"Most of it." She takes the coffee, our fingers brushing. The contact sends electricity up my arm. "Though some are trades with other artists."
I let myself really look around now, taking in the high ceilings, the exposed brick, the way she's turned this industrial space into something that feels alive. It's nothing like the sterile perfection of the Saint mansion, and something in me unclenches at the realness of it all.
"It suits you," I whisper. "All this creative chaos."
She watches me over her coffee cup, green eyes sharp with suspicion. "Alright, Saint. What was so important it couldn't wait for a reasonable hour?"
The folder burns in my hands, its contents making my stomach churn. The morning light streaming through her windows offers no comfort—what I'm about to share will shatter whatever fragile peace we've built.
"You should sit down for this, Red."
Something in my tone must betray the gravity, because she moves to the window seat without argument, tucking her legs beneath her. Sunlight catches her hair, turning it into a living flame. The sight steals my breath—how many times had I watched that same light play through her hair in the Saint mansion's gardens?
Focus. This isn't about us.
"After you refused to give me your side of the story that day I came here and brought the photographers," I begin, setting down my coffee, "I asked Ethan to dig into Saint Industries' records."
She raises an eyebrow. "What exactly were you digging for?"
"Anything that would give me the answers you weren't willing to share at the time." I meet her gaze steadily.
"Impatient as always," she mutters, but there's a hint of amusement beneath the exasperation.
Her fingers tap against her mug. "Did you find anything?"
"Nothing about your grandmother in the official records." I hesitate, watching her face carefully. "But we found something else. About Jacob Wells."
"Your father's head of security? The one who 'found' the jewelry?" Her spine stiffens, coffee cup trembling slightly.
"The very same." I spread the documents between us, watching her face. "Twenty thousand dollars, Red. Transferred from one of Father's shell companies to Wells exactly a day after the incident."
Her cup freezes halfway to her lips, knuckles white against the ceramic.
"Then with the help of a friend we found this." My finger traces the damning entry. "Two million dollars, one month after everything went down."
"Christ." The cup clatters against the table, coffee sloshing. Her hands shake as she reaches for the papers. "Why would—"
“My guess… hush money," I say, the words bitter as ash. "Paying him to either stay quiet or look the other way about something bigger."
She leans forward, her artist eyes scanning the documents with fierce intensity.
"Red." The roughness in my voice makes her look up. "There's more."
Something in my expression must terrify her, because all color drains from her face. "What?"
I hand her the article wordlessly. Watch as her eyes widen, horror dawning as she reads.
"Car accident?" Her voice cracks. "Fourteen years ago?"
"And his offshore bank account where that two million was transferred to was emptied the day of the crash."
She's on her feet in an instant, pacing to the windows. Her reflection looks ghostly, haunted. "Why tell me this? We don't even know if it's connected to what happened to me, to Gran—"
"Because you deserve the truth." I move behind her, close enough to feel the tremors running through her body. "And because I remembered something. Two weeks before everything exploded, I overheard Father interrogating your grandmother about a missing document."
She spins to face me, and suddenly, we're inches apart. The fear in her eyes makes my chest ache. "What do you mean?"
"He was obsessed with wanting to know if she'd seen it. Kept asking if she'd noticed anything unusual while cleaning his office. Any papers, documents..." The memory crystallizes—Father's voice carrying that edge of desperation I'd never understood until now. "He mentioned that an important document with his handwriting on it had disappeared."
