Nothing at all.
2
Bella
Damn it. Not again.
The brush slashes crimson across gold, each stroke a battle against memories that refuse to stay buried. My third ruined canvas this week—all of them destroyed since his face invaded my morning news feed.
Paint fumes thicken the air, stinging my throat as I work. Dawn spills through the loft windows, setting my palette ablaze—cobalt and vermillion transformed into molten gems. My shirt clings to damp skin, muscles screaming from hours of violent movement, but I can't stop. Won't stop.
Around me, my real work watches in silent judgment. The commissioned pieces that pay my bills—portraits that breathe with raw emotion—stand abandoned on their easels. Three days of neglect. The ballet dancer I'd spent weeks perfecting now wears violent red slashes across her delicate form, collateral damage in this war against ghosts I thought I'd conquered.
My hands tremble as my phone vibrates against the paint-splattered table. Anxiety floods my mouth with metallic bitterness as the screen lights up:
Emma: You better not be doing what I think you're doing
Emma: Three days is long enough
Emma: I swear to God, if you're painting instead of eating again...
Emma: That's it. I'm calling in backup.
I ignore the messages, turning back to my canvas. But before I can lose myself in the paint again, my phone erupts with new messages, each vibration jolting my frayed nerves, and my eyes betray me and read.
Alisha: Get your paint-covered ass to Simply Irresistible
Alisha: Don't make me come get you. You know I will.
Alisha: The twins are with Cole. I have ALL DAY.
I sigh heavily, tapping the messages away with a paint-smudged thumb. But before I can return to my canvas, a news alert flashes across my screen, the headline jumping out at me like an accusation: "Why Has Ares Saint Chosen Boston?" My stomach knots as I stare at the words. The same question echoes in my mind—why here? Why now?
The familiar mantra forms: I don't care. It doesn't matter. But my traitorous thumb scrolls down to reveal a photo beneath the headline. There he is—Ares Saint—striding confidently down Newbury Street beside another man I don't recognize. His hair is the same dark shade I remember, his shoulders broader. Then my eyes catch the stubble shadowing his jaw, the roughness that wasn't there when we were sixteen, when his skin was still smooth against my fingertips—
No. Stop.
But it’s too late. Suddenly I'm sixteen again, pulse roaring in my ears as I walk the endless marble hallway, security guards looming at my back while his mother dangles my compass necklace between manicured fingers like damning evidence. The weight of shame and betrayal crushes my chest all over again, as fresh as yesterday.
"Family heirlooms," her voice slithers through memory, dripping venom as she twists the knife. "Not trinkets for the help's granddaughter." And Ares? The memory of him just standing there, silent, watching me crumble with those unreadable brown eyes, sends bile rising in my throat.
A car horn blares outside, yanking me back to the present with a violent jolt. I gasp, dropping my phone onto the paint-splattered floor. My hands tremble as I stumble toward the bathroom, desperate to escape the memories threatening to drown me.
My reflection stops me cold—paint streaking through my hair like war paint, dark circles shadowing my eyes, clothes bearing the evidence of my artistic breakdown. A hollow laugh escapes. Grandma would shake her head if she could see me, probably tell me I'm giving him too much power. Again.
Another memory hits with brutal clarity—the day Grandma brought home that second-hand easel, just weeks after I'd moved into her cottage on the Saint estate. Eleven years old and orphaned by a drunk driver, I was drowning in grief too vast for words.
"Sometimes, sweetheart," her voice echoes, "when words fail us, we need another way to let it out." The phantom lavender makes my chest ache. I can almost feel her weathered hands on my shoulders, steadying me like she always did.
"God, I wish you were here right now, Grandma," I whisper to my reflection, gripping the edge of the sink until my knuckles turn white. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hearing her voice as clearly as if she were standing beside me: "I'm always with you, Isabella. In every brushstroke, every breath, every moment of strength when you think you can't go on. Look for me there."
I splash cold water on my face, the shock of it bringing me back to the present. With a shaky hand, I grab a towel and pat my skin dry, trying to compose myself before heading back to face the chaos of my loft.
Walking through the doorway, I survey the battlefield of my living room—canvases strewn about, paint tubes scattered like fallen soldiers. My gaze falls on my phone lying face-down on the hardwood floor. As I bend to retrieve it, the device buzzes against my fingertips, lighting up with a new notification.
Emma's photo of fresh pastries. The image shows perfectly flaky croissants arranged on Simply Irresistible's signature pink plates, probably still warm from the oven. My empty stomach betrays me with a loud growl, reminding me that coffee isn't a meal, no matter how many times I try to convince myself otherwise.
Emma's talent is both a blessing and a curse when you're running on caffeine and determination.
