Page 26

Bella

Sunlight streams through my gauzy curtains, the angle suggesting it's well past morning. I feel his gaze before I open my eyes—that familiar electric awareness that's always existed between us.

When I finally look at him, I see Ares propped on one elbow, watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His dark hair is deliciously mussed from our earlier activities, his expression so open it makes my chest ache.

"How long was I out?" My voice is still husky from sleep—and other activities.

His fingers trace my cheekbone, feather-light. "About an hour. It's just past noon."

Heat floods my cheeks as memories of the morning crash over me.

Him showing up at seven AM with coffee and files, the revelations in Gran's diaries, and then.

.. everything else. The desperate kisses, the way he touched me, how perfectly we fit together—like fifteen years never passed.

Like we were still those kids stealing moments in the rose garden, before everything shattered.

"Hey." His thumb brushes my bottom lip. "I can hear you overthinking from here."

"This complicates things,” I whisper, voicing the fear that's been building. "What we did—"

He cuts me off with a kiss, soft and sure. "Let's take it day by day, Red. Just..." His forehead presses against mine. "Let's enjoy this. Us."

Something in my chest unfurls at his words, at the gentle way he's touching me. His hands slide into my hair, cradling my head like I'm something precious.

His phone suddenly buzzes on the nightstand, the shrill tone shattering the quiet intimacy. Ares sighs, glancing at the screen. "Probably my father. They don't like being ignored."

Bile rises in my throat at the mention of Olivia and Theodore Saint. The idea of them somehow intruding on this moment, this fragile connection we're rebuilding, makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

Ares catches the shift in my expression, his brow furrowing. "Hey, don't." He snatches up the phone, silencing it with a decisive swipe. "They can't see you through the screen, Red."

Before I can respond, his lips are on mine, the kiss deep and searing. I melt into him, my worries dissolving under the onslaught of sensation. For now, it's just us—no Saint family drama, no buried secrets, no looming threats. "We got a bit sidetracked from the diaries," I mumble against his lips.

His answering grin is pure sin. "I don't mind that kind of distraction." His fingers trail down my spine, making me shiver. "In fact, I highly encourage it."

"Behave." But I'm smiling as I say it, feeling oddly shy despite everything we did. "I should make coffee if we're going to actually get any reading done."

"Probably wise." He stretches, all tattooed muscle and golden skin. "Though I can think of better ways to wake up."

I slip from the bed, pulling on his dress shirt. It falls to mid-thigh, and the way his eyes darken at the sight makes heat pool low in my belly.

In the kitchen, I'm measuring coffee grounds when I hear him pad in behind me. I turn and nearly drop the scoop—he's wearing nothing but boxers, and the full glory of his tattoos is on display in the morning light.

"Jesus," I blurt before I can stop myself. "You're like a walking muse."

His grin is wicked as he strikes an exaggerated pose, one arm behind his head. "Immortalize me in charcoal and sin."

The laughter bubbles up before I can stop it. "You're ridiculous."

"And you love it." He moves closer, caging me against the counter.

My laughter subsides as my phone buzzes on the counter. Elliot's name flashes on the screen. I answer it right away.

"Hey, Elliot, what's—"

"Bella." His voice is tight, controlled in a way I'm not used to from him. "Can you come to the gallery? I need to talk to you about something."

"Sure. When?"

A heavy pause fills the line. "As soon as possible."

Something in his tone makes my stomach clench. I'm already moving, searching for my clothes. "I'll be there in twenty."

Ares straightens, concern darkening his features. "Everything okay?"

"I don't know." My hands tremble slightly as I pull on my jeans. "Elliot wants to speak with me."

"Want me to come with you?" He reaches for his shirt, but I shake my head.

"No, he wants to speak to me alone." The lie tastes bitter, but I can't deal with this—with us—right now. "I'll call you later?"

Ares studies my face for a moment, concern etched in the line between his brows. Finally, he nods.

"Okay. I understand." He pulls his shirt on and buttons up. "I'll head home and check in with Ethan."

His voice is calm but I can tell he's worried.

Part of me wants to ask him to come after all, but I resist the urge.

Whatever Elliot needs to tell me, I need to face it on my own.

I can't rush things between us anyway. We're already navigating such complicated waters, each moment together another layer of complexity.

The past drags behind us like a weighted veil, invisible but impossible to ignore.

No need to blur boundaries that I've barely reestablished.

Taking him to see Elliot would feel like skipping ten steps ahead when I'm still trying to find my footing on the first.

The gallery feels different when I arrive.

My stomach drops as I watch workers in white gloves carefully remove my paintings from the main exhibition space, and relocating them to a narrow hallway near the restrooms. They handle my most vulnerable piece—my selfportrait with the fractured crown jewels—like it's suddenly radioactive.

"What's happening?" My voice echoes too loudly in the hushed space.

Elliot emerges from his office, his normally impeccable appearance showing signs of strain—tie loosened, hair slightly disheveled. When our eyes meet, his shoulders slump further.

"Bella." He gestures me into his office, closing the door with a soft click that feels oddly final.

"Why are they moving my work?" The words scrape my throat raw. "That hallway gets a fraction of the foot traffic. No one will see them there."

Elliot doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he moves behind his desk with deliberate slowness, each step measured as if walking through quicksand. The silence stretches between us, heavy with things unsaid.

"Elliot?" My voice wavers. "What's going on?"

He sinks into his chair, fingers drumming once on the polished surface before running both hands through his hair. I've never seen him this hesitant, this careful with his words. My stomach tightens.

"It started with complaints," he finally says, voice low. "Someone anonymously sent building management that interview clip. Not just sent it—packaged it. Edited it. Highlighted certain portions."

The air thins in my lungs. "What interview clip?"

But I already know—Jessica Westwood's perfectly timed character assassination, her wounded innocence and careful implications. Elliot's expression confirms it.

"The clip was professionally done," he continues, each word dropping like a stone into still water. "Too clean, too strategic to be random. Someone wanted maximum impact."

He pauses, watching me, gauging how much more I can take. The hesitation itself is terrifying.

"And?" I prompt, my fingernails digging half-moons into my palms.

Elliot leans forward, elbows on his desk. "This morning, I received a call." His voice drops further, as if the words themselves are dangerous. "From the insurance company."

My heart stutters. Insurance companies mean liability, risk, money. The three things galleries fear most.

"They're threatening to drop our coverage," he continues, each word more devastating than the last, "due to what they called the 'heightened risk profile' your exhibition now represents."

The room tilts sideways, floor shifting beneath my feet. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

"They can't—"

"They can and they are." His expression tightens. "They're concerned about potential protests, property damage... They've given us an ultimatum: either pause your exhibition or face premium increases that would effectively shut us down."

"Pause?" The word tastes bitter. "You mean hide."

"Temporarily relocate," he corrects, but his eyes betray him. "Until the media circus dies down. Until your work can be seen for its true merit, not as scandal bait."

"And what about the exclusive event next week?" My voice rises, panic edging in. "The collectors, the critics—they're coming to see my work featured in the main gallery, not tucked away in some hallway like a dirty secret."

Elliot winces, his gaze dropping to his desk. "I'm... looking for another date. In the future."

The words hit like a physical blow. "Another date." I repeat it flatly. "So you're canceling. After all your promises, all your talk about my talent, my voice—you're just... canceling."

"It's not cancellation, it's postponement," he insists, but the distinction feels meaningless. Whether hidden in a back hallway or locked away entirely, the result is the same—my voice, my truth, smothered before it can be heard.

"That's not all, is it?" I press, watching his face.

Elliot sighs. "Marcella Vázquez is threatening to pull her installation if we proceed with your exhibition as scheduled. Says she 'won't have her work associated with tabloid fodder.'"

The blow lands like a physical strike. Marcella Vázquez—the celebrated sculptor whose endorsement can make or break emerging artists. Her pulling out would devastate the gallery's reputation.

"The building management has also received complaints from other tenants," he continues, each word heavier than the last. "They're worried about disruptions, negative publicity affecting their businesses. They're pressuring me to 'resolve the situation.'"

The room spins as understanding dawns. In my gut, I know exactly who's behind this. The Saints. Always the Saints, wielding their influence like a scalpel—precise, devastating, and impossible to prove.