Emma studies me for a long moment, like she's trying to read the truth from lies. "I can't let you in. She needs space right now."
"The gallery then—what happened?" The words tumble out, desperate. "Is she okay?"
Her eyes lock with mine, and something in her expression makes my blood run cold. "The insurance company suddenly threatened to drop coverage for her exhibition. And with the building management raising concerns about security, Elliot cancelled Bella's art event."
The words hit like physical blows. My father's connections in the insurance industry flash through my mind. The way he can make things happen with a single phone call.
"When?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears.
"This morning." Emma's voice is quiet but cuts deep.
Consequences. The word echoes in my head as realization dawns. Ice spreads through my veins as pieces click into place—my parents' threats, Bella's hasty exit, the timing...
"Oh god." My voice cracks. "I need to see her. Emma, please—"
"No." Gentle but firm. "She's lost her exhibition, her chance to prove herself to the art world. All because she dared to—what? Exist in your orbit again?"
"I didn't know." The words scrape out of my throat. "I would never—"
Her eyes soften slightly. "Maybe not." Emma's voice holds a hint of sympathy now. "But your family would. And did."
The door closes with a soft click that echoes like thunder in my ears. I stare at it, unmoving, as the truth crystallizes with brutal clarity. My name—my cursed legacy—is a poison that contaminates everything I dare to love. Behind that door, Bella crumbles, her dream systematically dismantled, her spirit wounded in ways I can't yet measure. All because I dared to defy my father.
They couldn't reach me directly, so they went for her—the most vulnerable point in my armor, the one person whose pain would destroy me more thoroughly than any direct attack. They calculated with cold precision, knowing exactly where to strike to bring us both to our knees.
I stand frozen, my fingertips still burning from where they last touched her skin, while behind that closed door, the woman I love pays the price for my rebellion.
The stairwell echoes with each of my footsteps, a hollow sound that matches the void growing in my chest.
My fist connects with the metal railing before I can stop myself. The impact sends shockwaves up my arm, but the physical pain is almost welcome. Almost enough to drown out the acid in my gut as I recognize the Saints’ signature moves. The slow, surgical dismantling. The invisible puppet strings. No direct threats, no messy confrontations—just the quiet, inexorable pressure of Saint family influence crushing everything in its path.
The migraine pulses in time with my heartbeat as I continue down. Each step feels heavier than the last, and by the time I reach my car, my hands are shaking—from rage or pain or both, I'm not sure anymore. I need to call Ethan, and start damage control. But first...
I pull out my phone, scrolling through contacts until I find his number. My fingers hover over the screen before I hit call. Two rings. Three.
"Elliot Vanlow speaking."
I slip into business mode, my voice crisp and controlled. "Mr. Vanlow, this is Ares Saint. I need to speak with you urgently. It's about Isabella Jenkins."
An hour later, I follow Elliot through the darkened gallery. The security panel beeps as he disables it, fluorescent lights flickering to life overhead.
"Thank you for meeting me this late."
"Certainly. Though I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish, Mr. Saint. The situation is rather... final."
Each step deeper into the gallery tightens the knot in my gut. A headache builds behind my eyes, pressure mounting with every passing second. We round the corner into the main exhibition space, and—
Everything in me stills.
Bella's vibrant soul should have splashed color across these clinical white walls. Instead, the walls are bare and only the ghost of her artwork haunts the space.
My feet carry me forward on autopilot. I stop before the spot where the piece I wanted to buy should have been—the one that first caught my eye. Now there's nothing but a small pencil mark on the wall, a lonely testament to what could have been.
"The exhibition was fully arranged." Elliot's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Every piece placed, every light adjusted. She spent hours getting it perfect." He pauses, and I hear the anger he's trying to contain. "Do you know what it's like, Mr. Saint, to observe an artist pack away their dreams?"
The words hit like physical blows. I trace my fingers along the empty wall, remembering the texture of her paintings, the raw emotion captured in each brushstroke.
"You know," Elliot says, "in all my years running this gallery, I've never seen work like Isabella's. The way she captures emotion, transforms pain into beauty..." He gestures to the empty space. "This exhibition would have launched her career. Finally given her the recognition she deserves."
