Uneasiness rises as pieces shift in my mind, forming a picture I'm not sure I want to see. Father never lost anything—his office was a monument to meticulous organization. Whatever she knew—or whatever he thought she had seen or taken must have been critical... dangerous, even.
My fingers dig into my temple, but the pressure does nothing to ease the growing darkness in my gut that's spreading like poison.
I need to ask Isabella about it, find out if Evelyn ever mentioned that confrontation. But part of me dreads what other truths might surface. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
The kitchen beckons—a distraction, at least. The familiar ritual of making coffee grounds me. Measure, pour, press start. The machine hums to life as I grab the sugar bowl, remembering how Isabella used to dump four heaping spoonfuls into her coffee, earning disgusted looks from my mother.
A soft sound snaps my head up. Isabella stands in the bedroom doorway, sleep-rumpled and stunning. Her eyes rake over me, and I drink her in just as greedily—the oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, her jacket draped over her arm.
"How're you feeling?" Her voice is rough with sleep, infinitely softer than the razor-edged anger from before.
"Better. Just dealing with the migraine hangover now."
"I didn't know that was a thing." She crosses her arms, but there's curiosity in her tone.
"Oh yeah. Imagine the worst regular hangover, then add in this fun thing where your brain feels like it's been put through a blender and reassembled by a drunk toddler."
A chuckle escapes her—the sound hits me right in the chest, warm and familiar. God, I've missed that laugh.
"Coffee?" I gesture to the machine, trying to keep my voice steady, casual. This feels too delicate, like one wrong move could shatter whatever temporary peace we've found.
She nods, and I busy myself with the cups, stealing glances as she moves toward the kitchen island. Each step draws my attention like a magnet—the sway of her hips, the quiet grace that's matured from teenage awkwardness into something devastating.
I slide a steaming cup her way as she settles onto the high chair, following it with the sugar bowl. Our fingers brush accidentally, and we both jerk back as if burned. "Still drinking diabetes in a cup?"
