Page 17

Ares

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

The words crawl across the bottom of my hotel room's massive TV screen as I pour another scotch.

My hands shake with barely contained rage as Jessica appears, perfectly positioned on a park bench, designer sunglasses unable to hide her "devastated" tears as she clutches a tissue.

First the article, now even on fucking television.

"I should have known something was wrong," she says, vulnerability dripping from every carefully chosen word. "The late meetings, the missed calls… My friends tried to warn me about his first love," Jessica continues, dabbing at her eyes with practiced precision.

"What late meetings?" I snarl at the screen, scotch burning down my throat. "What fucking calls? You're lying through your perfectly whitened teeth, Jessica."

Then the photos appear—old ones that sucker punch me right in the gut.

Isabella and me in the Saint family garden, my fingers intertwined with hers, looking at her like she hung the moon.

I remember that moment with crystal clarity.

Evelyn and her ancient Polaroid camera, always capturing what she called "moments of joy. "

God, Evelyn. The way she'd straighten my tie before events, her touch more maternal than my own mother's had ever been. Now she's gone, and I never knew. Never got to say goodbye to the woman who made that mansion feel less like a prison and more like a home.

The TV drones on, speculation about our "affair" growing more ridiculous by the minute. "Sources close to Ares confirmed they'd been seeing each other secretly," Jessica claims, dabbing at her eyes. "That she'd been waiting all these years, plotting her return."

"You manipulative bitch." The words taste like acid. "You know damn well there were no secret meetings."

The public eats it up though. They love their scandal, their fairy tale romance gone wrong.

They don't care about the truth—about a scared teenage boy who believed his parents' lies, about a young woman whose life was destroyed, about a grandmother who worked herself to death because no one would hire a "thief. "

I switch off the TV, the silence sudden and heavy.

The city lights of Boston twinkle beyond my suite's floor-to-ceiling windows.

The scotch burns going down when my phone rings.

I take the call, and my mother's perfectly controlled voice fills the line.

"Darling, we need to discuss your return to Los Angeles. "

Still consumed with the despicable TV interview, I snap, "No. We need to discuss Jessica's little performance on Channel 7."

"Theodore, he's being difficult again." Her voice moves away from the phone, and suddenly my laptop lights up with an incoming video call. Of course. They want to see my face, gauge my reactions. Control the situation.

I accept the video call, and there they are—Theodore and Olivia Saint, perfectly composed in Father's study. Mother's pearls gleam under the warm lighting, her blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon. Father's expression is granite, his suit as impeccable as always.

"Son." His voice carries that familiar note of authority that used to make me straighten in my chair. "This behavior needs to stop. The board is concerned about the company's image—"

As I lean forward to respond, my hand accidentally brushes against the sharp edge of the desk, slicing into the skin of my palm.

"The company's image?" I laugh, the sound bitter.

"Let's talk about the image you're creating.

Those photos of Isabella and me from fifteen years ago—where did they come from? "

Mother's manicured hand waves dismissively. "Oh darling, we had nothing to do with Jessica's interview. Poor girl is simply expressing her feelings about your... unfortunate behavior."

"Cut the act." Blood from my cut palm drips onto the floor. "Those were Evelyn's photos. Private moments she captured. How did they get into Jessica's hands?"

"Really, Ares," Mother sighs, "if you insist on being seen with that girl in public, you can't blame the media for drawing their own conclusions."

"That girl?" My voice drops dangerously. "You mean the woman whose life you destroyed? And now what—two chance encounters and suddenly she's the calculating mistress who orchestrated everything?"

"If Miss Jenkins doesn't wish to be painted in an unfavorable light," Mother's voice turns glacial, "perhaps she should remember her place and stop inserting herself into worlds she doesn't belong in."

"Her place?" The words come out like bullets. "Did you know Evelyn passed away?"

Mother's perfect mask slips for just a fraction of a second. "That woman? Really, darling, why would we—"

"That woman practically raised me," I cut in. "She was more of a mother than—" I stop myself, but the damage is done.

Mother's eyes narrow. "That girl has always been manipulative, Ares. Using her tragic circumstances to gain sympathy. I thought I raised you better than this."

My voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "You have no idea what she's been through."

"Because of her own actions," Father cuts in smoothly. "The theft—"

"Why didn't you go to the police with the security video?" I lean closer to the screen, studying their faces like I've never allowed myself to before.

Mother's laugh tinkles like ice in crystal.

"Oh darling, like we said before, we were being merciful.

" Her fingers smooth an invisible wrinkle from her silk blouse.

"We could have pressed charges, ruined their lives completely.

Instead, we simply dismissed them. Really, they should have been grateful for our discretion. "

"Grateful?" My voice drops lower, dangerous. "Or was the reason you didn't want the police involved because you were afraid they'd find something. Discrepancies. Questions you couldn't answer."

For a split second, something flashes in Mother's eyes, but before I can interpret it Father steps into frame, placing himself between Mother and the camera. His movement is subtle, practiced—the same way he shields her during hostile takeovers and board meetings.

"You're letting your imagination run wild, son. Perhaps Boston isn't agreeing with you."

"Speaking of business matters," his voice takes on that deceptively casual tone that always precedes a strike, "IT flagged some concerning activity in our HR records. External access from Boston."

My pulse kicks up, but I keep my expression neutral. "Oh?"

"Mm." He swirls his scotch, studying me over the rim. "Someone accessing personnel files from fifteen years ago." His eyes lock onto mine. "Care to explain why you're suddenly interested in ancient history, son?"

I keep my face carefully blank. "Just tying up loose ends."

"Loose ends?" His smile is razor sharp. "Then perhaps you can explain your particular interest in Jacob Wells's personnel file?"

The casual mention of Wells's name makes the hairs on my arms rise. I force myself to shrug. "Just being thorough."

"Thorough." He tests the word like wine on his tongue. "Well, since you're being... unreasonable about your return to Los Angeles, I blocked your access. Just until you're thinking more clearly."

Fuck.

"I need to protect company interests." He straightens his cuffs. "Though I find it interesting that of all the files you could access, you looked into a dead man's history."

His gaze pierces mine.

"If you need information about anything, son, just ask me." He leans forward, voice dripping with false concern. "I know everything you need to know."

Wells's payments flash through my mind—the twenty thousand, the two million later. The way he'd interrogated Evelyn in his office. The questions burn on my tongue, but I swallow them back. "Nothing I need to know."

"Come now." His tone softens to that manipulative gentleness I remember from childhood.

"This rebellion has gone on long enough.

It's time to come home, take your rightful place.

I spoke with Gregory Westwood yesterday.

" Father's voice shifts to that smooth, practiced tone he uses to close billion-dollar deals.

"Despite your... theatrical exit from Jessica's life, he's willing to be reasonable. "

My jaw clenches. "The Westwoods aren't my concern."

"Business is business, son." He moves to the bar, pouring another scotch with deliberate precision. "Gregory understands that. The merger still makes sense, regardless of personal feelings. The potential for both companies is..." He lets the sentence hang, weighted with possibility.

"You mean the potential for your empire."

"Our empire, Ares." He turns, fixing me with that penetrating stare that used to make me squirm. "Think about it. Saint-Westwood Industries. A global powerhouse that would dominate markets across three continents. The kind of legacy most men can only dream of leaving their children."

"And all it costs is my soul, right?" The words come out sharper than intended.

"Don't be dramatic." His lips curve into that condescending smile I know too well. "Jessica's a smart woman. She understands the bigger picture. The engagement, the merger—it can all be salvaged. But you need to come home. Take your place. Be who you were meant to be."

"Who I was meant to be?" I laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "Or who you decided I should be?"

"We are giving you everything." His voice hardens. "The Westwood merger isn't just about marriage, Ares. It's about uniting two family legacies. Who, when joined, will become unstoppable. It will give us the kind of power that will—"

"That will what? Control more lives? Destroy more people who get in your way?"