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"You're not thinking clearly." He leans in closer to the screen, that familiar mix of authority and disappointment radiating from him.

"This artist has obviously clouded your judgment.

But we can still fix this. Like I said, Gregory's willing to overlook the scandal, smooth things over with Jessica—"

"I don't want things smoothed over." I meet his gaze, refusing to back down. "I don't want the merger, or Jessica, or any of it."

"Then what do you want?" Frustration cracks his perfect facade. "To throw away your birthright for some girl who finger-paints for a living?"

Without thinking, I say, "Yeah, I think I do."

Mother's perfectly manicured hand flies to her throat, her face draining of color as if I'd physically struck her. "Ares Theodore Saint," she whispers, horror dripping from each syllable. "You cannot be serious."

Father shifts forward, his presence filling the screen. "That's enough." His voice carries the weight of every reprimand I've ever received. "You will return to Los Angeles immediately. I'm done with this foolishness, Ares. You are the heir to the Saint Empire—"

"I don't want to be—"

"An heir is an heir!" Father's fist slams against his desk, the sound crackling through my speakers.

His face flushes dark with rage. "No son of mine will deny that title, that honor.

You seem to have forgotten who you are, what you owe this family.

If you think for one moment I'll allow you to throw away everything we've built—"

"Allow me?" The laugh that tears from my throat sounds nothing like me. It's raw, almost feral. Sweat pricks at my collar despite the room's cool air.

"If you continue this nonsense, there will be consequences."

The threat hangs in the air, but instead of the familiar surge of anxiety that usually accompanies my father's warnings, I feel something else.

Liberation. Maybe it's the scotch burning through my veins, maybe it's the weight of fifteen years of lies finally cracking, but suddenly I'm done playing their game.

"Consequences?" I lean closer to the screen, letting them see the smile that feels more like a snarl. "Like what happened to Jacob Wells?"

Father goes perfectly still, his eyes narrowing to glacial points. "What exactly do you think you know about Wells?"

I hold his gaze but keep my mouth shut, watching the calculation behind his eyes. His jaw works for a moment before he launches into his familiar speech, the one I've heard since childhood.

"You've always been a willful child, Ares, but this level of disobedience—"

"Save it." I cut him off, feeling a savage satisfaction at his flinch. "The speech about being a disobedient son, about disappointing the family legacy? I can recite it in my sleep. Hell, I've been reciting it since I was seventeen."

Mother's perfectly painted lips part in shock while father's face darkens to a dangerous shade of purple.

Instead of backing down like I always have, I lean in and look him straight in the eyes. "Let me be clear. I'm done being your puppet. Done with the merger, done with Jessica, done with all of it. You want consequences? Bring them. Because I'm not that scared teenager you can manipulate anymore."

Mother gasps. "Ares Theodore Saint, you will not speak to your father that way. We have given you everything—"

I end the call before they can finish, their faces freezing in matching expressions of shock before the screen goes dark.

I stare at the black screen, my heart hammering against my ribs, but underneath the adrenaline there's something else. Pride. For the first time in my life, I didn't back down, didn't let them reel me back in with their perfectly crafted manipulation. The puppet has finally cut his strings.

If you continue this nonsense, there will be consequences.

I push the thought away before it can take root. Dwelling on Father's threats will only feed the migraine lurking at the edges of my consciousness. What I need right now is peace and quiet.

The hot shower helps, steam filling the bathroom as I let the water pound against my shoulders. But even the scalding water can't wash away the image of Isabella, the way her eyes shimmered with barely contained fury, the tremor in her voice when she mentioned her grandmother.

Back in my suite, I slump onto the couch, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, mindlessly flipping through channels.

The images blur together, meaningless against the storm in my mind.

Where is she right now? Is she in her studio, losing herself in vibrant colors and bold strokes?

Or is she like me—lying awake, haunted by memories that refuse to fade?

My head falls back against the cushions as memories assault me.

Those stolen moments in the Saint estate gardens flood back with devastating clarity: desperate kisses behind marble fountains, breathless whispers beneath moonlit trees, the electric press of young bodies discovering each other.

We were just kids then, all urgent hands and clumsy passion that never crossed that final line.

But God, the wanting—it hummed beneath every touch, every glance, a constant current of need that never found release.

Now, fifteen years later, that wanting hasn't diminished.

It's grown, evolved, become something darker and more consuming.

My body remembers hers like a phantom limb, aching for what we never had.

I slide my hand beneath the waistband of my boxers, fingers wrapping around my hardened length, seeking momentary escape from this burning need that has haunted me for fifteen years.

The fantasy ambushes me, as vivid as memory.

I see her now—the elegant curve of her spine as she stretches to reach a canvas, the sway of her hips.

My left hand clenches into the worn fabric of the couch cushion while my right moves with increasing urgency.

In my mind, I peel away layers of fabric, revealing inch after inch of soft skin beneath.

I trace the geography of her body with imaginary fingertips—the slope of her breasts rising and falling with each breath, the hollow of her throat where I'd press my lips to taste salt and sweetness, the sacred space between her thighs where I'd worship with lips and tongue until she trembles and cries out.

A groan tears from deep in my throat as I remember the little gasps she used to make, the way her breath caught when my fingers found sensitive skin.

We were teenagers then, fumbling in the dark.

Now? Now I'd take my time, memorize every freckle, every sigh.

My thumb circles the sensitive tip as my strokes grow more desperate, the fantasy consuming every thought.

The images spiral through my mind, each imagined touch more intense than the last. I picture her beneath me, finally—finally—joined.

Nothing between us but sweat and promises.

Her moans would fill the empty space around us, her pleasure becoming my only focus.

My hand moves faster, matching the rhythm of my imagination.

I'm drowning in it now—the imagined taste of her on my tongue, her scent filling my lungs, the sound of my name on her lips.

It's too much. Release hits like lightning, muscles tensing as my body arches off the couch.

I come with her name locked behind clenched teeth, pleasure pulsing through me in waves that gradually subside into hollow satisfaction.

I lie there, heart thundering against my ribs, aftershocks still trembling through me. But the ache in my chest? That hasn't eased at all.

"Fuck." I drag myself up, and head for the shower. The water can't be cold enough to douse this fire.