My father's words echo in my head: If you continue this nonsense, there will be consequences. Pure rage rises in my gut, hot and demanding.
"So, Mr. Saint." Elliot's voice cuts through my fury. "What's your plan to help Isabella?"
I don't look away from the empty wall, imagining Bella's paintings filling the space, bringing life and color back to this void. "I'm going to do an interview. Set the record straight."
"An interview?" His eyebrows rise slightly.
"Yes." The plan forms as I speak. "Isabella is being dragged through the mud because of my choices, my actions. She had nothing to do with my decision to end things with Jessica." I turn to face him. "The public needs to hear the truth—that she's an innocent victim in all this. A talented artist whose work should be judged on its own merit, not overshadowed by gossip and speculation."
Elliot studies me for a long moment. "I don't know if that will make a difference."
"I don't know either. But it's worth a shot." My voice is firm. "I refuse to stand by and let Isabella's career be destroyed because of me. Her work deserves to be seen. Not because of me. Not because of my family's name. But because she's fucking brilliant—and the world needs to see it."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he extends his hand. "When would you like to do this interview?"
I grip his hand. "As soon as possible. Before more damage is done."
"Well then." Elliot's tone shifts from cautious to conspiratorial. "Let's make sure we do this right. I know just the journalist for this."
16
Bella
Coffee. The aroma pulls me from sleep, familiar and comforting. When I open my eyes, Emma's silhouette moves around my kitchen, the morning light casting her in a soft glow.
"Morning, sleepyhead." Her smile is gentle as she catches my movement.
"What are you still doing here?" My voice is rough from crying. "Shouldn't you be at home with the kids? Or at Simply Irresistible?"
Emma fills two mugs, the rich scent of coffee growing stronger. "All taken care of. Nick's got the kids, and I have two employees covering my shift." She hands me a mug. "Martha's helping at the store, too."
A small laugh escapes despite everything. "Martha? Your mother-in-law, who couldn't bake to save her life, is the one you trust with your bakery?"
"Hey." Emma's eyes sparkle with mock offense. "I'm an excellent teacher. That woman can now make a decent chocolate chip cookie." She winks. "Though I still wouldn't let her near the wedding cakes."
The normalcy of the moment feels like a balm, but it's fleeting. Reality crashes back—my art event, "strategically postponed" as Elliot so carefully phrased what we both know is a cancellation. And Ares...
God, Ares.
My heart twists, torn between wanting him and knowing better. Between the safety of his arms yesterday morning and the chaos and devastation that followed.
Emma settles beside me on the couch, her presence steady and grounding. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
"Just..." I wrap my hands around the warm mug. "How did my life go from normal to this fucking rollercoaster in a matter of days?"
"Mmm." Emma takes a sip of her coffee. "Would that rollercoaster have anything to do with a certain tall, dark, and brooding Saint?"
I shoot her a look, but she just grins. "What? I may be happily married, but I'm not blind. That man has presence." Her expression softens. "Is he always like that? All intense and..." She waves her hand vaguely. "Commanding?"
A sigh escapes as Ares fills my mind—the way he moves with such quiet confidence, how his mere presence can fill a room. The gentle way he touched me, like I was something precious, even as his eyes burned with that familiar intensity.
"Yeah," I whisper. "He's always been like that."
Emma's lips quirk. "Poor man seemed shell-shocked by Hurricane Alisha last night."
A small laugh escapes me as I picture Alisha's fierce protectiveness wrapped in brutal honesty. "I can imagine. Subtlety isn't exactly her strong suit."
"So..." Emma shifts, tucking her feet under her. "What's going on with you two?"
