"Please, I've always been the brains of this operation." He raises his glass. "To telling the Saints to go f—"
My phone buzzes, cutting through our moment of peace. We both freeze, our eyes locked on the screen as we read the notification.
"Breaking News: 'He Left Me For His Secret Lover'—Jessica Westwood Breaks Down Over Saint Heir's Hidden Romance."
My stomach drops as I scan the article. There she is—Jessica, perfectly positioned on a park bench, designer sunglasses unable to hide her "devastated" tears as she clutches a tissue. The photographer somehow managed to capture the exact moment a breeze lifted her hair just so, making her look like a tragic heroine in some twisted romance novel.
"Well," Ethan whispers, setting down his fork, "looks like someone else just made their first move."
I snatch up the phone, my fingers white-knuckled around the edges as I read further. "I thought what we had was real," sources close to Miss Westwood report. "To find out he's been secretly seeing someone else... it explains everything." The article shows Jessica looking perfectly devastated in designer sunglasses, every camera angle calculated to capture her 'grief.'
"I just hope she knows what she's getting into," Jessica continues, her performance worthy of an Oscar. "Though I suppose any woman willing to break up an engagement already knows exactly what she's doing."
The hairs on the nape of my neck rise. My mother's fingerprints are all over this. This isn't just a story—it's character assassination wrapped in designer grief, and Isabella is the target. Again.
Ethan scrolls below and grunts. "It's already going viral."
Fuck!
9
Bella
The trip home blurs past, Boston's familiar streets warping like a funhouse mirror. My hands shake so badly I drop the keys twice before managing to fit them into the lock. The metal feels ice-cold against my trembling fingers despite the warm air. Ares's words echo in my head, bouncing off the walls of my skull: "I should have come and listened to you, Red."
That nickname. Three letters that carry the weight of fifteen years of hurt, hope, and history. It sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold and impossible to ignore.
Once inside the safety of my loft, my hands press against the door until it clicks shut. I lean back against it, letting the cool surface ground me.
Afternoon light streams through the windows, casting long shadows across my paint-splattered hardwood floors. My latest canvas looms in the corner of my studio space, half-finished and accusatory, while exposed brick walls showcase a timeline of my work—each piece a step further from the girl I used to be. The open layout that usually feels like freedom now seems too vast, too empty.
The image of Ares collapsing hits me like a physical blow. One moment he stood there, all six-foot-two of Saint pride and power, processing the truth about Evelyn. The next—God, the way his face contorted, pain etching deep lines around his eyes, his massive frame crumpling like a marionette with cut strings. Migraine. Such a simple word for something that looked more like torture.
"Stop it," I mutter, pushing off the door. My fingers press against my temples, trying to physically push away thoughts of him. "Don't you dare start feeling sorry for him."
But my traitorous mind replays how his breathing grew ragged, how his body trembled. How could I just walk away when he was like that?
"You should have left the second he fell asleep," my voice echoes through the empty loft. "But no, you had to stay, had to make sure he was okay, like some—" I press my palms against my eyes. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
Instead, I watched him sleep. Watched the lines of pain slowly ease from his face. My fingers tingle with the memory of brushing his hair back, of tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Even now, hours later, I can feel the warmth of his skin against my fingertips.
I drop onto my couch, the familiar leather cool against my paint-stained jeans. My knees draw to my chest, a defensive posture I've perfected over fifteen years. The moment after waking up plays on repeat—him standing in the kitchen, the careful way he handed me coffee, our fingers brushing. The jolt that shot through me at that simple touch.
"I'm sorry. For everything."
"Fuck." The word comes out half-sob. His voice, thick with sincerity, wraps around my heart and squeezes. It shouldn't matter. Fifteen years of pain don't disappear with one apology, one moment of belief.
So why can't I stop hearing it? Why does it still hit like a punch to the ribs?
"He doesn't get to do this." I stand, resume my pacing. "He doesn't get to walk back into my life and—" The words catch in my throat. Because that's exactly what he's done, hasn't it? Walked right back in, past every wall I've built, every defense I've crafted.
And here I am, coming undone over a few gentle words and the ghost of a touch.
Stop it, Isabella.
My feet carry me to my bedroom. This sanctuary of soft textures and muted colors stands in stark contrast to the bold statements in my main living space. Gran's old steamer trunk sits in the corner, its weathered leather and brass fixtures containing memories I usually try to avoid—a piece of my past that looks out of place among the modern furnishings, yet feels more authentic than anything else in the room.
My hands tremble as I lift the lid, and Grandma's scent washes over me—lavender. I deliberately avoid looking at the carefully folded white fabric and yellowed photo albums nestled on top, not ready for those particular memories tonight. Instead, I find her diaries at the bottom, wrapped carefully in one of her old scarves. I remember her final weeks, the way she'd clutched my hand with surprising strength despite her failing body.
