The words blur together as my phone starts ringing. Ares's name flashes on the screen.
I answer.
"Red." His voice is tight with controlled fury. "I just saw it. I'm already working with our legal team to get it taken down. Ethan's tracing the source."
"It doesn't matter." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. "The damage is done. Every gallery owner, every potential sponsor will see this. One Google search and—" My throat closes around the words. All those carefully cultivated relationships with collectors, the museum installation Elliot has been quietly negotiating—they'll vanish like smoke. "They're not just attacking my reputation this time, Ares. They're making sure no serious gallery will touch my work again."
"No." The fierce certainty in his voice makes me catch my breath. "We're not letting them win this time. I'm on my way to you."
My phone keeps buzzing with notifications. The video is everywhere—TMZ picked it up first, then local Boston news stations. Now it's spreading across Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, each platform adding its own spin to the story. Even respectable outlets like the Boston Globe are running pieces about the "controversial artist" and her "complicated history" with the Saint family.
I force myself to put the phone down when I see #SaintFamilyThief trending.
When Ares arrives twenty minutes later, he's already in full crisis management mode. His phone is pressed to his ear as he strides in.
"No, we need immediate action on this." His voice carries that quiet authority that brooks no argument. "The footage was obtained illegally—yes, I understand the complications, but..." He catches my eye, mouth tightening. "Caroline, they're destroying her reputation with stolen property. There has to be legal recourse."
I try to focus on my painting while he paces, but his words keep drawing my attention.
"Yes exactly—" He runs a hand through his hair. "File whatever you need to. And get me a meeting with the Globe's editor. If they're going to run this story, they damn well better hear both sides."
He ends the call, immediately dialing another number. "Ethan? Where are we on tracing the leak? ... Good. Send everything to Caroline's team."
Finally, he drops into my desk chair, looking battle-worn but determined. "The legal team's moving on it. Caroline's filing for an immediate takedown on copyright grounds—the footage belongs to Saint Industries, and since my parents are playing dumb, no one had permission to release it."
"Will that work?"
"It's a start." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "The bigger sites will have to comply. The smaller ones... that'll take more time."
Ares looks dangerous, his usual polished appearance slightly disheveled, eyes dark with rage.
"This was my parents." He runs a hand through his hair. "Has to be. They're the only ones with access to those security files."
"Why now?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Because of my interview. Because I defended you publicly." His jaw clenches. "This is their warning shot."
I turn back to my canvas, the bright colors now seeming to mock me. "Maybe they're right. Maybe I should just—"
"Don't." He crosses the room in three strides, turning me to face him. "Don't let them make you doubt yourself. Your art, your talent—that's yours. They can't take that away."
"They already have." The words scrape out of my throat. "First the exhibition, now this? Who's going to want to show my work when they think I'm a thief?"
His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Listen to me. We're going to fight this. The right way this time. With evidence, with lawyers, with the truth."
"The truth?" I laugh, but it comes out broken. "When has that ever mattered against your family's power?"
"It matters now." His voice drops, intense and certain. "Because this time, we're fighting together. And I promise you, Red—we're going to make them regret ever trying to silence your art."
His words hang in the air, heavy with promise and determination. For a moment, we just stand there, his hands warm against my face, my heart thundering with a dangerous mix of fear and hope.
"Stay." The word slips out before I can stop it. "Work from here today. I... I don't want to be alone right now."
Something softens in his eyes. "Of course." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Let me make some calls."
Hours blur together after that. I lose myself in my painting, letting the colors speak what my heart can't quite voice. Ares sets up at my desk, his laptop open and phone constantly buzzing with messages from his legal team. The familiar sounds of his work—quiet conversations, keyboard clicks, occasional sighs of frustration—become a soothing backdrop to my own creative process.
My own phone hasn't stopped either. It vibrated so persistently that I finally had to answer the group call from my friends, all three of them talking over each other in a cacophony of protective outrage.
