"Or he could be setting her up for another fall," Alisha argues. "We all know what his family is capable of."
The phone stops ringing, and the silence feels heavy. A voicemail notification pops up almost immediately.
"Emma has a point," Amanda says thoughtfully. "If the Saints are going to come after you anyway, having Ares on your side might not be the worst thing."
"On her side?" Alisha scoffs. "He's a Saint. Their side is the problem."
"He's also the man who just publicly broke off his engagement and believes Bella's truth after fifteen years," Emma points out. "That has to count for something."
My phone buzzes with a text: Please call me back, Red. It's important.
I close my eyes, feeling pulled in a dozen different directions. My heart races at that nickname, even as my mind screams at me to be careful. Every cell in my body seems to be at war—the part that remembers the boy who loved me, fighting against the part that remembers how thoroughly his family destroyed my life.
"This is your choice, Bella," Emma says gently, her hand warm on my shoulder. "We'll support you either way, but you need to decide what you want."
What do I want? The question echoes in the sudden silence. Two weeks ago, my life made sense. I had my art, my friends, my carefully constructed walls. Now, with Ares's return, everything's turned into a battlefield I never asked for, with casualties I never meant to create.
10
Ares
"Breaking News: 'He Left Me For His Secret Lover'—Jessica Westwood Breaks Down Over Saint Heir's Hidden Romance."
The words crawl across the bottom of my hotel room's massive TV screen as I pour another scotch. My hands shake with barely contained rage as Jessica appears, perfectly positioned on a park bench, designer sunglasses unable to hide her "devastated" tears as she clutches a tissue. First the article, now even on fucking television.
"I should have known something was wrong," she says, vulnerability dripping from every carefully chosen word. "The late meetings, the missed calls… My friends tried to warn me about his first love," Jessica continues, dabbing at her eyes with practiced precision.
"What late meetings?" I snarl at the screen, scotch burning down my throat. "What fucking calls? You're lying through your perfectly whitened teeth, Jessica."
Then the photos appear—old ones that sucker punch me right in the gut. Isabella and me in the Saint family garden, my fingers intertwined with hers, looking at her like she hung the moon. I remember that moment with crystal clarity. Evelyn and her ancient Polaroid camera, always capturing what she called "moments of joy."
God, Evelyn. The way she'd straighten my tie before events, her touch more maternal than my own mother's had ever been. Now she's gone, and I never knew. Never got to say goodbye to the woman who made that mansion feel less like a prison and more like a home.
The TV drones on, speculation about our "affair" growing more ridiculous by the minute. "Sources close to Ares confirmed they'd been seeing each other secretly," Jessica claims, dabbing at her eyes. "That she'd been waiting all these years, plotting her return."
"You manipulative bitch." The words taste like acid. "You know damn well there were no secret meetings."
The public eats it up though. They love their scandal, their fairy tale romance gone wrong. They don't care about the truth—about a scared teenage boy who believed his parents' lies, about a young woman whose life was destroyed, about a grandmother who worked herself to death because no one would hire a "thief."
I switch off the TV, the silence sudden and heavy. The city lights of Boston twinkle beyond my suite's floor-to-ceiling windows. The scotch burns going down when my phone rings. I take the call, and my mother's perfectly controlled voice fills the line. "Darling, we need to discuss your return to Los Angeles."
Still consumed with the despicable TV interview, I snap, "No. We need to discuss Jessica's little performance on Channel 7."
"Theodore, he's being difficult again." Her voice moves away from the phone, and suddenly my laptop lights up with an incoming video call. Of course. They want to see my face, gauge my reactions. Control the situation.
I accept the video call, and there they are—Theodore and Olivia Saint, perfectly composed in Father's study. Mother's pearls gleam under the warm lighting, her blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon. Father's expression is granite, his suit as impeccable as always.
"Son." His voice carries that familiar note of authority that used to make me straighten in my chair. "This behavior needs to stop. The board is concerned about the company's image—"
As I lean forward to respond, my hand accidentally brushes against the sharp edge of the desk, slicing into the skin of my palm. "The company's image?" I laugh, the sound bitter. "Let's talk about the image you're creating. Those photos of Isabella and me from fifteen years ago—where did they come from?"
Mother's manicured hand waves dismissively. "Oh darling, we had nothing to do with Jessica's interview. Poor girl is simply expressing her feelings about your... unfortunate behavior."
"Cut the act." Blood from my cut palm drips onto the floor. "Those were Evelyn's photos. Private moments she captured. How did they get into Jessica's hands?"
"Really, Ares," Mother sighs, "if you insist on being seen with that girl in public, you can't blame the media for drawing their own conclusions."
"That girl?" My voice drops dangerously. "You mean the woman whose life you destroyed? And now what—two chance encounters and suddenly she's the calculating mistress who orchestrated everything?"
