Emma: Don't make me waste these
Alisha: 20 minutes, Jenkins. Tick Tock
I close the messages, only to be confronted again by Ares' face from the article I'd viewed earlier. His eyes stare back at me from the screen, and just like before, the sight of him triggers a memory buried deep within me.
His fingers trembling as he fastened the compass necklace around my neck behind the rose bushes, away from prying eyes and surveillance cameras.
"With this you'll always find your way back to me," he'd whispered against my neck, his breath warm against my skin. My hand rises instinctively to my collarbone, remembering how I'd hidden the pendant under clothes, our secret treasure. Until his mother ripped it away, leaving marks that faded faster than the emotional scars beneath. I can still feel the weight of it against my skin, the cool metal warming to my touch.
"Damn it," I hiss at his digital image, heat rising in my cheeks. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to haunt me like this." I jab my finger against the screen, as if I could physically push him away. "It's in the past. You're in the past. I'm not that girl anymore, and I won't let you drag me back there."
The words sound hollow even to my own ears, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet voice mocks my attempt at conviction. I'm failing miserably at keeping him locked away in my memories where he belongs, and we both know it.
I grab my jacket, not bothering to change. Dried paint crackles with each movement, a reminder of my three-day spiral. Let them see my battle scars. Let them wonder what war I'm fighting.
The morning air slices across my face as I step onto the Boston streets, the coldness doing nothing to clear the fog in my head. Early sunlight catches on old brick buildings, turning them to burnished gold that makes my artist's eye itch despite my exhaustion. The sidewalk pulses with commuter energy—clicking heels, rustling newspapers, the hiss of coffee carts. Each sound hammers against my temple.
Emma's bakery glows like a beacon in the morninglight, fresh paint and gleaming windows still carrying that 'new business' shine. Simply Irresistible thrums with life—regulars who once chased Emma's delivered pastries now crowd her counter, finally having their dedicated haven.
Coffee steam curls through air thick with sugar and butter. Cups clink against saucers while weathered hardwood creaks beneath my feet. Years ago, Emma was just a single mom baking custom cakes in her cramped kitchen while Charlotte played at her feet.
Then came Nick Brown, who fell for the whole package—Emma's flour-dusted smile and Charlotte's gap-toothed grin. He didn't just give them happiness and later Liam; he first built her a dream kitchen addition to his house, giving her space to grow.
From there, she expanded, and now she has this corner store where a bookshop used to be—her ultimate dream realized. The pride I feel watching her success briefly cuts through my fog.
In our usual booth—tucked in the corner with perfect sightlines to both street and counter—Alisha demolishes a croissant. Designer sunglasses perch on her head despite the early hour, blonde hair in what she calls her "mom bun." Dark circles beneath her eyes betray another rough night with the twins. The leather seat groans as I slide in across from her, muscles protesting days of standing at my easel.
"You're late," she announces without looking up, voice rough with exhaustion. Buttery flakes scatter as she gestures with her half-eaten croissant.
I sink into the seat, tugging paint-stained sweater sleeves over my hands. Dried paint catches on my skin. "It's nine in the morning, Alisha."
"Yeah, and I've already survived two tantrums, a milk flood, and an unauthorized art project involving my new MAC lipstick and the living room wall." Her green eyes narrow as she studies my face. "Jesus, Bella. When's the last time you actually slept?"
"Sleep is overrated." The words rasp through my dry throat.
"So is denial, but that's not stopping you." There's an edge to her voice that wasn't there before. The kind that means she's worried enough to drop her usual snark.
Emma appears before I can respond, setting down a perfect cappuccino. Four sugars, extra foam—exactly how I need it. Steam rises from the cup, carrying memories of countless morning conversations in this booth. The familiar aroma makes my empty stomach clench.
"Have you eaten anything this morning?" Emma slides in beside me, her shoulder pressing against mine, grounding me. Vanilla and butter cling to her apron, making my mouth water.
"Coffee counts as breakfast." My fingers wrap around the warm mug, seeking comfort in its heat.
"No," Alisha interjects, shoving her plate toward me. "Coffee counts as survival. Eat the damn croissant before I force-feed you like I do my toddlers."
I tear off a piece of buttery pastry, more to stop their worried looks than from hunger. The flaky layers dissolve on my tongue, reminding my body how long it's been since I've eaten properly. My stomach growls traitorously.
"Look," Emma starts carefully, her voice gentle. "If Ares Saint is really moving back to Boston, we need to talk about how you're going to handle this. The city isn't that big—"
"Handle it?" Alisha snorts. "The only handling Bella needs to do is decide which knee to aim for if she runs into him. Personally, I vote for both."
"Alisha!" Emma shoots her a look. "That's not helping."
"Neither is pretending this is a Hallmark movie where everyone gets closure and hugs it out." Alisha leans forward, her green eyes fierce. "Have you forgotten what Bella said his family did? How they falsely accused her and destroyed Evelyn's reputation? And how he just stood there and let it happen?"
"People can change," Emma says softly. "Fifteen years is a long time. Maybe talking to him could help her move past this. Get some answers—"
"Or maybe," Alisha cuts in, "she could keep being the badass artist who built herself up from nothing instead of reopening old wounds. The only reason to see Ares Saint is if she's planning to demonstrate exactly how much damage she can do with the four-inch heels she'll borrow from my closet."
