"I'm so sorry, I—"
I close the distance between us in three steps, grab his face, and kiss him. The kiss is everything—gratitude, fear, hope, and years of love that never really died. My heart knows this truth: I choose this man. I've always chosen this man, even when I tried to deny it. His public defense of me, his willingness to stand in my corner, only confirms what my heart has known all along.
He makes a surprised sound against my lips before his arms wrap around me, lifting me off my feet. The kiss deepens, turns desperate and consuming. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him, drowning in the taste of coffee and him. My fingers tangle in his hair as his hands span my waist. And God, this feels right. Like coming home and falling apart and being put back together all at once.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard. "This is... not what I expected when I came here."
"Should I stop?" The words come out breathless.
He growls—actually growls—and pecks my lips. "Don't you dare."
His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling in the space between us. "I'm so sorry, Red. For everything."
The sincerity in his voice makes my heart ache. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the gentle way his thumbs stroke my sides—he means it. Really means it.
I nod, my fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "They won't be happy about what you did. Going public like that..."
"I know." His arms tighten around me. "But I'd do it again. A thousand times over."
His eyes lock with mine, intense and unwavering. "I won't stand by and watch them hurt you, Red. Never again." The words carry the weight of a vow. "I'm in your corner now. It's you and me against them—against anyone who tries to come between us."
My breath catches at the fierce determination in his voice. This isn't the scared seventeen-year-old boy who stood silent while his parents destroyed my life. This is a man who just declared war on his own family to protect me.
"Ares..."
"I choose you." His voice roughens with emotion. "I should have chosen you fifteen years ago. I was too young, too weak to understand what they were doing. But I'm not that boy anymore." His hand cups my face, thumb brushing away tears I didn't realize had fallen. "And this time, I'm strong enough to fight for us."
The words hit like a physical blow, breaking down the last of my carefully constructed walls. Everything I've been fighting against, everything I've been afraid to hope for, crystallizes in this moment.
I kiss him again, pouring years of hurt and hope and unspoken feelings into the press of my lips against his. His response is immediate, passionate, a promise sealed with shared breath and tangled tongues.
When we break apart, he doesn't let me go far. His arms stay locked around me like he's afraid I'll disappear if he loosens his grip.
"We're really doing this?" I whisper against his lips.
The determined set of his jaw softens, but his eyes remain serious, unwavering in their conviction. "Together. We're doing this together." He brushes his nose against mine, a tender promise sealing his words. "This isn’t just a second chance. It’s us finding our way back to each other—like we were always meant to."
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I let myself believe in us, in our messy, imperfect, undeniable connection.
17
Ares
I wake slowly, consciousness creeping in like dawn. There's a weight on my chest, soft warmth pressed against my side, and fear grips me—the same fear that's haunted every dream of her for fifteen years. I keep my eyes closed, holding onto this moment, terrified it will shatter into empty sheets and bitter regret.
But then I breathe in—watermelon and paint—and relief floods through me. This is real.
When I finally look down, my heart stops—then surges.
Isabella is draped across my chest, her magnificent red hair spilling over my shoulder like liquid fire. Her face—so often guarded around me—is soft now, untroubled in sleep.
Each slow, warm breath against my skin feels like a miracle. A quiet, steady reminder that somehow, impossibly… she’s here.
She forgave me. The realization lodges in my throat like glass. After everything my family put her through, she still let me stay. Still chose to trust me again. Looking at her now, I make a silent vow: this time, I'll be worthy of that trust. I know this peace won’t last—not with my last name—but I’ll hold onto it for as long as I can.
My gaze drifts to my phone, dark and accusingly silent on the nightstand. No missed calls. No threats. The silence from my parents sets off warning bells in my head—they're always most dangerous when quiet, when they're calculating their next strike. But for once, I don't care. Let them plot. Let them scheme.
Yesterday's interview still burns in my memory. I've spent my life avoiding cameras, ducking reporters, playing the perfect Saint heir. But standing in that empty gallery, seeing the bare walls where her art should have hung? Something broke loose inside me. The words poured out, raw and honest—everything I should have said fifteen years ago. Everything I'd been too young, too blind, too controlled to understand.
