Page 12

But I had tried. That first night, I'd climbed out my window, desperate to reach her, to understand.

Security caught me before I made it to the gates.

The next morning, they showed me the security footage again and again, my mother's voice soft but relentless: "See how they took advantage of you, darling?

A hormonal teenager from a good family—you were an easy target.

This is why you need to stay with your own kind, people who understand our world. "

My head and heart had been a war zone. Every instinct screamed that Isabella wouldn't steal, couldn't be capable of such betrayal.

But there was the footage, playing on loop, and my parents' constant reminders of how naive I'd been, how blind to manipulation.

By the time they shipped me to Switzerland, I didn't know what to believe anymore.

"You never even looked back," she continues, tears of fury gleaming in her eyes. "While your parents threw us out and made Grandma's life a living hell!"

"What are you talking about?" The confusion in my voice is genuine, and something dark flashes across her face.

"Oh, you don't know?" Her tone turns bitter as winter.

"They blacklisted her from every decent job in Boston.

" Each word drops like acid, deliberate and burning.

"Do you know what it's like watching your grandmother work three minimum wage jobs just to keep us afloat?

To see her hands shake from exhaustion after sixteen-hour shifts?

To hear her cry at night when she thought I was sleeping, wondering how she'd pay for my art supplies? "

My stomach lurches. "I need to talk to her. Now."

"You can't."

"Then I'll find her myself." I move toward the door, desperation clawing up my throat.

Isabella's laugh shatters the air like broken glass. "She's dead, Ares."

The world stops.

"Four years after your family destroyed our lives." Her voice drops to a whisper that slices straight through me. "She worked herself to death because no one would hire a 'thief.'"

My knees buckle, forcing me to grab the nearest wall for support as the floor seems to tilt beneath me.

"Dead." The word detonates in my skull, transforming the threatening migraine into an inferno.

White-hot pain floods my temples, each heartbeat a hammer strike against raw nerves.

The room pirouettes around me, and even the whisper of air conditioning feels like steel wool scraping across my brain.

That familiar metallic taste coats my tongue—harbinger of the worst to come.

The city sounds drift up from below, each horn blast and siren wail like shards of glass in my skull. Light fragments through crystal glasses on the minibar, their rainbow reflections turning into deadly projectiles. My shirt collar morphs into a python, crushing my throat with each ragged breath.

"I need—" One step toward the bathroom sends volcanic pain erupting behind my eyes.

My fingers find the chair back, gripping until wood bites into flesh.

The room careens like a carnival ride gone wrong, and acid crawls up my throat.

The tremor starts small—just a flutter in my fingertips—but spreads like wildfire until my entire body vibrates with barely contained chaos. My legs dissolve beneath me.

"Ares?" Isabella's voice, soft with concern, still manages to pierce my defenses. "What's wrong?"

I flinch at the gentleness I don't deserve.

"Migraine." The words scrape past clenched teeth. "Please—I need my pills."

"Where are they?"

"Bathroom."

Her footsteps fade, each one echoing in my skull. I collapse into the chair, pressing trembling palms against my burning eyes. Every pulse brings fresh agony, while those two words circle like sharks: Evelyn's dead. Evelyn's dead.

Evelyn. The memories ambush me: her conspiratorial wink as warm cookies appeared beside my textbooks, her weathered hands patiently teaching clumsy fingers to tie shoelaces, that knowing smile that could chase away my darkest moods.

The phantom sweetness of chocolate chips turns to ash on my tongue as reality crashes in: she died thinking I'd betrayed them both.

"Here are two pills and some water." Isabella's whisper floats through my darkness. I try to look at her—need to see her face—but light becomes daggers, forcing a pained grunt as my eyes slam shut.

I lift my hand, palm up, and she responds instantly. Cool glass meets my fingers as two small tablets drop into my other palm.

I swallow them quickly, desperately willing them to work before my rebelling stomach can reject them. The water slides down my throat, cold against the fever burning through me, as guilt and grief wage war beneath my skin.

"You should lie down."

Her gentle tone makes my jaw clench. After everything I've done, the last thing I want to hear is sympathy in her voice.

I rise to escape her seeing me like this. "I don't need—"

The words catch in my throat as pain lances through my head. My stomach heaves, and suddenly her hands grip my shoulders, steadying me.

"Still stubborn as ever." The words float up, soft and knowing. "Some things never change."

One step, two steps, three—the familiar path tells me exactly where she's leading me. The bedroom.

"Lie down while I close the curtains," she whispers moments later.

The king-sized bed dips beneath me. Her arm around my waist is both foreign and achingly familiar as she guides me, her touch careful but firm.

The scent of her—paint and something uniquely Isabella—surrounds me for a brief moment before she steps away.

My stomach rolls and churns, each wave threatening to overwhelm me, but the ghost of her touch lingers, a different kind of ache altogether.

I draw in measured breaths through my nose, trying to anchor myself, but the pain drills into my skull, crushing and merciless. Through the fog of agony, something shifts—a whisper of movement, the subtle warmth of another body nearby.

"You're still here?"

The silence stretches for a heartbeat before her soft voice says, "Of course I'm still here. I'm not a person who leaves when someone is visibly in pain. No matter how insufferable they are." A forced lightness colors her words but can't quite mask the underlying concern.

Her response pierces something tender and vulnerable inside me. The truth of it aches—I've been worse than insufferable. She has every reason to turn her back, to walk away without a backward glance.

My chest constricts, guilt coiling around my ribs like a thorny vine.

"I wouldn't blame you," I rasp after a while. "If you left."

Silence stretches between us as I focus on my breathing, trying to quell the nausea that threatens to shatter what little dignity I have left. The last thing I need is to vomit in front of her.

God, what must she think of me now? Ares Saint, crumpled and weak in a dark hotel room.

Weakness is unacceptable for a Saint.

My father's voice slices through my consciousness, dragging me back to that first attack in Switzerland. The memory crashes over me with perfect clarity—our dorm room's fluorescent lights morphing into white-hot needles, Ethan's face swimming above mine, his trademark smirk replaced by naked fear.

"Ares? Christ, what's happening?"

"My head—" The words had strangled in my throat as the world tilted. "Something's wrong. Could be a brain bleed—"

"Shit." Ethan's voice cracked as he snatched his phone. "I'm calling an ambulance."

Those next hours blurred into a nightmare carousel of faces and sensations: paramedics' urgent voices, endless hospital corridors, the claustrophobic tomb of the MRI machine. Ethan never left, his presence a lifeline while my skull waged war against itself.

"Chronic migraine disorder." The neurologist's German accent had carved through my fog, clinical and precise. "Often stress-induced, among other triggers."

My father's laugh had shattered the sterile hospital air. "Stress?" Each word dripped with contempt. "He's seventeen. What could he possibly know about stress?"

"Mr. Saint, adolescent stress levels can significantly—"

"It's merely a headache." His voice had slammed down like a gavel. "An inconvenience we'll manage."

Inconvenience. Fifteen years later, and that word still burns like acid. As if my brain attempting suicide through my eye sockets was nothing more than a scheduling hiccup.

The medication seeps through my veins like warm honey, drawing a thick curtain across my thoughts.

I fight it, unwilling to show weakness in front of Isabella, but my body surrenders anyway.

Through the encroaching darkness, I feel phantom fingers brush my temple—so gentle I might have imagined it.

Her touch is different now, more guarded than fifteen years ago, yet somehow infinitely more tender than memory allows.

"Shh." Her whisper floats somewhere between past and present. "Just sleep."

Consciousness slips away before I can catch it, but even as darkness claims me, my skin remembers the careful distance in her touch—a map of everything we've lost.