Page 13

Ares

My eyes crack open to darkness, consciousness seeping back like molasses. Everything aches—my head, neck, my fucking soul. The migraine has receded to a dull throb, but the memory of pain lingers in my bones. My mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton, tongue thick and useless.

A shadow shifts by the window. My heart slams against my ribs as I blink, sure I'm hallucinating. But no—Isabella's here, curled on the stool like a content cat, her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

She stayed . Through my moment of complete vulnerability, when I was nothing but a shell of the composed Saint heir.

Then her words echo: "She died, Ares." Evelyn. Christ. My throat closes as memories assault me—chocolate chip cookies, gentle smiles.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady the storm brewing in my chest. My head's still too fragile for this emotional onslaught, but I can't tear my eyes from Isabella's sleeping form. She looks peaceful now, so different from that day fifteen years ago.

That fucking day.

The memory crashes over me like a tidal wave.

I'd just returned from a three-day business trip with my father—one I hadn't wanted to attend.

He'd confiscated my phone, insisting I needed to "focus on being the heir.

" All I could think about was getting back to Isabella, stealing a moment in our secret garden spot.

Instead, I walked into a nightmare.

"Wait in the living room," Mom had said, voice tight with something I couldn't name.

Then the voices started—sharp, urgent whispers from Father's study. The door opened, and my heart stopped at Isabella's cry. Multiple footsteps thundered down the hallway.

I remember every excruciating detail. How I moved toward the commotion like a puppet on strings, feet carrying me forward before my mind could catch up.

The scene burned itself into my memory with cruel precision: Isabella and Evelyn being escorted out by our security team, Jacob and Finn flanking them like prison guards.

Evelyn's fingers white-knuckled around Isabella's hand, her usually warm face drained of color.

When Isabella's eyes found mine across the marble foyer, they held a desperate plea that haunts me still.

"Ares, please—" she'd said.

My mother's manicured hand gripped my arm. "Don't listen to her, darling. The evidence is quite clear. I'll show you once they're gone."

And she did, and I fell for it.

I push myself up from the bed, muscles protesting after hours of stillness.

My feet carry me to where Isabella sleeps, curled up on the stool like she used to do in the library during our study sessions.

Even in darkness, she glows—all soft curves and gentle breaths, red hair spilling over her shoulder like liquid fire.

My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to brush back that errant strand, to trace the slope of her cheek. But I can't. That right was forfeited fifteen years ago.

The living room's overhead lights make me wince. Migraine hangovers are bitches, but they're an old friend by now. Like a demanding ex who shows up uninvited and leaves you feeling wrung out.

I pace the suite, hyper-aware of her presence just feet away. Questions circle my mind like hungry sharks.

Suddenly another memory surfaces through the migraine fog, one I'd forgotten until now. Two weeks before the theft accusations, I'd been passing Father's office when I heard his voice—sharp, controlled, but with an edge I rarely heard.

"Mrs. Jenkins, I'm missing a very important piece of paper. Did you happen to see or find a piece of paper with my handwriting... while cleaning my office?"

I'd paused, curious about the tension in his tone. Through the partially open door, I saw Evelyn standing straight-backed in her familiar gray uniform, hands clasped in front of her.

"No, sir, I did not," she replied, her voice steady despite the tension in the room.

"And when you emptied the bins," Father's voice took on an odd intensity, "did you notice anything... unusual? Any documents that caught your attention?"

Even then, something about his urgency had seemed off. Father was always particular about his office, but this felt different. More desperate.

"Sir, I've been cleaning this office the same way I've done for years," Evelyn's voice remained dignified. "I empty the bins into the cleaning cart and take them straight to the dumpster. I don't look through the papers—never have, never will."

"And you're absolutely certain nothing caught your attention? Nothing seemed... out of place?"

"No, sir. Just regular cleaning, like always."

He'd dismissed her after that, but I remember the way his eyes followed her out, calculating and cold. As if he didn't quite believe her. At the time, I'd brushed it off as Father's usual perfectionism. Now...

Uneasiness rises as pieces shift in my mind, forming a picture I'm not sure I want to see. Father never lost anything—his office was a monument to meticulous organization. Whatever she knew—or whatever he thought she had seen or taken must have been critical... dangerous, even.

My fingers dig into my temple, but the pressure does nothing to ease the growing darkness in my gut that's spreading like poison.

I need to ask Isabella about it, find out if Evelyn ever mentioned that confrontation. But part of me dreads what other truths might surface. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.

The kitchen beckons—a distraction, at least. The familiar ritual of making coffee grounds me. Measure, pour, press start. The machine hums to life as I grab the sugar bowl, remembering how Isabella used to dump four heaping spoonfuls into her coffee, earning disgusted looks from my mother.

A soft sound snaps my head up. Isabella stands in the bedroom doorway, sleep-rumpled and stunning. Her eyes rake over me, and I drink her in just as greedily—the oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, her jacket draped over her arm.

"How're you feeling?" Her voice is rough with sleep, infinitely softer than the razor-edged anger from before.

"Better. Just dealing with the migraine hangover now."

"I didn't know that was a thing." She crosses her arms, but there's curiosity in her tone.

"Oh yeah. Imagine the worst regular hangover, then add in this fun thing where your brain feels like it's been put through a blender and reassembled by a drunk toddler."

A chuckle escapes her—the sound hits me right in the chest, warm and familiar. God, I've missed that laugh.

"Coffee?" I gesture to the machine, trying to keep my voice steady, casual. This feels too delicate, like one wrong move could shatter whatever temporary peace we've found.

She nods, and I busy myself with the cups, stealing glances as she moves toward the kitchen island. Each step draws my attention like a magnet—the sway of her hips, the quiet grace that's matured from teenage awkwardness into something devastating.

I slide a steaming cup her way as she settles onto the high chair, following it with the sugar bowl. Our fingers brush accidentally, and we both jerk back as if burned. "Still drinking diabetes in a cup?"

"Not all of us are masochists." Her lips quirk up as she dumps four heaping spoonfuls into her coffee. "This brown gold needs to be enjoyed, not feared."

We both chuckle, but the sound fades into something heavier as our eyes meet across the granite counter. The familiar green of her irises pins me in place, and before I can stop myself, the question spills out, raw and vulnerable. "Was she... was she mad at me?"

Bella goes still, her fingers frozen around her mug.

Her gaze drops to the steam rising from her coffee, and I watch as emotions play across her face—pain, memory, something softer I can't quite name.

She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, a gesture so achingly familiar it makes my chest tight.

When she finally looks up, there's a sheen in her eyes that makes my throat close.

"She never blamed you, Ares." Her voice is soft, gentle in a way that makes me feel seventeen again. "Even after everything, she'd say, 'That boy has a good heart.'"

My fingers tighten around my cup until my knuckles turn white. "I should have questioned it. The theft, the accusations... None of it fit who she was. Who you were."

"Why didn't you?" Her voice trembles, and the raw pain in those three words cuts deeper than her anger ever could.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with fifteen years of unspoken truths. Finally, I force myself to meet her eyes, to show her what happened after she was gone.

"They orchestrated everything perfectly.

Kept showing me the security footage of you taking the necklaces, over and over.

Took my phone so I couldn't call you. Had Wells describe in detail how they found the jewelry in your cottage.

" My voice turns bitter. "Everything presented with such surgical precision that questioning it felt impossible. "

I watch the horror spread across her face as I paint the picture of my parents' manipulation. "And I—" my voice cracks with shame, "I believed them."

I'd chosen to believe the worst of the girl I loved rather than face the possibility that my parents could lie. The realization sits like broken glass in my chest, sharp and cutting with each breath.

"I'm sorry." The words scrape out of my throat, raw and vulnerable. In the quiet kitchen, they land like thunder, echoing off the granite counters and settling in the space between us.

Isabella goes still, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her lips.

"I should have come to you. Should have listened. Should have trusted what I knew in my heart about you, Red."

The nickname slips out before I can catch it, and I see her flinch. For a heartbeat, we're teenagers again—young and foolish and so desperately in love, stealing kisses behind rose bushes and making promises we couldn't keep. The memory of her taste, her touch, crashes through me like a tidal wave.