Page 10

Bella

Paint drips from my brush, crimson tears falling onto another ruined canvas.

My hands won't stop shaking, colors bleeding together like running mascara.

Dawn creeps through my loft windows, casting accusatory shadows across my discarded attempts—each canvas bearing the raw marks of my turmoil.

Dark paint slashes across pristine white, turning beauty into something wounded and feral.

"This isn't me walking away, Red."

That nickname. Fifteen years since it last touched my ears, and he just..

. I grab my phone, fingers trembling as I scroll through carefully curated Aerosmith playlists.

Because of course I have different ones for every emotional crisis—"Screw You and Your Family Empire," "Why Did He Have to Come Back," and my personal favorite, "Paint Through the Pain.

" Steven Tyler's been my therapist longer than I care to admit.

"Angel" starts playing, my finger hovering over the skip button.

The first notes hit, dragging me back to that summer night in the staff cottage.

Ares, drunk on stolen wine and teenage love, wielding a wooden spoon microphone.

His perfect hair disheveled, shirt untucked, spinning me around our tiny kitchen while belting lyrics completely off-key.

"Baby, you're my angel..." He'd pulled me close, breath warm against my ear. "Get it? Because you are. My angel."

I'd rolled my eyes, but my heart performed Olympic-level gymnastics. "You're such a dork."

"Yeah, but I'm your dork."

God, we were so young. So stupid. So convinced love could conquer anything.

I slam the skip button so hard my phone nearly launches from trembling fingers. Too soft. Too romantic. Too everything.

"Crazy" blasts instead, bass drowning rational thought. The irony of my song choice isn't lost on me, but at least I've upgraded from yesterday's three-hour "Dream On" marathon.

My voice joins Tyler's, raw and desperate, using my paint brush as a makeshift microphone. The familiar melody wraps around me like armor as I turn back to my easel. Evelyn used to say I had the voice of a strangled cat but the soul of a rock star. God, I miss her laugh.

My fingers find Ares's business card on my workbench, its edges worn from hours of handling.

His private number stares back at me, written in elegant script.

The Saint family crest catches the light, and suddenly I'm sixteen again, the panic burning through my veins as my grandmother and I are being escorted from the estate, my tears pouring as Olivia Saint's voice rings out: "Thieves have no place here. "

I crank the volume higher, letting the music drown out the memories. "Damn you, Ares Saint." The words echo off my loft's high ceilings, bouncing back like accusations over the music.

Yesterday's confrontation plays on repeat in my mind, competing with the song's rhythm.

Knowing that he saw my painting at Luminous—I never meant for him to see that piece.

Never meant for anyone to understand the words woven into the background.

Forever yours. His last promise before everything fell apart.

My head throbs from lack of sleep, but closing my eyes is worse. Ares’s gaze, the painting, the weight of his questions—none of it fades. Not even with the volume cranked so high it vibrates the windows.

My phone buzzes through the noise, Emma's name lighting up the screen: Breakfast at Joe's? We're worried about you. All of us.

Of course they are. Emma, Alisha, and Amanda—the only ones who know the full story. I type back a quick yes before I can change my mind.

An hour later, I slide into our usual booth at Joe's. The familiar scent of coffee and maple syrup makes my empty stomach growl. Three concerned faces look up as I approach, each reflecting a different shade of worry.

"Oh, Bella." Amanda's brown eyes scan my face. "When's the last time you slept?"

"Define sleep." I reach for the coffee Emma pushes toward me, hands still trembling. Paint stains my fingernails—evidence of my sleepless battle with art.

"Your exhibition's soon," Emma says softly. "You need rest."

The mention of the exhibition sends fresh anxiety spiraling through me. The biggest showcase of my career, and now...

Amanda leans forward, voice dropping. "Have you seen him? Since that night at Six-Pack?"

"Oh yeah." I take another sip of coffee, aiming for casual but missing by miles. "He showed up at my loft yesterday."

Coffee sloshes as three hands slam onto the table.

"He what?" Alisha's voice rises sharply.

"At your home?" Emma's eyes go wide.

"Details. Now." Amanda's usual cheer vanishes.

The coffee burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain. It's better than the ache in my chest. "He showed up, demanded answers, and I told him to leave. End of story."

"Except it's not." Alisha reaches across the table, steadying my shaking hands. "Bella, you're vibrating with tension. And don't think we haven't noticed the paint under your nails. How many canvases did you destroy last night?"

"Just one," I whisper, then immediately regret the admission.

"Maybe..." Emma starts, then hesitates when we all look at her. "Maybe he's different now. People can change. Fifteen years is a long time."

A bitter laugh escapes me. "People like him don't change, Em. People like him—like his family—they just get better at hiding who they really are." My voice cracks on the last words.

"All the more reason to be careful," Alisha warns, protectiveness radiating from her. "The Saints don't forgive and forget."

"I know," I cut her off, not wanting to hear the rest. Not wanting to acknowledge the fear that's been gnawing at me since he appeared at my door. "I know what they're capable of."

"Did he say why he came?" Amanda asks, her usual bubbly demeanor subdued.

I stare into my mug, remembering the intensity in his eyes when he mentioned the painting. The way his voice roughened when he demanded to know about those words. Forever yours.

"He visited Luminous. Saw my piece." The admission feels like surrendering a secret. "The self-portrait."

Understanding dawns on their faces as they realize what it represents.

"Shit." Alisha sits back. "No wonder he showed up. That painting is practically a billboard screaming 'unfinished business.'"

I never should have shown it there. Why did I let Elliot convince me? I should have kept it private.

"It wasn't intended for him." But even as I say it, I know it's a lie. Every brush stroke, every hidden detail—who else could it have been for?

Amanda's phone buzzes, and when she glances at the screen, her eyes widen.

"What's wrong?" The fear in my voice surprises even me.

"Now I understand why you're so tense." Amanda's voice drops low. "You conveniently forgot to mention Ares brought a paparazzi parade to your door."

"What?" Emma nearly chokes on her coffee, eyes wide.

My stomach plummets as Amanda turns her phone toward me. The headline screams in bold letters:

"SAINT HEIR'S SECRET RENDEZVOUS: Did billionaire Ares Saint break engagement for this woman?"

"There's more." Amanda swipes through her phone, voice rising. "Photos of him entering your building, sneaking out the back, and—" she pauses, eyes widening, "—Jesus, Bella. This shot through your studio window... you two look..."

"Intimate," I whisper, the word tasting like ash. The photo stares back at me: Ares's body angled protectively in front of mine, tension crackling between us like visible electricity. Perfect tabloid fodder.

"Those vultures scaled buildings to get to you?" Alisha's protective fury ignites. "This is exactly what I meant about the Saints. They're like a circus that destroys everything in its path."

"Oh God." My fingers tremble again, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the mug's rim. "No, no, no..."

"Bella, breathe." Emma's hand finds mine across the table, but I can barely feel it.

All I can see are the photos from fifteen years ago, the ones Olivia Saint wielded like weapons. Images that painted me as a thief, a gold-digger, that destroyed my grandmother's reputation along with mine. If history repeats itself...

"The article's trending," Amanda says softly, her usual bubbly demeanor gone. "Boston's social circle is already buzzing."

"They're calling you the 'mystery woman.'" Alisha's voice tightens with anger. "Speculating whether you're the reason he broke his engagement to Jessica Westwood."

Ares's business card burns in my pocket like a brand. I pull it out, staring at the number that could either save me or destroy everything I've built.

"What are you going to do?" Emma asks.

The question hangs as memories flood back. Grandma’s tears as we packed our belongings. The whispers that followed us. Doors slamming in our faces when she tried to find work, the Saint family's influence reaching further than we'd imagined.

"I need to get ahead of this." My voice sounds distant, even to my own ears. "Before they can—before his parents—"

"Call him," Amanda suggests. "Set the record straight before—"

"No." I stand abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "If he can show up at my door demanding answers, so can I."

"Bella—" Emma starts, but I'm already grabbing my bag.

"The Four Seasons," I say, remembering him saying that as he gave me his business card. "That's where he's staying."

"At least let one of us come with you," Alisha protests.

But I'm already moving, anger and fear propelling me forward. Fifteen years ago, I let them control the narrative. Let them paint me as the villain in their perfectly curated world.

Not this time.

Summer air hits my face as I step outside, but I barely feel it. All I can think about is Ares's words: "This isn't me walking away."

Well, I'm not walking away either. I'm running straight at the problem, consequences be damned.

Because some truths refuse to stay buried. Some wounds never heal properly until they're reopened and cleaned out.

The Four Seasons looms ahead, its gleaming windows reflecting morning sun. Somewhere in there, Ares Saint is probably planning his next move, thinking he can control this situation like his family controls everything else.

He's about to learn how wrong he is.

Because the scared sixteen-year-old girl who let the Saints destroy her life? She died a long time ago.

And the woman who replaced her? She's done running.

I take a deep breath, Evelyn's voice echoing in my mind: 'You are stronger than you know, Isabella. Never let them see you afraid.' Her words have carried me through so many battles.

This one will be no different.