But first, I need a shower and a change of clothes to help me remember how to be something other than the mess I've become these past few days.
Because they're right about one thing—I'm not that sixteen-year-old girl anymore. I straighten my shoulders, ignoring how they ache. I'm Isabella Jenkins, artist and survivor. The woman who turned her pain into paintings that art lovers appreciate. The woman who built a life from the ashes of what his family destroyed.
Even if part of me still feels like I'm playing pretend.
The city bustles around me as I step out of Simply Irresistible, carrying the warmth of friendship and coffee like armor against the morning chill. The air has lost some of its bite, or maybe I've just remembered how to breathe through the panic. My boots click against the sidewalk, each step more purposeful than the last.
I lift my chin, jaw set with determination. Let Boston throw whatever it wants at me—including Ares Saint and all his family's drama.
I've survived them once.
I can do it again.
But as I turn the corner toward my apartment, a headline flashes across a newsstand: ARES SAINT SEEKS LOCAL BUSINESS INVESTMENTS. My heart stutters and my steps falter. The truth I've been avoiding hits me like a physical blow, making my knees weak:
Surviving him once was hard enough.
Surviving him while he's actively part of my city? That's a different war entirely.
3
Ares
The neon lights of Six-Pack pulse overhead in geometric patterns unique to this place—a blend of upscale elegance and raw energy that's makes this club Boston's hottest nightspot. Heavy bass vibrates through the custom-designed floor, engineered to channel sound directly into the bodies of dancers. The air carries layers of sensation: designer perfume, top-shelf liquor, and beneath it all, the unmistakable electricity of a crowd chasing oblivion.
I should be among them. Three days ago, I would have been—celebrating newfound freedom on the dance floor, losing myself in anonymous connection. Instead, I'm tucked in the quieter VIP section, nursing eighteen-year-old whiskey. The liquid burns a familiar path down my throat, but the numbness I'm chasing remains elusive.
My phone vibrates against the table, screen illuminating with a familiar name. My fingers freeze mid-reach for my glass. My jaw locks, tension spreading across my shoulders like wildfire.
Mother.
Again.
I've ignored her calls since landing in Boston, but texts are harder to resist. Like precision-guided missiles, they slip past my defenses.
I exhale slowly, counting to five before picking up the phone.
Mother: Darling, Boston? Really? Of all places, you choose to run there? I understand you're feeling overwhelmed - the pressure of the position, the expectations - but this isn't the answer. Come home. We can discuss this like a family.
I take another sip, watching three dots appear, vanish, reappear. The crystal tumbler grows slick in my grip as I imagine her in Father's study, carefully crafting each word for maximum impact.
Mother: You know you can't just walk away when you feel stressed, Ares. That's not how we raised you. Think of what this tantrum is doing to your father's blood pressure. To the company. To our family name.
My free hand curls into a fist beneath the table. The Saint name. Always the Saint name. As if I'm nothing more than a walking extension of the family brand.
Me: I'm not coming back, Mother. Not this time.
Three dots dance again. A longer pause. I can almost see her perfectly manicured nails hovering over her phone, weighing which emotional lever to pull next.
Mother: Fine. Take a few days if you must. Clear your head. But remember who you are, Ares. A Saint doesn't hide in Boston like some common runaway. Try not to embarrass us more than you already have with that spectacle at the party.
The words slice exactly where intended. Mother always knows precisely where to slip the knife. I kill the screen, shoving the phone face-down onto the table with enough force to make nearby glasses jump.
"Whoa there, killer." Ethan's voice cuts through my spiral. "What did that innocent phone ever do to you?"
I glance up to find him watching me, one eyebrow raised despite the blonde whispering in his ear. He's known me long enough to read the signs.
"Nothing worth discussing," I mutter, draining my glass.
