Page 27

My legs give out and I sink into a chair, bile rising in my throat. Fifteen years later, and history repeats itself with terrifying precision. My art, my dreams, my future—all of it crumbling because I dared to step out of the shadows they cast.

"I'm so sorry, Bella." Elliot's voice cracks with genuine pain. "I've tried everything—called in favors, offered to increase security. But with the insurance threat and Marcella pulling out..."

"You're silencing me." The words fall like stones between us. "Hiding me away because I've become inconvenient."

"No." He kneels beside my chair, taking my trembling hands in his. "I'm protecting your work until it can be properly seen, not overshadowed by scandal. This isn't cancellation—it's strategic retreat."

"Your work deserves to be seen, Bella." His grip tightens on my hands. "The way they light up the gallery... I've seen nothing like it. That's why we need to wait—find the right moment when people will actually see the art, not just the controversy."

A bitter laugh escapes me. "Doesn't matter how good they are if no one gets to see them."

"We'll figure something out." But even Elliot's usual confidence sounds shaken. "Maybe if we wait a few months, let the media attention die down—"

"Do you know what the worst part is?" My vision blurs with unshed tears. "For a moment this morning, I actually believed... I thought maybe..." My voice breaks. "God, I'm such a fool."

"Hey, no." He squeezes my hands. "You're one of the strongest people I know. This is just a setback."

But in my heart, I know it's more than that. It's the beginning of another systematic dismantling of my life. No fingerprints, no direct threats—just the quiet, inexorable pressure of Saint family influence, crushing everything in its path.

I stand on shaky legs, needing to move, to breathe, to escape the walls closing in. "I should go."

"Let me call someone—"

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended. "I need... I just need to be alone."

The walk home passes in a blur, my mind spinning with implications. If they can do this to the gallery, what's next?

My phone buzzes—Ares's name lighting up the screen. I silence it, shoving it deep into my bag as I hurry up the stairs to my loft. The sun feels too bright, too cheerful for the darkness churning inside me.

Because I know, with devastating clarity, that this is just the beginning. The Saints are showing me exactly what happens when I dare to step out of the neat little box they tried to bury me in fifteen years ago. History repeating itself with devastating precision.

And the worst part? This morning I let myself believe in something different. Let myself fall into Ares's arms, taste his kisses, believe his promises. Now the consequences are spreading like poison.

My phone lights up again—Ares's name flashing like an accusation.

I let it ring, curling into myself on the floor.

My spine curves inward like a wounded animal, knees drawn tight to my chest as if I could physically hold myself together.

But I'm fragmenting, splintering apart as fifteen years of carefully contained grief finally breaks free.

The tears come in waves, each sob ripping through my chest like broken glass. My lungs refuse to expand properly, leaving me gasping in short, desperate bursts. The familiar metallic taste of panic floods my mouth as black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

Because this is what loving Ares Saint does—it destroys. It burns everything I've fought to build, everything I am, until nothing remains but ashes and regret. His parents made that lesson crystal clear fifteen years ago, and now? Now they're showing me nothing's changed.

And like a fool, I just handed them fresh matches to finish what they started.

My chest constricts further, ribs feeling like they're crushing my heart.

The walls of my loft—usually my sanctuary—press in like a cage.

My fingers scrabble against the rough wood floor, seeking anchor as memories crash over me: the accusations, the humiliation, Grandma's trembling hands as she packed our lives into boxes.

That same helplessness claws at my throat as the Saints' power threatens to crush me all over again.

With shaking fingers, I find Emma's number, my vision blurring so badly I can barely see the screen. She answers on the second ring.

"Em?" My voice splinters, raw and thin as I struggle to pull in enough air. "I need... please..."

"Bella?" The warmth in Emma's voice sharpens to steel. "What's wrong? Talk to me."

"It's happening again." The words tumble out between gasping sobs. "The exhibition... they're taking everything. Just like before. I can't—I can't breathe—"

"I'm coming right now." Keys jingle, a door slams. "Ten minutes, honey. Should I call in the cavalry?"

"Yes." I press my forehead to my knees, trying to make myself smaller, trying to disappear. "I need..."

I need someone to make it stop. I need to not feel this broken. I need...

"We're coming, sweetie. Just hold on." Emma's voice blazes with protective fury. "You're not alone this time, you hear me?"

I end the call, clutching the phone against my heart like it's the only thing keeping me from shattering.