Page 15

Bella

The trip home blurs past, Boston's familiar streets warping like a funhouse mirror.

My hands shake so badly I drop the keys twice before managing to fit them into the lock.

The metal feels ice-cold against my trembling fingers despite the warm air.

Ares's words echo in my head, bouncing off the walls of my skull: "I should have come and listened to you, Red. "

That nickname. Three letters that carry the weight of fifteen years of hurt, hope, and history. It sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold and impossible to ignore.

Once inside the safety of my loft, my hands press against the door until it clicks shut. I lean back against it, letting the cool surface ground me.

Afternoon light streams through the windows, casting long shadows across my paint-splattered hardwood floors.

My latest canvas looms in the corner of my studio space, half-finished and accusatory, while exposed brick walls showcase a timeline of my work—each piece a step further from the girl I used to be.

The open layout that usually feels like freedom now seems too vast, too empty.

The image of Ares collapsing hits me like a physical blow.

One moment he stood there, all six-foot-two of Saint pride and power, processing the truth about Evelyn.

The next—God, the way his face contorted, pain etching deep lines around his eyes, his massive frame crumpling like a marionette with cut strings.

Migraine. Such a simple word for something that looked more like torture.

"Stop it," I mutter, pushing off the door. My fingers press against my temples, trying to physically push away thoughts of him. "Don't you dare start feeling sorry for him."

But my traitorous mind replays how his breathing grew ragged, how his body trembled. How could I just walk away when he was like that?

"You should have left the second he fell asleep," my voice echoes through the empty loft. "But no, you had to stay, had to make sure he was okay, like some—" I press my palms against my eyes. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Instead, I watched him sleep. Watched the lines of pain slowly ease from his face. My fingers tingle with the memory of brushing his hair back, of tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Even now, hours later, I can feel the warmth of his skin against my fingertips.

I drop onto my couch, the familiar leather cool against my paint-stained jeans.

My knees draw to my chest, a defensive posture I've perfected over fifteen years.

The moment after waking up plays on repeat—him standing in the kitchen, the careful way he handed me coffee, our fingers brushing.

The jolt that shot through me at that simple touch.

"I'm sorry. For everything."

"Fuck." The word comes out half-sob. His voice, thick with sincerity, wraps around my heart and squeezes. It shouldn't matter. Fifteen years of pain don't disappear with one apology, one moment of belief.

So why can't I stop hearing it? Why does it still hit like a punch to the ribs?

"He doesn't get to do this." I stand, resume my pacing. "He doesn't get to walk back into my life and—" The words catch in my throat. Because that's exactly what he's done, hasn't it? Walked right back in, past every wall I've built, every defense I've crafted.

And here I am, coming undone over a few gentle words and the ghost of a touch.

Stop it, Isabella.

My feet carry me to my bedroom. This sanctuary of soft textures and muted colors stands in stark contrast to the bold statements in my main living space.

Gran's old steamer trunk sits in the corner, its weathered leather and brass fixtures containing memories I usually try to avoid—a piece of my past that looks out of place among the modern furnishings, yet feels more authentic than anything else in the room.

My hands tremble as I lift the lid, and Grandma's scent washes over me—lavender.

I deliberately avoid looking at the carefully folded white fabric and yellowed photo albums nestled on top, not ready for those particular memories tonight.

Instead, I find her diaries at the bottom, wrapped carefully in one of her old scarves.

I remember her final weeks, the way she'd clutched my hand with surprising strength despite her failing body.

"If the Saints ever cause trouble again, use my diaries," she'd said, her voice weak but urgent.

I trace my fingers over the worn leather cover of the topmost journal, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything.

Gran wrote in these religiously every night, no matter how exhausted she was from working multiple jobs—jobs she'd been forced to take because no one would hire a "thief.

" She called them reflections. Just quiet observations about life in the Saint Household.

But now, I see them as something more—breadcrumbs.

What had she meant about using them? The doctors said the medication might make her confused near the end, and she'd said so many things that didn't quite make sense in those final days. Still, something about the way she'd insisted, the clarity in her eyes when she spoke of the diaries...

I pull out the first diary, while settling onto the living room couch. The pages fall open naturally, as if welcoming me home. Evelyn's elegant handwriting fills the pages, and for a moment, I can almost hear her voice:

April 12, 2006

My dearest Isabella smiled today. Really smiled. The kind that lights up her whole face and reaches her eyes. The kind I feared was lost forever after we buried her parents.

Ares. He brings out something in her I haven't seen in so long. They spent hours in the library today, and when I passed, I heard laughter drifting through the doors. Real laughter, not the polite kind these walls usually echo with.

I should be worried, I suppose, given who his family is.

The Saints aren't known for their warmth.

But there's such gentleness in that boy when he looks at her, such genuine kindness in how he treats her.

He's nothing like his parents' carefully crafted coldness.

Makes my heart glad to see that children aren't always carbon copies of their parents.

They both needed a true friend, I think. Isabella, lost in her grief, and Ares, drowning in expectations. How beautiful that they found each other. These children don't see the barriers their parents build—they just see each other.

Watching them share cookies and stories today, I saw two lonely souls connecting, nothing more, nothing less. Perhaps that's the purest kind of friendship there is.

I sigh, memories washing over me like a bittersweet tide.

Grandma had been right—Ares had brought light back into my world when everything felt dark.

Somehow, between his Latin conjugations and shared cookies, he'd made the grief feel less overwhelming.

His presence had been like a lifeline pulling me back to the surface when I was drowning in loss.

Stop it, I tell myself firmly. That same boy later became the anchor that dragged you under.

My fingers trace over her words, seeking comfort in their familiar curves and loops. What would she say now? What wisdom would she offer about this mess I've stumbled into?

The setting sun paints my loft in shades of gold and shadow, and somewhere in the city, Ares is probably still wrestling with the truths I gave him today. Part of me hopes they haunt him as much as his parents' lies have haunted me.

The other part... Well, that's the part I need to silence before it gets me into trouble. Again.

I reach for another diary, this one from later years. The pages are more worn, the ink slightly faded. My breath catches as I read the first entry:

June 2009

Sometimes the greatest joys come from simply watching love unfold. Today, I couldn't help but smile as I observed Ares and Isabella in the garden. They thought they were being subtle, those two, but a grandmother's eyes see everything.

He was supposedly studying for his Latin test, but his textbook lay forgotten as he watched Isabella sketch. The way his eyes follow her, so full of wonder—it reminds me of how Thomas used to look at me, back when the world was young and everything seemed possible.

Isabella blooms under his attention. My quiet, serious girl who used to hide behind her sketchbooks now laughs freely, her eyes sparkling whenever he's near.

Today, she was trying to teach him to draw, and oh, what a sight that was!

The mighty Saint heir, completely hopeless with a pencil, but grinning like a fool just because it made her laugh.

They bring out the best in each other. He grounds her wild dreams with gentle practicality, while she teaches him it's okay to reach for the stars sometimes. In his presence, Isabella's confidence grows. And Ares—that boy sheds his careful mask of perfection, becoming simply a young man in love.

I see them sharing books, dreams, and those sweet, secret glances that only the young can master. Their friendship has grown into something pure and beautiful, like wildflowers breaking through garden walls—unexpected but somehow perfect.

Lord knows there will be obstacles ahead. The Saints live in a different world than we do. But watching them together, seeing how they lift each other up, how they make each other stronger—perhaps love really can bridge any gap.

For now, I'll keep their secret, and pray that whatever grows between them will be strong enough to weather any storm. But watching Olivia's calculating gaze follow them across the garden today, I can't help but wonder—can love truly flourish when one side holds all the power?

"It can't," I whisper to the empty room. "You knew that, didn't you, Gran?"

My phone chimes with a text from Amanda: TURN ON YOUR TV. CHANNEL 7. NOW.