Does she regret it?
The thought cuts deep, but I push it away. No. This morning felt right. Real. The way she touched me, how she whispered my name—that wasn't regret. That was… Everything.
She's probably just caught up in her art. I've seen her like that before, lost in her creative zone, the world falling away as she transfers her vision to canvas. God, she's beautiful when inspiration hits. The intense focus in her eyes, the slight furrow between her brows, the way she bites her lower lip in concentration. Maybe she's painting right now, capturing our morning in oils and emotion.
But that nagging feeling won't leave.
I grab my phone again, typing another message:
Me: Just checking in. Everything okay?
The message shows as delivered. Then read. Three dots appear, and hope blooms in my chest.
But they disappear. No response.
"Fuck this." The words escape as I surge to my feet, already reaching for my coat. I can't sit here anymore, imagining worst-case scenarios. I need to see her.
The drive to her loft takes forever, every red light an eternity. I park around the corner, habit making me scan the street for tails or surveillance. Nothing obvious, but in this game, obvious usually means amateur.
Her building looks the same as this morning, but something feels different. Wrong. The stairs to her door seem longer, each step carrying me toward something I'm not sure I want to face.
I knock, and a few moment later the door opens, but instead of Bella's warm green eyes, I'm met with a icy green glare. The blonde from the club—Alisha, I remember—stands blocking the entrance like an avenging angel. The hatred in her expression catches me off guard.
"Get the fuck away from here, Saint."
The hostility in her voice is surprising, but I keep my tone polite. "I'm just here to see Bella. Is she—"
"You've done enough damage." Her words cut like knives. "Leave. Now. Before I make you."
Behind her, I hear movement. Other voices. Female voices, hushed but intense. And somewhere in there, a sound that makes my blood run cold—someone crying.
Bella.
"What happened?" My voice drops, all pretense at politeness vanishing. "Let me see her."
"No fucking way." Alisha's hand tightens on the door. "You and your family have destroyed enough. Leave."
My family? Ice spreads through my veins. "What do you—"
The door slams in my face, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the empty hallway.
I stand there, staring at the closed door, as pieces start clicking into place. The gallery. Bella's hasty exit. My parents' sudden silence.
If you continue this nonsense, there will be consequences.
Father's words echo in my head, making my stomach turn. Oh god. What have they done?
I pound on the door again, my knuckles stinging with the force. The blonde's accusations ring in my ears, blaming me for something I don't even understand. How can they think I'd hurt Bella?
When the door opens, I brace for another verbal assault. Instead, a woman with warm brown hair steps out, pulling the door almost closed behind her. Her eyes, though intense, hold none of the blonde's fury—just quiet determination.
"I'm Emma." Her voice is calm but carries weight. "And you're Ares Saint."
The way she says my name makes my stomach clench. "Please, I just need to see her."
"That's not a good idea." Not hostile like the blonde, but equally unmovable. "You should leave."
"Why?" I fight to keep my voice steady despite the dread building in my chest. "Your friend mentioned my family. What's going on?" I search her face, looking for answers. "Please, just let me talk to Isabella. If she tells me to go, I swear I'll leave."
