My stomach lurches as another photo appears. This one of us on the garden bench, his fingers intertwined with mine. A tremor runs through my body. God, we were so young. So naive. The way he's looking at me in the photo—like I'm something precious, something rare—makes my chest constrict until breathing becomes a conscious effort.
"How did they get these?" The words scrape out of my raw throat. Then realization hits like a punch to the gut, making me double over. The day we were thrown out. Everything happened so fast, guards hovering as we frantically packed. Her photo albums, decades of memories... we'd had to leave them behind.
Bile rises in my throat, bitter and burning. "She thought they'd destroy them," I whisper, my voice quivering. Gran had mentioned it during those first hellish weeks after our expulsion. "At least those memories will be ashes now. The Saints never keep anything they can't control."
My fingernails dig crescents into my palms. They hadn't destroyed the photos. No, they'd kept them, stored them like ammunition, waiting for the perfect moment to use them against us. Even Gran's precious memories have become weapons in their arsenal.
The muscles in my jaw clench as Jessica Westwood appears on screen, perched delicately on a park bench. My teeth grind together as I take in her perfect pose—the picture of dignified heartbreak in her cream Chanel suit, designer sunglasses pushed up to reveal carefully reddened eyes.
"I should have known something was wrong," she says softly, each word dripping with manufactured vulnerability. "The late meetings, the missed calls, the way he'd get so defensive about his phone..."
"What?" I shoot up from the couch, blood roaring in my ears. My hands shake so violently I have to clench them into fists. "I wasn't even—this is bullshit!"
Jessica continues her Oscar-worthy performance, each word sending fresh waves of nausea through my system. "Sources close to Ares confirmed they'd been seeing each other secretly. That she'd been waiting all these years, plotting her return."
My chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths. The room starts to spin.
"I did no such thing!" I shout at the screen, my voice cracking. Sweat breaks out across my forehead as rage courses through my veins like liquid fire. "I was minding my own business until your ex-fiancé walked into my life!"
My hands tremble so violently I can barely type the text to Amanda: Are you seeing this? They're painting me as some kind of man-stealing succubus!
I switch off the TV, but my body won’t stop shaking. Silence presses in from all sides, suffocating. My legs give out and I slump back onto the couch, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could physically hold the pieces together. Fifteen years ago, I was a thief. Now I’m a homewrecker. The seductress. The woman who waited in the shadows to destroy a perfect engagement. The Saints still hold the brush—and once again, they’re painting me the villain. History really does have a way of repeating itself.
Pulling Evelyn's diary closer, I seek refuge in her words:
Isabella asked me today why Mrs. Saint always watches her so carefully. My clever girl senses what I've feared—that Olivia Saint sees her as a threat, not just to their social standing, but to their carefully laid plans for Ares. I told her it was nothing, but I wonder if I should have warned her instead.
A knock at my door startles me from the entry, followed by multiple voices arguing. The sound echoes off the exposed brick walls, bringing life to my too-quiet space.
"I told you we should've called first—" Emma's gentle voice.
"With the Saints probably circling like vultures? No way—" Alisha's sharp response cuts through the air.
"Will you both shush? Bella! Open up!" Amanda's commanding tone rises above their bickering.
The moment I unlock the door, my senses are overwhelmed. The rich aroma of fresh-baked cookies mingles with Amanda's signature perfume—something expensive and French—and Alisha's favorite coconut shampoo. My three best friends tumble in like a whirlwind of warmth and comfort, their presence immediately filling the hollow spaces of my loft.
Emma clutches a box from Simply Irresistible, the cardboard still warm, releasing waves of chocolate and butter that make my empty stomach clench. Alisha brandishes wine bottles like weapons, the glass clinking musically as she moves. Amanda follows with rustling paper bags, their contents promising every comfort food imaginable.
They spread through the space with familiar ease, each movement choreographed by years of friendship. Amanda's heels click purposefully against the hardwood as she claims my industrial-style kitchen, the steel countertops soon covered with their offerings. The soft whisper of Alisha's silk blouse accompanies her as she claims her usual spot on my oversized leather couch, the vintage piece creaking its familiar welcome. Emma slips off her ballet flats, continuing on bare feet as she pads softly across the floor, moving through my cupboards with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where everything lives. The gentle clink of glasses mingles with the distant hum of city traffic filtering through my windows.
The sweet, buttery aroma of cookies wafts as Emma lifts the lid, fresh-baked comfort permeating the air. And while Amanda splashes the wine, Alisha declares, "We have a plan."
"First, cookies," Emma interjects softly. The ceramic plates whisper against each other as she pulls them from my cupboard. "You look like you haven't eaten all day."
"Then wine," Amanda adds. The cork releases with a satisfying pop, and the rich aroma of expensive cabernet fills the air. "Lots of wine."
"And more wine," Alisha adds, the leather couch sighing as she settles deeper into it.
I sink onto the couch beside her, the familiar texture both grounding and comforting. The cookie Emma presses into my hand is still warm enough to be slightly gooey, and the wine Amanda offers carries the bite of tannins and the promise of temporary escape. "Thank you."
Emma perches on the arm of the couch, her hand finding my shoulder. The gentle weight of her touch sends warmth spreading through my chest, a physical reminder that I'm not alone. As we all take synchronized sips, the familiar ritual of friendship offers more comfort than any words could.
Amanda's eyes narrow on Evelyn's diary, her perfectly manicured nail tapping against her wine glass. "What's that?"
"Gran's journals." My fingers tremble slightly as they trace the worn leather cover, the familiar texture both comforting and painful. "I've been reading them, trying to... I don't know. Make sense of everything, maybe?"
"Sometimes the past holds answers we need for the present," Emma says quietly.
