Page 16

A cold knot twists in my stomach as I push off the couch, my feet carrying me toward the kitchen where the remote lies abandoned on the side table. My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for it, dread making even this simple movement feel clumsy and uncertain.

The TV flickers to life, and my breath catches in my throat.

There on the screen, the local news is running a story about Ares's broken engagement, and there I am, walking into the Four Seasons.

My legs go weak, forcing me to grip the back of the couch for support.

Oh shit. The caption burns into my retinas: "Saint Heir's Secret Romance: The Real Reason Behind Broken Engagement? "

The blood drains from my face as they splice in old photos from our teenage years.

My knees buckle and I sink onto the couch, watching as they display a grainy shot of Ares and me in the Saint family garden.

His arm around my waist, both of us laughing.

The image hits me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.

It's one of Gran's photos—I'd know her work anywhere.

She always carried that old Polaroid camera, claiming she needed to document the "little moments of joy" in life.

The memory slams into me with such force that my vision blurs.

That day in the garden, Ares trying to teach me chess.

My hands had been everywhere, gesturing wildly about some point I was trying to make, accidentally sending pieces flying.

Instead of getting angry, he'd thrown his head back and laughed—that pure, unrestrained sound that had drawn his mother's disapproving attention from above.

My skin prickles with goosebumps at the memory of that moment, of Gran capturing that perfect slice of happiness.

My stomach lurches as another photo appears.

This one of us on the garden bench, his fingers intertwined with mine.

A tremor runs through my body. God, we were so young.

So naive. The way he's looking at me in the photo—like I'm something precious, something rare—makes my chest constrict until breathing becomes a conscious effort.

"How did they get these?" The words scrape out of my raw throat.

Then realization hits like a punch to the gut, making me double over.

The day we were thrown out. Everything happened so fast, guards hovering as we frantically packed.

Her photo albums, decades of memories... we'd had to leave them behind.

Bile rises in my throat, bitter and burning. "She thought they'd destroy them," I whisper, my voice quivering. Gran had mentioned it during those first hellish weeks after our expulsion. "At least those memories will be ashes now. The Saints never keep anything they can't control."

My fingernails dig crescents into my palms. They hadn't destroyed the photos. No, they'd kept them, stored them like ammunition, waiting for the perfect moment to use them against us. Even Gran's precious memories have become weapons in their arsenal.

The muscles in my jaw clench as Jessica Westwood appears on screen, perched delicately on a park bench. My teeth grind together as I take in her perfect pose—the picture of dignified heartbreak in her cream Chanel suit, designer sunglasses pushed up to reveal carefully reddened eyes.

"I should have known something was wrong," she says softly, each word dripping with manufactured vulnerability. "The late meetings, the missed calls, the way he'd get so defensive about his phone..."

"What?" I shoot up from the couch, blood roaring in my ears. My hands shake so violently I have to clench them into fists. "I wasn't even—this is bullshit!"

Jessica continues her Oscar-worthy performance, each word sending fresh waves of nausea through my system. "Sources close to Ares confirmed they'd been seeing each other secretly. That she'd been waiting all these years, plotting her return."

My chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths. The room starts to spin.

"I did no such thing!" I shout at the screen, my voice cracking. Sweat breaks out across my forehead as rage courses through my veins like liquid fire. "I was minding my own business until your ex-fiancé walked into my life!"

My hands tremble so violently I can barely type the text to Amanda: Are you seeing this? They're painting me as some kind of man-stealing succubus!

I switch off the TV, but my body won’t stop shaking.

Silence presses in from all sides, suffocating.

My legs give out and I slump back onto the couch, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could physically hold the pieces together.

Fifteen years ago, I was a thief. Now I’m a homewrecker.

The seductress. The woman who waited in the shadows to destroy a perfect engagement.

The Saints still hold the brush—and once again, they’re painting me the villain.

History really does have a way of repeating itself.

Pulling Evelyn's diary closer, I seek refuge in her words:

Isabella asked me today why Mrs. Saint always watches her so carefully.

My clever girl senses what I've feared—that Olivia Saint sees her as a threat, not just to their social standing, but to their carefully laid plans for Ares.

I told her it was nothing, but I wonder if I should have warned her instead.

A knock at my door startles me from the entry, followed by multiple voices arguing. The sound echoes off the exposed brick walls, bringing life to my too-quiet space.

"I told you we should've called first—" Emma's gentle voice.

"With the Saints probably circling like vultures? No way—" Alisha's sharp response cuts through the air.

"Will you both shush? Bella! Open up!" Amanda's commanding tone rises above their bickering.

The moment I unlock the door, my senses are overwhelmed.

The rich aroma of fresh-baked cookies mingles with Amanda's signature perfume—something expensive and French—and Alisha's favorite coconut shampoo.

My three best friends tumble in like a whirlwind of warmth and comfort, their presence immediately filling the hollow spaces of my loft.

Emma clutches a box from Simply Irresistible, the cardboard still warm, releasing waves of chocolate and butter that make my empty stomach clench.

Alisha brandishes wine bottles like weapons, the glass clinking musically as she moves.

Amanda follows with rustling paper bags, their contents promising every comfort food imaginable.

They spread through the space with familiar ease, each movement choreographed by years of friendship.

Amanda's heels click purposefully against the hardwood as she claims my industrial-style kitchen, the steel countertops soon covered with their offerings.

The soft whisper of Alisha's silk blouse accompanies her as she claims her usual spot on my oversized leather couch, the vintage piece creaking its familiar welcome.

Emma slips off her ballet flats, continuing on bare feet as she pads softly across the floor, moving through my cupboards with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where everything lives.

The gentle clink of glasses mingles with the distant hum of city traffic filtering through my windows.

The sweet, buttery aroma of cookies wafts as Emma lifts the lid, fresh-baked comfort permeating the air. And while Amanda splashes the wine, Alisha declares, "We have a plan."

"First, cookies," Emma interjects softly. The ceramic plates whisper against each other as she pulls them from my cupboard. "You look like you haven't eaten all day."

"Then wine," Amanda adds. The cork releases with a satisfying pop, and the rich aroma of expensive cabernet fills the air. "Lots of wine."

"And more wine," Alisha adds, the leather couch sighing as she settles deeper into it.

I sink onto the couch beside her, the familiar texture both grounding and comforting. The cookie Emma presses into my hand is still warm enough to be slightly gooey, and the wine Amanda offers carries the bite of tannins and the promise of temporary escape. "Thank you."

Emma perches on the arm of the couch, her hand finding my shoulder. The gentle weight of her touch sends warmth spreading through my chest, a physical reminder that I'm not alone. As we all take synchronized sips, the familiar ritual of friendship offers more comfort than any words could.

Amanda's eyes narrow on Evelyn's diary, her perfectly manicured nail tapping against her wine glass. "What's that?"

"Gran's journals." My fingers tremble slightly as they trace the worn leather cover, the familiar texture both comforting and painful. "I've been reading them, trying to... I don't know. Make sense of everything, maybe?"

"Sometimes the past holds answers we need for the present," Emma says quietly.

Amanda straightens in her chair, all business. "Let's talk about diaries later. Right now, we need to deal with Jessica's little performance on Channel 7."

I sink deeper into the couch, my spine curving under the weight of it all. "You saw that?"

"I think the whole world saw it." Alisha's knuckles whiten around her wine glass. "Poor, gracious Jessica." Her lip curls in disgust. "I nearly threw my phone at the TV."

"She played it perfectly." The wine burns my throat as I take a long sip, trying to wash away the bitterness. "Makes me look like the villain."

Amanda leans forward in her reading chair, her expression calculating. "That's why we need to be smart about this. No responding to provocations, no public statements—"

"How did your conversation with Ares go this morning?" Emma's gentle question cuts through Amanda's strategic planning. "Before all this media circus started?"

The half-eaten cookie turns to ash in my mouth. I set it down with shaking fingers, my stomach clenching as images flash through my mind—Ares's face contorting in pain, his massive frame crumpling like a fallen giant.

"I told him everything." The words scrape out, barely above a whisper. My fingers twist in my lap as I force myself to continue. "About his mother framing me, about how his parents destroyed Gran's life, led to her..." My throat closes around the words. "He didn't take it well."

"What, did he throw a Saint-sized tantrum?" Alisha scoffs, her bracelets jangling as she gestures dismissively. "Poor little rich boy finding out mommy's not perfect?"

"He had a migraine attack." Heat floods my face as I snap the words out. My hands clench into fists in my lap.

Amanda sets her wine down, leaning forward until her elbows rest on her knees. "What did you do?"

A flush creeps up my neck, spreading across my cheeks. "I helped him. Got his medication, stayed until the worst passed."

"And then you left?" Alisha's question slices through the air.

My silence stretches like taffy, telling more than words ever could.

"Oh, Bella." Alisha's face softens, but her shoulders remain tense. "I see it already happening. You're getting wrapped up in him again."

"I couldn't just leave him like that!" The words explode from my chest as I surge to my feet. "You weren't there, Alisha. You didn't see—" My voice cracks as the memory hits fresh. "It was horrifying to watch."

"You should have left," she repeats.

"Would you walk away if Cole was in that kind of pain? Even if you were furious with him?"

"Cole would’ve never let his mother accuse me of theft and destroyed my life." Alisha's voice cracks like a whip, though her eyes shine with worry rather than anger.

"What Bella did shows compassion," Emma interjects, her calm voice washing over us like a cool breeze. "Taking care of someone in need, especially someone who hurt you—that takes strength, not weakness."

My eyes meet Emma's understanding gaze, grateful for the lifeline. But Alisha's words echo in my skull, mixing with the memory of Ares's voice this morning, thick with sleep and something that felt dangerously like tenderness.

The sudden buzz of my phone makes us all jump. Ares's name illuminates the screen.

"What the hell?" Alisha launches from the couch, wine sloshing dangerously. "You gave him your number?"

My heart slams against my ribs as I stare at the phone, its glow almost accusatory in the dimming light.

Amanda's chair scrapes against the floor as she leans forward. "When did this happen?"

"At the hotel," I say in a whisper. "After the migraine hit. I might have scribbled it on a note but then I stayed and fell asleep."

"Just like that?" Alisha throws her hands up. "Bella, come on!"

"Let it go to voicemail," Amanda advises, but Emma shakes her head, her fingers gentle on my arm.

"Maybe you should talk to him," Emma says softly, earning shocked looks from both Amanda and Alisha. "What?"

"Think about it. With everything that's happening—the media circus, his mother's and ex-fiancée's machinations—Ares might be the only person who can actually influence how this plays out."

"Or he could be setting her up for another fall," Alisha argues. "We all know what his family is capable of."

The phone stops ringing, and the silence feels heavy. A voicemail notification pops up almost immediately.

"Emma has a point," Amanda says thoughtfully. "If the Saints are going to come after you anyway, having Ares on your side might not be the worst thing."

"On her side?" Alisha scoffs. "He's a Saint. Their side is the problem."

"He's also the man who just publicly broke off his engagement and believes Bella's truth after fifteen years," Emma points out. "That has to count for something."

My phone buzzes with a text: Please call me back, Red. It's important.

I close my eyes, feeling pulled in a dozen different directions.

My heart races at that nickname, even as my mind screams at me to be careful.

Every cell in my body seems to be at war—the part that remembers the boy who loved me, fighting against the part that remembers how thoroughly his family destroyed my life.

"This is your choice, Bella," Emma says gently, her hand warm on my shoulder. "We'll support you either way, but you need to decide what you want."

What do I want? The question echoes in the sudden silence. Two weeks ago, my life made sense. I had my art, my friends, my carefully constructed walls. Now, with Ares's return, everything's turned into a battlefield I never asked for, with casualties I never meant to create.