"Not all of us are masochists." Her lips quirk up as she dumps four heaping spoonfuls into her coffee. "This brown gold needs to be enjoyed, not feared."
We both chuckle, but the sound fades into something heavier as our eyes meet across the granite counter. The familiar green of her irises pins me in place, and before I can stop myself, the question spills out, raw and vulnerable. "Was she... was she mad at me?"
Bella goes still, her fingers frozen around her mug. Her gaze drops to the steam rising from her coffee, and I watch as emotions play across her face—pain, memory, something softer I can't quite name. She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, a gesture so achingly familiar it makes my chest tight. When she finally looks up, there's a sheen in her eyes that makes my throat close.
"She never blamed you, Ares." Her voice is soft, gentle in a way that makes me feel seventeen again. "Even after everything, she'd say, 'That boy has a good heart.'"
My fingers tighten around my cup until my knuckles turn white. "I should have questioned it. The theft, the accusations... None of it fit who she was. Who you were."
"Why didn't you?" Her voice trembles, and the raw pain in those three words cuts deeper than her anger ever could.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with fifteen years of unspoken truths. Finally, I force myself to meet her eyes, to show her what happened after she was gone.
"They orchestrated everything perfectly. Kept showing me the security footage of you taking the necklaces, over and over. Took my phone so I couldn't call you. Had Wells describe in detail how they found the jewelry in your cottage." My voice turns bitter. "Everything presented with such surgical precision that questioning it felt impossible."
I watch the horror spread across her face as I paint the picture of my parents' manipulation. "And I—" my voice cracks with shame, "I believed them."
I'd chosen to believe the worst of the girl I loved rather than face the possibility that my parents could lie. The realization sits like broken glass in my chest, sharp and cutting with each breath.
"I'm sorry." The words scrape out of my throat, raw and vulnerable. In the quiet kitchen, they land like thunder, echoing off the granite counters and settling in the space between us.
Isabella goes still, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her lips.
"I should have come to you. Should have listened. Should have trusted what I knew in my heart about you, Red."
The nickname slips out before I can catch it, and I see her flinch. For a heartbeat, we're teenagers again—young and foolish and so desperately in love, stealing kisses behind rose bushes and making promises we couldn't keep. The memory of her taste, her touch, crashes through me like a tidal wave.
"It doesn't change what happened." Her voice cracks, and she wraps her arms around herself like armor. "It doesn't bring Evelyn back. It doesn't fix—" she gestures between us, the space heavy with fifteen years of hurt and regret, "—any of this."
"No," I agree softly, the weight of truth settling on my shoulders like a familiar burden. "But maybe... maybe it's a start."
The silence stretches between us, filled with the ghosts of what we once were. What we could have been.
Isabella glides off her stool, each movement deliberate and graceful. My chest tightens as she grabs her jacket, the soft leather whispering against the chair back. "I need to go."
The space between us grows, and every cell in my body screams to close the distance, to grab her hand, to make her stay. But I remain frozen, my fingers white-knuckled around my coffee cup.
"I have a gallery opening in two weeks, and this scandal—" She pauses, her hand on the doorknob. The light catches her profile, painting shadows beneath her cheekbones that weren't there fifteen years ago. "I can't let your family destroy everything I've built. Not again."
"I'll make a statement." The words come out stronger than I feel. "Today. Make it clear you're not involved in the engagement situation."
"And what exactly will you say? That I'm just an old friend? The granddaughter of your former housekeeper? The girl your parents framed for theft?"
Each question hits like a body blow. "The truth."
"The truth?" A bitter laugh escapes her. "Which version, Ares? Yours? Mine? Your parents'? The media's already spinning their own story. 'Saint Heir's Secret Romance' is trending. Your mother's probably already—"
"I'll handle it." The coffee mug in my hand meets the granite with a loud thud.
"You don't get it, do you?" She turns back to face me, daylight catching the tears she's fighting to hold back. "Your world and mine? They're different universes. You can make all the statements you want, but your parents—if they don't like it, they'll find a way to twist it. They always do."
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, my mother's name lighting up the screen. As if summoned by our conversation. I silence it, but not before catching a glimpse of the dozens of missed calls and messages.
"Isabella, wait." I close the distance and reach for her hand before I can stop myself, surprised when she doesn't pull away.
"I promise I'll fix this."
Her fingers tremble in mine, and for a moment, I see a flash of the girl she used to be—the one who believed in forever, in us. But then she withdraws, wrapping her arms around herself.
