"What does Jessica Westwood think about your new relationship with Miss Jenkins?"
The words cut off as Ares suddenly stops. The tension radiating from him makes my breath catch. He turns slowly, his expression carved from marble.
"Print whatever you want about me. But Isabella's career and her art stand on their own merit." His voice carries across the sudden silence. "She is not your story. She is not your scandal. And I suggest you remember that."
The declaration hangs in the air like thunder after lightning. Without another word, he guides me toward his car, leaving the stunned reporters in our wake. But I hear the cameras clicking frantically, capturing what will undoubtedly become tomorrow's headlines.
Inside the car, his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry," he grinds out. "I should have known they'd be watching. Should have protected you better."
I reach over, covering his hand with mine. "Hey." I wait until his eyes meet mine. "You did protect me. You stood up for us. That's all that matters."
His fingers relax slightly under mine, but I can still feel the rage simmering beneath his skin. The perfect day we'd planned lies in shambles around us, but somehow, watching him defend our love so fiercely makes me feel stronger than ever.
They want to write the story of our fall, but we’re already writing something else—one brushstroke, one vow, one kiss at a time.
19
Bella
Music fills my studio, something soft and hopeful floating through the space. My brush hovers over the canvas. No despair today—only something fiercer rising: determination. Defiance.
Gran's voice whispers in my memory: "Art isn't just about beauty, sweetheart. It's about truth. And truth always finds its way to the light."
My hand steadies as the first stroke of color blazes across the canvas. Each brushstroke that follows carries more confidence, more purpose. This isn't just art anymore—it's a declaration. A promise to myself and to every artist who's ever been told to be quiet, to disappear, to accept defeat.
"Watch me," I whisper, watching deep blues and vibrant golds merge and dance. "This is just the beginning."
The colors flow easier now, more vibrant than they've been in a while. Since Ares stormed back into my life, my work had been chaotic—all sharp edges and fractured perspectives, beautiful in their own way but born from turmoil. Now, something's shifted. Each stroke feels purposeful, grounded in a clarity I'd lost in the emotional whirlwind of his return.
My phone buzzes on the table, probably Ares checking in. He's at his penthouse with Ethan today, going through more files, giving me space to work. The thought makes me smile—he understands my need for solitude when I'm creating, just like he always did.
I step back, studying the emerging piece. The anger and confusion that had been driving my recent work has softened into something more nuanced. This isn't art born from revenge or hurt. This is art born from resilience, from choosing to believe in possibility despite everything.
Gran's voice whispers in my memory: "When the world feels darkest, that's when you must hold tightest to your light."
I dip my brush into a bold cerulean, adding depth to what was once flat. There's a spark reigniting in my work that I can feel in every brushstroke—not despite the chaos surrounding us, but perhaps because of how we're choosing to face it together.
My phone buzzes again. And again. And again.
The persistent vibration finally pulls my attention away from the canvas. Notifications flood my screen—Twitter, Instagram, news alerts. Each one making my heart beat faster.
I'm trending. Again.
And I know in my gut—whatever comes next, it won't be fair.
I click the link, and my world stops spinning as I read the headline. "REVEALED: SAINT HEIR'S MYSTERY ARTIST—FROM STEALING JEWELRY TO STEALING FIANCÉES"
And there, in grainy black and white security footage, is my sixteen-year-old self walking into Olivia Saint's massive walk-in closet. The timestamp in the corner reads 3:47 PM—I remember that day with crystal clarity. The way Olivia's voice had demanded me to fetch her two favorite necklaces for the evening's gala.
My stomach lurches as I watch past-me carefully lift the jewelry box, taking out the necklaces, following Olivia's explicit instructions. The video cuts off there—conveniently.
Comments scroll past like poison darts:
"Guess the truth finally comes out."
"Poor Ares Saint, blinded by a con artist."
"No wonder her exhibition got cancelled. Karma."
