"Don't make promises you can't keep, Sainty." The old nickname, spoken with such sadness, nearly breaks me. "We both know how that ends."
She opens the door. "Take care of that migraine. And... handle the press however you want. Just please, keep my name out of it if you can."
"Isabella—"
But she's already gone, the soft click of the door echoing through my chest like a gunshot. My hand grips the doorknob, knuckles white with the effort of not yanking it open and chasing after her. Every muscle in my body screams to follow, to make her understand that this time will be different.
Instead, I rest my forehead against the cool wood, breathing in the lingering traces of her—watermelon and paint, a combination that splits my heart wide open.
She needs space. Hell, I need it too. The truth about my parents' manipulation sits in my gut like molten lead, burning and twisting with each passing second. Fifteen years of believing she betrayed me, only to discover I'm the one who failed her. The rage builds in my chest, threatening to crack my ribs from the inside out.
My phone buzzes again—the sound grating against my already frayed nerves. Each step toward the kitchen counter feels like fighting through quicksand, my body heavy with the weight of revelation. Mother's name flashes on the screen, relentless as always. Just seeing it ignites something primal in my chest, a burning need to finally confront one of the architects of all this pain.
The moment I answer her voice cuts across the connection, keen as a scalpel. "Ares Theodore Saint. Have you lost your mind?" Each word drips with calculated disdain. "Really, Ares? Her again?"
My fingers tighten around the phone as she spits out description after description, each one more degrading than the last. The "help's granddaughter." The "thieving little witch." The "social-climbing opportunist." Each title she gives Isabella sends rage coursing through my veins like liquid fire.
"Do you have any idea how this looks?" She doesn't pause for breath. "First, you humiliate us at your engagement party, and now you're photographed sneaking into her building like some lovesick teenager? The Saint name—"
"I don't give a damn how it looks." My voice comes out low, controlled, though my free hand clenches into a fist against the counter. "Who I see and talk to stopped being your business the day I walked away."
"Walked away?" Her laugh cuts like broken glass. "You're having a momentary lapse in judgment, darling. All this pressure of being the Saint heir, the expectations... it's clearly affected you more than we realized."
The patronizing tone makes my muscles coil tight. I pace the kitchen like a caged animal, trying to contain the fury building in my chest. "This isn't a phase or a breakdown, Mother. I'm building my own life now, making my own choices."
"Don't be ridiculous." Dismissal drips from every syllable. "You're a Saint. This little act of rebellion might feel liberating, but it's time to come home and face your responsibilities."
I slam my palm against the counter, welcoming the sting. "We'll handle this situation." Mother's voice turns silky smooth, raising every hair on my neck. "I'm thinking a brief statement about stress-induced poor judgment, followed by—"
"No." The word cracks like a whip. "You don't get to handle anything anymore. Not my life, not my choices, and especially not Isabella."
"Isabella?" The temperature in her voice plummets. "Ah yes, Miss Jenkins. Perhaps she needs a gentle reminder about staying in her lane—"
"Don't." My grip tightens until the phone case creaks in protest. "If ou go anywhere near her, or try to hurt her again, I swear to God, Mother—"
"Again?" she cuts in, voice sharp with manufactured innocence. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Now, about those photos—"
"The photos are nothing." The lie tastes bitter, but necessary. "We had one conversation, nothing more. And it stays that way. So no statements, no PR team, no damage control."
"Darling, be reasonable—"
"I said no." Steel enters my voice. "Leave it alone. Leave her alone."
"Ares Theodore—"
I end the call, letting the phone clatter onto the counter. The silence that follows feels loaded, dangerous. My heart pounds against my ribs as I brace both hands on the counter, head hanging between my shoulders. Because I know my mother—this isn't over. Not by a long shot.
The keycard beeps just as I glide the phone back into my pocket. Familiar footsteps follow, then Ethan's voice: "Thought I'd check in since you've gone radio silent for hours."
He stops short when he sees me. "Jesus, you look like shit. What happened?"
I collapse onto the couch as Ethan steps closer, studying my face with the kind of scrutiny that comes from years of friendship. "Migraine?"
"Yep... this morning."
"Meds?"
"Took them hours ago, Dad." I manage a weak smirk. "Want to check my temperature and tuck me in too?"
