Page 14

"It doesn't change what happened." Her voice cracks, and she wraps her arms around herself like armor. "It doesn't bring Evelyn back. It doesn't fix—" she gestures between us, the space heavy with fifteen years of hurt and regret, "—any of this."

"No," I agree softly, the weight of truth settling on my shoulders like a familiar burden. "But maybe... maybe it's a start."

The silence stretches between us, filled with the ghosts of what we once were. What we could have been.

Isabella glides off her stool, each movement deliberate and graceful. My chest tightens as she grabs her jacket, the soft leather whispering against the chair back. "I need to go."

The space between us grows, and every cell in my body screams to close the distance, to grab her hand, to make her stay. But I remain frozen, my fingers white-knuckled around my coffee cup.

"I have a gallery opening in two weeks, and this scandal—" She pauses, her hand on the doorknob. The light catches her profile, painting shadows beneath her cheekbones that weren't there fifteen years ago. "I can't let your family destroy everything I've built. Not again."

"I'll make a statement." The words come out stronger than I feel. "Today. Make it clear you're not involved in the engagement situation."

"And what exactly will you say? That I'm just an old friend? The granddaughter of your former housekeeper? The girl your parents framed for theft?"

Each question hits like a body blow. "The truth."

"The truth?" A bitter laugh escapes her. "Which version, Ares? Yours? Mine? Your parents'? The media's already spinning their own story. 'Saint Heir's Secret Romance' is trending. Your mother's probably already—"

"I'll handle it." The coffee mug in my hand meets the granite with a loud thud.

"You don't get it, do you?" She turns back to face me, daylight catching the tears she's fighting to hold back. "Your world and mine? They're different universes. You can make all the statements you want, but your parents—if they don't like it, they'll find a way to twist it. They always do."

My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, my mother's name lighting up the screen. As if summoned by our conversation. I silence it, but not before catching a glimpse of the dozens of missed calls and messages.

"Isabella, wait." I close the distance and reach for her hand before I can stop myself, surprised when she doesn't pull away.

"I promise I'll fix this."

Her fingers tremble in mine, and for a moment, I see a flash of the girl she used to be—the one who believed in forever, in us. But then she withdraws, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Sainty." The old nickname, spoken with such sadness, nearly breaks me. "We both know how that ends."

She opens the door. "Take care of that migraine. And... handle the press however you want. Just please, keep my name out of it if you can."

"Isabella—"

But she's already gone, the soft click of the door echoing through my chest like a gunshot. My hand grips the doorknob, knuckles white with the effort of not yanking it open and chasing after her. Every muscle in my body screams to follow, to make her understand that this time will be different.

Instead, I rest my forehead against the cool wood, breathing in the lingering traces of her—watermelon and paint, a combination that splits my heart wide open.

She needs space. Hell, I need it too. The truth about my parents' manipulation sits in my gut like molten lead, burning and twisting with each passing second.

Fifteen years of believing she betrayed me, only to discover I'm the one who failed her.

The rage builds in my chest, threatening to crack my ribs from the inside out.

My phone buzzes again—the sound grating against my already frayed nerves.

Each step toward the kitchen counter feels like fighting through quicksand, my body heavy with the weight of revelation.

Mother's name flashes on the screen, relentless as always.

Just seeing it ignites something primal in my chest, a burning need to finally confront one of the architects of all this pain.

The moment I answer her voice cuts across the connection, keen as a scalpel. "Ares Theodore Saint. Have you lost your mind?" Each word drips with calculated disdain. "Really, Ares? Her again?"

My fingers tighten around the phone as she spits out description after description, each one more degrading than the last. The "help's granddaughter." The "thieving little witch." The "social-climbing opportunist." Each title she gives Isabella sends rage coursing through my veins like liquid fire.

"Do you have any idea how this looks?" She doesn't pause for breath. "First, you humiliate us at your engagement party, and now you're photographed sneaking into her building like some lovesick teenager? The Saint name—"

"I don't give a damn how it looks." My voice comes out low, controlled, though my free hand clenches into a fist against the counter. "Who I see and talk to stopped being your business the day I walked away."

"Walked away?" Her laugh cuts like broken glass. "You're having a momentary lapse in judgment, darling. All this pressure of being the Saint heir, the expectations... it's clearly affected you more than we realized."

The patronizing tone makes my muscles coil tight. I pace the kitchen like a caged animal, trying to contain the fury building in my chest. "This isn't a phase or a breakdown, Mother. I'm building my own life now, making my own choices."

"Don't be ridiculous." Dismissal drips from every syllable. "You're a Saint. This little act of rebellion might feel liberating, but it's time to come home and face your responsibilities."

I slam my palm against the counter, welcoming the sting. "We'll handle this situation." Mother's voice turns silky smooth, raising every hair on my neck. "I'm thinking a brief statement about stress-induced poor judgment, followed by—"

"No." The word cracks like a whip. "You don't get to handle anything anymore. Not my life, not my choices, and especially not Isabella."

"Isabella?" The temperature in her voice plummets. "Ah yes, Miss Jenkins. Perhaps she needs a gentle reminder about staying in her lane—"

"Don't." My grip tightens until the phone case creaks in protest. "If ou go anywhere near her, or try to hurt her again, I swear to God, Mother—"

"Again?" she cuts in, voice sharp with manufactured innocence. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Now, about those photos—"

"The photos are nothing." The lie tastes bitter, but necessary. "We had one conversation, nothing more. And it stays that way. So no statements, no PR team, no damage control."

"Darling, be reasonable—"

"I said no." Steel enters my voice. "Leave it alone. Leave her alone."

"Ares Theodore—"

I end the call, letting the phone clatter onto the counter. The silence that follows feels loaded, dangerous. My heart pounds against my ribs as I brace both hands on the counter, head hanging between my shoulders. Because I know my mother—this isn't over. Not by a long shot.

The keycard beeps just as I glide the phone back into my pocket. Familiar footsteps follow, then Ethan's voice: "Thought I'd check in since you've gone radio silent for hours."

He stops short when he sees me. "Jesus, you look like shit. What happened?"

I collapse onto the couch as Ethan steps closer, studying my face with the kind of scrutiny that comes from years of friendship. "Migraine?"

"Yep... this morning."

"Meds?"

"Took them hours ago, Dad." I manage a weak smirk. "Want to check my temperature and tuck me in too?"

"Keep being a smartass and I might." But there's warmth in his tone that makes my chest tight. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have a friend like him.

"Isabella was here." The words burst out before I can stop them.

Ethan's head snaps up. He follows me to the kitchen, where I desperately make another coffee. "When?"

"This morning."

"Before the migraine started?"

I wince, remembering the thundering pain. "No. She was... she was here when it happened."

Ethan's eyebrows shoot up, and I know he wants the full story.

With a sigh, I lean against the counter and tell him everything—the confrontation, Bella's version of what happened fifteen years ago, my memory of Father interrogating Evelyn, Evelyn's death, my mother's call. Each word feels like pulling teeth, but somehow lighter once they're out.

"Holy fucking shit on a gold-plated cracker." Ethan lets out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, and Evelyn is dead." My voice cracks. "While I was off at Swiss boarding schools and fancy universities, she was working herself to death because of my parents."

"Hey." Ethan's hand grips my shoulder. "This isn't on you. You were a kid."

"I should have known. Should have questioned—"

"What? Your parents? The people who controlled every aspect of your life since birth?" His voice softens before turning thoughtful. "But you know what's bugging me? Those payments to Wells. Two million is a lot of hush money just for planting evidence."

I frown. "What are you thinking?"

"That conversation you overheard? Your father grilling Evelyn about a missing document in his office?" Ethan leans forward, his expression intense. "What if Wells is connected to that somehow?"

The implications turn my stomach.

"The question is," Ethan's eyes narrow, "what could be worth that kind of money? And how does it connect to what happened to Isabella and Evelyn?"

I sigh. "I don't know. But what I do know is that I won't let Isabella get caught in this shitstorm. Not again." The words come out rough, like they're being dragged across broken glass. "Those photos of me at her place? Mother saw them. Said she will 'handle' it."

"And let me guess—you told Mommy Dearest to back off?" Ethan's lips twist into a sardonic smile. "Because that always works so well. Might as well ask a shark to go vegan."

I grunt.

"Come on." Ethan grabs my shoulder, steering me toward the door. "You need food, alcohol, and not necessarily in that order."

I let him guide me down to the hotel's upscale bar and restaurant, too drained to argue. The space is dimly lit, all dark wood and leather, perfect for hiding from the world. We slide into a corner booth far from prying eyes.

"Maybe now that they've seen my resignation letter, they'll finally get the hint that you're not coming back," Ethan says after we order, his usual playful smirk softening into something more genuine.

I snort, tracing the condensation on my water glass. "Doubt it. They see what they want to see. To them, this is just another phase, another act of rebellion they need to contain."

"Like that time in Switzerland," he says, eyes dancing with mischief, "when we snuck out to that local pub?"

"You mean when you convinced me it was a 'cultural experience' we couldn't miss?"

"Hey, those sheep farmers taught us some quality German curse words." His grin is infectious. "That was the first time I saw you really laugh. Not that polite Saint chuckle, but actually laugh."

The memory warms something in my chest. "Father was furious when the principal informed him."

"Yeah, but it was worth it." Ethan's voice turns serious. "That's what I'm trying to say, man. The real you? The one who laughs at stupid jokes and stands up for what he believes in? That guy's worth all this chaos."

I meet his gaze, grateful not for the first time that he ended up as my roommate all those years ago. "When did you get so wise?"

"Please, I've always been the brains of this operation." He raises his glass. "To telling the Saints to go f—"

My phone buzzes, cutting through our moment of peace. We both freeze, our eyes locked on the screen as we read the notification.

"Breaking News: 'He Left Me For His Secret Lover'—Jessica Westwood Breaks Down Over Saint Heir's Hidden Romance."

My stomach drops as I scan the article. There she is—Jessica, perfectly positioned on a park bench, designer sunglasses unable to hide her "devastated" tears as she clutches a tissue.

The photographer somehow managed to capture the exact moment a breeze lifted her hair just so, making her look like a tragic heroine in some twisted romance novel.

"Well," Ethan whispers, setting down his fork, "looks like someone else just made their first move."

I snatch up the phone, my fingers white-knuckled around the edges as I read further.

"I thought what we had was real," sources close to Miss Westwood report.

"To find out he's been secretly seeing someone else.

.. it explains everything." The article shows Jessica looking perfectly devastated in designer sunglasses, every camera angle calculated to capture her 'grief. '

"I just hope she knows what she's getting into," Jessica continues, her performance worthy of an Oscar. "Though I suppose any woman willing to break up an engagement already knows exactly what she's doing."

The hairs on the nape of my neck rise. My mother's fingerprints are all over this. This isn't just a story—it's character assassination wrapped in designer grief, and Isabella is the target. Again.

Ethan scrolls below and grunts. "It's already going viral."

Fuck!