But even as the words leave my mouth, I know it's not really him I'm angry at. It's the machine behind him—the carefully orchestrated chaos of the Saint empire that's once again threatening to sweep away everything I've built.
I press my palms against the cool floor, trying to ground myself in its solidity. Five days. It's taken just five days for my life to spiral from carefully controlled to complete chaos. My art, my reputation, my peace—all of it hanging by threads I can feel unraveling with each passing hour.
The click of footsteps behind me makes me raise my head. Elliot's concerned face appears in my peripheral vision. "I saw her storm out. That bad?"
A hollow laugh escapes my throat. "She wasn't interested in my art. Just another vulture circling for Saint family drama."
"Your work speaks for itself, Isabella." Elliot crouches beside me, his usually immaculate suit wrinkling as he settles on the floor. "Don't let them diminish what you've created here."
"Maybe we should postpone the show." The words taste like defeat on my tongue. "Give this media circus time to die down."
His expression shifts, concern flickering across his features. "Let's not make any hasty decisions. I'll reach out to some contacts, see what we can do to refocus attention on your art." His eyes lock with mine, steady but with a hint of worry. "What do you think?"
I nod while running my fingers through my hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. "I don't want my art tainted by this spectacle. These pieces—they're raw, honest. But now everyone will just see them through the lens of 'Ares Saint's ex-lover' and—" My voice cracks.
"Your talent deserves to be seen," Elliot says, his voice gentle but firm. "The Saints don't get to dictate your future."
"Easy to say, harder to—" I gesture toward the window where two men loiter, cameras barely concealed. "The vultures are circling."
Elliot follows my gaze, his expression hardening. "Why don't you head home for the day? Take some time to decompress. I'll handle things here and we can regroup in a few days with clearer heads."
The thought of my quiet apartment, away from prying eyes and loaded questions, is tempting. I nod slowly, gathering my portfolio and bag.
"Those guys don't look like they're planning to respect your personal space," Elliot observes, eyeing the photographers who've now spotted us through the window. "Let me drive you home. We can use the service entrance in the back."
For a moment, I'm tempted by his offer—the easy escape, the shield of someone else's protection. But something rebellious flares in my chest.
"No." I straighten my spine, gather my things. "I won't hide."
I regret those words the moment I step outside. They descend like sharks scenting blood.
"Ms. Jenkins, how long were you seeing Ares Saint?"
"Did you plan this to coincide with his engagement?"
"What's your response to accusations of being an engagement wrecker?"
That last one ignites something fierce in my chest. I whirl around, voice sharp as broken glass. "Engagement wrecker? That implies there was actual love to wreck. Jessica's spinning lies about things that never happened. Maybe people should consider that she might be the reason Ares broke it off in the first place."
A female reporter dooms up and surge forward, sensing blood in the water. With predatory eyes she shoves her microphone closer. "Do you think the Saints would ever accept you over Jessica Westwood for their son?"
I can't stop the bitter laugh that escapes. "Ask Olivia Saint how many lives she's destroyed to protect her precious son and their family legacy."
The words pour out like toxic waste, and I know—I know—I've just given them exactly what they wanted. I flee, their hungry cameras clicking behind me like the jaws of a trap snapping shut.
My apartment door barely closes before the tears come, hot and angry. They blur into rage, my hands shaking as I grab fresh canvas and paints. Colors explode across white space—crimson rage, midnight fear, golden defiance. My brush moves with violent precision, each stroke a scream I can't voice.
Paint splatters my clothes, my skin, but I don't stop. Can't stop. The canvas becomes a battlefield where every suppressed emotion fights for dominance.
Finally, exhaustion wins. I step back, hands trembling, and survey the damage. The painting stares back at me—raw, violent, beautiful in its chaos. It's the most honest thing I've created since this whole mess started. Elliot would probably call it a breakthrough piece. I call it survival.
The shower helps wash away the paint but not the day's tension. I change into worn yoga pants and an old t-shirt, trying to reclaim some sense of normalcy. But the quiet of my apartment feels oppressive, every tick of the clock a reminder of how quickly my life is unraveling.
Hours later, I'm curled up on my couch, a glass of wine untouched on the coffee table. The city lights flicker through my windows, casting strange shadows that remind me of the way light used to play in the Saint mansion's gardens at night. Those stolen moments when the world felt full of possibility instead of threat.
My phone lights up with a text.
Ares: Can I call you?
