Page 23

Ares

Seven AM sharp, and I'm standing outside Isabella's loft like a fucking teenager, complete with sweaty palms and a racing heart.

The hazelnut latte in my hand is still steaming—a peace offering and maybe an apology for the ungodly hour.

The folder Ethan prepared weighs heavy in my other hand, its contents making my stomach churn.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, the familiar ringtone signaling another call from my father. I grit my teeth and decline the call. The last thing I need right now is another round of his barely veiled threats and demands.

I should focus on what we discovered about Wells, about the payments and his suspicious "accident." Instead, all I can think about is yesterday at the museum, how right it felt showing her glimpses of who I used to be. Who I could be again.

Then there's that memory that surfaced through my migraine fog—Evelyn standing in Father's office, her spine straight as she answered his sharp questions about what she'd touched while cleaning.

My phone buzzes again. This time the screen lights up with a text from my mother. I ignore it and shove the device back into my pocket. Let them stew for a while.

The door opens before I can knock again, and every carefully prepared thought scatters. Isabella stands there in loose painter's pants splattered with color, a thin long sleeve top, and bare feet. Her hair is loose, falling around her face. She looks soft, real, absolutely fucking beautiful.

"You're annoyingly punctual." Her voice is still husky with sleep, but her eyes are alert, wary.

I hold up the coffee like a shield. "I come bearing gifts as promised."

Something flickers in her expression—amusement? "Hazelnut?"

"Would I dare bring anything else?"

She steps back, letting me in, and I catch a whiff of her scent—paint and that fresh watermelon that is so her.

Early morning light bathes the loft, and the massive windows turn the space golden.

Art covers every wall, each piece vibrating with energy and emotion.

It's chaotic and beautiful and so perfectly Isabella that my chest aches.

"Your work?" I ask, moving closer to a large canvas dominated by swirling blues and golds.

"Most of it." She takes the coffee, our fingers brushing. The contact sends electricity up my arm. "Though some are trades with other artists."

I let myself really look around now, taking in the high ceilings, the exposed brick, the way she's turned this industrial space into something that feels alive. It's nothing like the sterile perfection of the Saint mansion, and something in me unclenches at the realness of it all.

"It suits you," I whisper. "All this creative chaos."

She watches me over her coffee cup, green eyes sharp with suspicion. "Alright, Saint. What was so important it couldn't wait for a reasonable hour?"

The folder burns in my hands, its contents making my stomach churn. The morning light streaming through her windows offers no comfort—what I'm about to share will shatter whatever fragile peace we've built.

"You should sit down for this, Red."

Something in my tone must betray the gravity, because she moves to the window seat without argument, tucking her legs beneath her.

Sunlight catches her hair, turning it into a living flame.

The sight steals my breath—how many times had I watched that same light play through her hair in the Saint mansion's gardens?

Focus. This isn't about us.

"After you refused to give me your side of the story that day I came here and brought the photographers," I begin, setting down my coffee, "I asked Ethan to dig into Saint Industries' records."

She raises an eyebrow. "What exactly were you digging for?"

"Anything that would give me the answers you weren't willing to share at the time." I meet her gaze steadily.

"Impatient as always," she mutters, but there's a hint of amusement beneath the exasperation.

Her fingers tap against her mug. "Did you find anything?"

"Nothing about your grandmother in the official records." I hesitate, watching her face carefully. "But we found something else. About Jacob Wells."

"Your father's head of security? The one who 'found' the jewelry?" Her spine stiffens, coffee cup trembling slightly.

"The very same." I spread the documents between us, watching her face. "Twenty thousand dollars, Red. Transferred from one of Father's shell companies to Wells exactly a day after the incident."

Her cup freezes halfway to her lips, knuckles white against the ceramic.

"Then with the help of a friend we found this." My finger traces the damning entry. "Two million dollars, one month after everything went down."

"Christ." The cup clatters against the table, coffee sloshing. Her hands shake as she reaches for the papers. "Why would—"

“My guess… hush money," I say, the words bitter as ash. "Paying him to either stay quiet or look the other way about something bigger."

She leans forward, her artist eyes scanning the documents with fierce intensity.

"Red." The roughness in my voice makes her look up. "There's more."

Something in my expression must terrify her, because all color drains from her face. "What?"

I hand her the article wordlessly. Watch as her eyes widen, horror dawning as she reads.

"Car accident?" Her voice cracks. "Fourteen years ago?"

"And his offshore bank account where that two million was transferred to was emptied the day of the crash."

She's on her feet in an instant, pacing to the windows. Her reflection looks ghostly, haunted. "Why tell me this? We don't even know if it's connected to what happened to me, to Gran—"

"Because you deserve the truth." I move behind her, close enough to feel the tremors running through her body. "And because I remembered something. Two weeks before everything exploded, I overheard Father interrogating your grandmother about a missing document."

She spins to face me, and suddenly, we're inches apart. The fear in her eyes makes my chest ache. "What do you mean?"

"He was obsessed with wanting to know if she'd seen it.

Kept asking if she'd noticed anything unusual while cleaning his office.

Any papers, documents..." The memory crystallizes—Father's voice carrying that edge of desperation I'd never understood until now.

"He mentioned that an important document with his handwriting on it had disappeared. "

"What did Gran say?"

"That she cleaned his office like she always did and hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary." My hands fist at my sides, fighting the urge to reach for her. "But now I'm wondering..."

Her eyes widen with understanding. "You think she found something? Something he didn't want found?"

Something flashes in her expression—recognition, maybe fear.

She moves to the bookshelf with sudden purpose, pulling out a worn leather journal.

"Gran told me something, right before she passed.

" Her fingers trace the spine like a talisman.

"She said if the Saints ever surfaced again, I should read her diaries carefully.

That she'd left me everything I needed to know.”

My heart starts to hammer. "You think she wrote about what she found?"

"Maybe." She bites her lip, and the familiar gesture makes my chest ache with remembered tenderness. "I've been reading them, but..." Her eyes meet mine through her lashes, vulnerability warring with determination. "Help me look?"

Like I could deny her anything when she looks at me like that. "Where do we start?"

We end up on her oversized couch, the journals spread between us. Morning light streams through the windows, casting a warm glow over everything. Isabella sits cross-legged, her knee occasionally brushing mine. Each accidental touch sends electricity through my system.

"Listen to this," she says, smiling down at an entry.

Ares snuck into the kitchen again today. Third time this week. Claims he's looking for his basketball, but I notice he only comes when Isabella's helping me bake.

Heat creeps up my neck. "I wasn't that obvious."

"You really were." Her laugh is soft, nostalgic. "Gran used to leave cookies out on purpose, you know. Said you were too skinny."

"She caught me once, trying to climb the garden wall to your window."

"What?" She looks up, eyes dancing. "When?"

"The summer before everything went to hell. She told me if I was going to risk breaking my neck, I should at least use the service stairs. They were less visible from my parents' old bedroom."

"She didn't."

"Said she'd rather help than have to explain to my mother why the Saint heir was splattered across her roses."

Isabella's laugh echoes off the brick walls, and something in my chest loosens at the sound. She's leaning closer now, showing me another entry, and her scent surrounds me. My fingers itch to brush back the strand of hair falling across her cheek.

"Oh God," she says, turning a page. "Remember this? When you tried to get me on that horse?"

"You mean when you nearly broke my hand squeezing it so hard while insisting you were 'totally fine' with being ten feet off the ground?"

"I did not—" She breaks off, reading.

Poor Ares. Isabella nearly yanked him right off Shadow when the horse snorted. Never seen someone so determined to teach someone so determined to stay on the ground. Though I notice she didn't mind clutching his waist when he finally convinced her to sit behind him.

Heat floods my face. "Your grandmother missed nothing."

"She saw everything." Isabella's voice softens, and suddenly the air between us feels heavier. "Every moment, every secret..."

She's so close now, I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes, count each freckle dusting her nose. If I moved just slightly, I could...

She clears her throat, looking back down at the journal. But I don't miss the flush creeping up her neck, the way her breath catches when my arm brushes hers as I reach for another diary.