Page 29

Bella

Coffee. The aroma pulls me from sleep, familiar and comforting. When I open my eyes, Emma's silhouette moves around my kitchen, the morning light casting her in a soft glow.

"Morning, sleepyhead." Her smile is gentle as she catches my movement.

"What are you still doing here?" My voice is rough from crying. "Shouldn't you be at home with the kids? Or at Simply Irresistible?"

Emma fills two mugs, the rich scent of coffee growing stronger. "All taken care of. Nick's got the kids, and I have two employees covering my shift." She hands me a mug. "Martha's helping at the store, too."

A small laugh escapes despite everything. "Martha? Your mother-in-law, who couldn't bake to save her life, is the one you trust with your bakery?"

"Hey." Emma's eyes sparkle with mock offense. "I'm an excellent teacher. That woman can now make a decent chocolate chip cookie." She winks. "Though I still wouldn't let her near the wedding cakes."

The normalcy of the moment feels like a balm, but it's fleeting. Reality crashes back—my art event, "strategically postponed" as Elliot so carefully phrased what we both know is a cancellation. And Ares...

God, Ares.

My heart twists, torn between wanting him and knowing better. Between the safety of his arms yesterday morning and the chaos and devastation that followed.

Emma settles beside me on the couch, her presence steady and grounding. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Just..." I wrap my hands around the warm mug. "How did my life go from normal to this fucking rollercoaster in a matter of days?"

"Mmm." Emma takes a sip of her coffee. "Would that rollercoaster have anything to do with a certain tall, dark, and brooding Saint?"

I shoot her a look, but she just grins. "What? I may be happily married, but I'm not blind. That man has presence." Her expression softens. "Is he always like that? All intense and..." She waves her hand vaguely. "Commanding?"

A sigh escapes as Ares fills my mind—the way he moves with such quiet confidence, how his mere presence can fill a room. The gentle way he touched me, like I was something precious, even as his eyes burned with that familiar intensity.

"Yeah," I whisper. "He's always been like that."

Emma's lips quirk. "Poor man seemed shell-shocked by Hurricane Alisha last night."

A small laugh escapes me as I picture Alisha's fierce protectiveness wrapped in brutal honesty. "I can imagine. Subtlety isn't exactly her strong suit."

"So..." Emma shifts, tucking her feet under her. "What's going on with you two?"

I swallow as her question runs around in my mind. What is going on? In days, we've gone from hating each other to... whatever this is. Every careful wall I built crumbling under the weight of memories and new moments and feelings I can't control.

"Your feelings for him have returned, haven't they?"

I stare into my coffee, watching the light play across its surface. "I don't think they ever left." The words come out barely above a whisper. "God, Em, I'm so stupid."

And suddenly it's all spilling out, like a dam breaking.

"I tried so hard not to feel anything. To keep him at arm's length.

But he just..." My hands clench around the mug.

"He makes me feel everything. When we talk, it's like no time has passed.

All the wonderful memories come rushing back—the garden, the roses, the way he used to look at me like I was his whole world. "

Emma stays quiet, letting me ramble. The words keep coming, desperate and raw.

"And yesterday, I did something really stupid." Heat floods my cheeks. "We were going through Gran's diaries, and there was this moment... and we just..."

Emma's eyebrows rise. "Isabella Jenkins, did you sleep with him?"

"Yes." The word comes out as a mortified whisper. "God, Emma, what was I thinking?"

Instead of the lecture I expect, Emma just grins. "Was it good?"

"Emma!" But a laugh bubbles up, half hysteric. "It was..." I close my eyes, remembering his hands, his lips, the way he whispered my name. "Magic. It was absolute magic."

The smile fades as reality crashes back.

"What have I done, Em?" My voice cracks.

"Everything I've worked for, everything I've built—it's all falling apart.

And the worst part?" I meet her eyes, feeling tears build.

"Even knowing what happened at the gallery, even knowing his parents will never stop trying to destroy me.

.. I still want him. How messed up is that? "

Emma sets down her mug and pulls me into a hug. "Oh honey, the heart wants what it wants. Even when our brain is screaming that it's a terrible idea."

"But look at my life." The words come out muffled against her shoulder. "The moment our paths cross again, my life turns upside down."

My head spins with Emma's words, emotions churning like a storm. She must see it on my face because suddenly she grins.

"I know exactly what you need." She springs up, heading to my kitchen. I watch as she rummages through cabinets and the refrigerator, making triumphant sounds as she gathers ingredients.

"Time to do what I do best when stressed." She lines up flour, sugar, eggs, and chocolate chips on the counter. "Therapy baking."

A smile tugs at my lips. My gaze drifts to my art supplies in the corner, but the sight makes me shiver. Not now. Not when all I can see is destruction painted in black and red.

I move to the kitchen, grateful for the distraction.

"Remember that time you found me pelting Nick with eggs?" Emma measures flour with practiced ease.

A laugh bubbles up. "Oh god, when you thought he slept with someone while dating you?"

Emma blushes, groaning. "That first egg hitting him square in the chest? The look on his face was priceless. Maybe you should invite Ares over." She bumps my hip with hers. "Very liberating, I can tell you."

"I'd rather save the eggs for other family members." My voice turns hard. "Fucking rotten ones, by the truckload."

"Count me in." Emma hands me chocolate chips to measure. "So... tell me about before. About you and Ares when you were young."

The question should hurt, but somehow, with my hands busy and Emma's steady presence beside me, it feels okay to remember.

The words come easier than expected. "After my parents died, I moved to live with Gran on the Saint estate... he was just there, you know? This quiet, kind boy who understood loss in his own way."

Emma cracks eggs into the bowl, listening.

"Our friendship developed so naturally. And it became everything.

He'd sneak me into the library after dark, show me all his favorite hiding spots.

" A smile touches my lips despite everything.

"We'd spend hours in the rose garden, just talking.

About everything and nothing. Later, I'd draw there and he would sit beside me and watch. "

"And his parents..." Emma prompts gently.

"God, it's hard to believe such a kind boy came from them." I shake my head, measuring vanilla. "Everything was about power and status. His father was always away working, and his mother, Olivia, she only tolerated me because Gran was such a loyal employee."

My throat tightens. "Gran worked so hard, Em. Not just cleaning—she helped in the kitchen, the garden, anywhere they needed her. And for what?" Anger burns hot. "To be accused of theft and blacklisted from every decent job in Boston?"

Emma's hand covers mine, steadying the shaking measuring spoon. "Your grandmother was an amazing woman, Bella. And she'd be so proud of you."

"Would she?" I set down the measuring spoon, my shoulders slumping. "Look at the mess I've made. Getting involved with Ares again, letting my guard down..."

"Stop right there." Emma's voice cuts through my self-recrimination. She grabs my shoulders, turning me to face her. Flour dusts her hands, leaving white prints on my shirt. "You didn't make this mess, Bella. You were pulled into something that has absolutely nothing to do with you."

"But—"

"No buts." Her green eyes flash with anger, but not at me. "They're using you. Painting you as the villain because it's convenient." She shakes her head, disgust clear on her face. "It's despicable."

Before I can respond, my phone chimes. A text from Ares makes my heart stutter: Turn on Channel 5. 10am. Please.

I glance at the clock—9:55. I want to ignore it, to delete the message and pretend I never saw it, but Emma's already reaching for the remote.

"Emma, don't—" I turn back to the counter, focusing on measuring chocolate chips with exaggerated precision. "Let's just finish these cookies."

The TV flickers to life anyway. I keep my eyes fixed on the measuring cup, determined not to give him the satisfaction of my attention. One cup. Two cups. The chocolate chips clink against the glass, each one a tiny rebellion against the pull of the screen behind me.

But curiosity gnaws at me. What could be so important? What game is he playing now?

"Oh, my god." Emma's sharp intake of breath makes my hand falter. "Bella, it's Ares. He's at the gallery."

Despite my resolve, my head turns toward the screen, and the measuring cup slips from my fingers, scattering chocolate chips across the counter like tiny dark stars as the reporter's voice fills my kitchen, professional and detached as she discusses the recent media attention—but it's not her words that draw my attention, it's the figure behind her. Ares.

My feet move without conscious thought, drawing me closer to the screen. He looks exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes, his usual impeccable appearance slightly rumpled. But there's something in his stance, a quiet determination in the set of his jaw, that makes my heart race.

"Mr. Saint," the reporter turns to him, "would you care to address the recent speculation about your relationship with Ms. Jenkins?"