Page 28

Ares

My phone sits silent on the desk, mocking me. I've checked it a hundred times in the last hour, each glance more desperate than the last. No response from Bella. Not even a read receipt.

Something feels wrong. The sensation sits like lead in my gut, impossible to shake.

I close my eyes, letting myself drift back to this morning.

The way she felt in my arms, all soft curves and quiet sighs.

How perfectly we fit together, like fifteen years had never passed.

The sweet little sounds she made when I kissed that spot behind her ear.

The way she looked at me, like maybe I was worth trusting again.

Does she regret it?

The thought cuts deep, but I push it away. No. This morning felt right. Real. The way she touched me, how she whispered my name—that wasn't regret. That was… Everything.

She's probably just caught up in her art.

I've seen her like that before, lost in her creative zone, the world falling away as she transfers her vision to canvas.

God, she's beautiful when inspiration hits.

The intense focus in her eyes, the slight furrow between her brows, the way she bites her lower lip in concentration.

Maybe she's painting right now, capturing our morning in oils and emotion.

But that nagging feeling won't leave.

I grab my phone again, typing another message:

Me: Just checking in. Everything okay?

The message shows as delivered. Then read. Three dots appear, and hope blooms in my chest.

But they disappear. No response.

"Fuck this." The words escape as I surge to my feet, already reaching for my coat. I can't sit here anymore, imagining worst-case scenarios. I need to see her.

The drive to her loft takes forever, every red light an eternity. I park around the corner, habit making me scan the street for tails or surveillance. Nothing obvious, but in this game, obvious usually means amateur.

Her building looks the same as this morning, but something feels different. Wrong. The stairs to her door seem longer, each step carrying me toward something I'm not sure I want to face.

I knock, and a few moment later the door opens, but instead of Bella's warm green eyes, I'm met with a icy green glare. The blonde from the club—Alisha, I remember—stands blocking the entrance like an avenging angel. The hatred in her expression catches me off guard.

"Get the fuck away from here, Saint."

The hostility in her voice is surprising, but I keep my tone polite. "I'm just here to see Bella. Is she—"

"You've done enough damage." Her words cut like knives. "Leave. Now. Before I make you."

Behind her, I hear movement. Other voices. Female voices, hushed but intense. And somewhere in there, a sound that makes my blood run cold—someone crying.

Bella.

"What happened?" My voice drops, all pretense at politeness vanishing. "Let me see her."

"No fucking way." Alisha's hand tightens on the door. "You and your family have destroyed enough. Leave."

My family? Ice spreads through my veins. "What do you—"

The door slams in my face, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the empty hallway.

I stand there, staring at the closed door, as pieces start clicking into place. The gallery. Bella's hasty exit. My parents' sudden silence.

If you continue this nonsense, there will be consequences.

Father's words echo in my head, making my stomach turn. Oh god. What have they done?

I pound on the door again, my knuckles stinging with the force. The blonde's accusations ring in my ears, blaming me for something I don't even understand. How can they think I'd hurt Bella?

When the door opens, I brace for another verbal assault. Instead, a woman with warm brown hair steps out, pulling the door almost closed behind her. Her eyes, though intense, hold none of the blonde's fury—just quiet determination.

"I'm Emma." Her voice is calm but carries weight. "And you're Ares Saint."

The way she says my name makes my stomach clench. "Please, I just need to see her."

"That's not a good idea." Not hostile like the blonde, but equally unmovable. "You should leave."

"Why?" I fight to keep my voice steady despite the dread building in my chest. "Your friend mentioned my family. What's going on?" I search her face, looking for answers. "Please, just let me talk to Isabella. If she tells me to go, I swear I'll leave."

Emma studies me for a long moment, like she's trying to read the truth from lies. "I can't let you in. She needs space right now."

"The gallery then—what happened?" The words tumble out, desperate. "Is she okay?"

Her eyes lock with mine, and something in her expression makes my blood run cold. "The insurance company suddenly threatened to drop coverage for her exhibition. And with the building management raising concerns about security, Elliot cancelled Bella's art event."

The words hit like physical blows. My father's connections in the insurance industry flash through my mind. The way he can make things happen with a single phone call.

"When?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears.

"This morning." Emma's voice is quiet but cuts deep.

Consequences. The word echoes in my head as realization dawns. Ice spreads through my veins as pieces click into place—my parents' threats, Bella's hasty exit, the timing...

"Oh god." My voice cracks. "I need to see her. Emma, please—"

"No." Gentle but firm. "She's lost her exhibition, her chance to prove herself to the art world. All because she dared to—what? Exist in your orbit again?"

"I didn't know." The words scrape out of my throat. "I would never—"

Her eyes soften slightly. "Maybe not." Emma's voice holds a hint of sympathy now. "But your family would. And did."

The door closes with a soft click that echoes like thunder in my ears.

I stare at it, unmoving, as the truth crystallizes with brutal clarity.

My name—my cursed legacy—is a poison that contaminates everything I dare to love.

Behind that door, Bella crumbles, her dream systematically dismantled, her spirit wounded in ways I can't yet measure. All because I dared to defy my father.

They couldn't reach me directly, so they went for her—the most vulnerable point in my armor, the one person whose pain would destroy me more thoroughly than any direct attack. They calculated with cold precision, knowing exactly where to strike to bring us both to our knees.

I stand frozen, my fingertips still burning from where they last touched her skin, while behind that closed door, the woman I love pays the price for my rebellion.

The stairwell echoes with each of my footsteps, a hollow sound that matches the void growing in my chest.

My fist connects with the metal railing before I can stop myself.

The impact sends shockwaves up my arm, but the physical pain is almost welcome.

Almost enough to drown out the acid in my gut as I recognize the Saints’ signature moves.

The slow, surgical dismantling. The invisible puppet strings.

No direct threats, no messy confrontations—just the quiet, inexorable pressure of Saint family influence crushing everything in its path.

The migraine pulses in time with my heartbeat as I continue down. Each step feels heavier than the last, and by the time I reach my car, my hands are shaking—from rage or pain or both, I'm not sure anymore. I need to call Ethan, and start damage control. But first...

I pull out my phone, scrolling through contacts until I find his number. My fingers hover over the screen before I hit call. Two rings. Three.

"Elliot Vanlow speaking."

I slip into business mode, my voice crisp and controlled. "Mr. Vanlow, this is Ares Saint. I need to speak with you urgently. It's about Isabella Jenkins."

An hour later, I follow Elliot through the darkened gallery. The security panel beeps as he disables it, fluorescent lights flickering to life overhead.

"Thank you for meeting me this late."

"Certainly. Though I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish, Mr. Saint. The situation is rather... final."

Each step deeper into the gallery tightens the knot in my gut. A headache builds behind my eyes, pressure mounting with every passing second. We round the corner into the main exhibition space, and—

Everything in me stills.

Bella's vibrant soul should have splashed color across these clinical white walls. Instead, the walls are bare and only the ghost of her artwork haunts the space.

My feet carry me forward on autopilot. I stop before the spot where the piece I wanted to buy should have been—the one that first caught my eye. Now there's nothing but a small pencil mark on the wall, a lonely testament to what could have been.

"The exhibition was fully arranged." Elliot's voice breaks through my thoughts.

"Every piece placed, every light adjusted.

She spent hours getting it perfect." He pauses, and I hear the anger he's trying to contain.

"Do you know what it's like, Mr. Saint, to observe an artist pack away their dreams? "

The words hit like physical blows. I trace my fingers along the empty wall, remembering the texture of her paintings, the raw emotion captured in each brushstroke.

"You know," Elliot says, "in all my years running this gallery, I've never seen work like Isabella's. The way she captures emotion, transforms pain into beauty..." He gestures to the empty space. "This exhibition would have launched her career. Finally given her the recognition she deserves."

My father's words echo in my head: If you continue this nonsense, there will be consequences. Pure rage rises in my gut, hot and demanding.

"So, Mr. Saint." Elliot's voice cuts through my fury. "What's your plan to help Isabella?"

I don't look away from the empty wall, imagining Bella's paintings filling the space, bringing life and color back to this void. "I'm going to do an interview. Set the record straight."

"An interview?" His eyebrows rise slightly.

"Yes." The plan forms as I speak. "Isabella is being dragged through the mud because of my choices, my actions.

She had nothing to do with my decision to end things with Jessica.

" I turn to face him. "The public needs to hear the truth—that she's an innocent victim in all this.

A talented artist whose work should be judged on its own merit, not overshadowed by gossip and speculation. "

Elliot studies me for a long moment. "I don't know if that will make a difference."

"I don't know either. But it's worth a shot." My voice is firm. "I refuse to stand by and let Isabella's career be destroyed because of me. Her work deserves to be seen. Not because of me. Not because of my family's name. But because she's fucking brilliant—and the world needs to see it."

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he extends his hand. "When would you like to do this interview?"

I grip his hand. "As soon as possible. Before more damage is done."

"Well then." Elliot's tone shifts from cautious to conspiratorial. "Let's make sure we do this right. I know just the journalist for this."