Page 3

Bella

Damn it. Not again.

The brush slashes crimson across gold, each stroke a battle against memories that refuse to stay buried. My third ruined canvas this week—all of them destroyed since his face invaded my morning news feed.

Paint fumes thicken the air, stinging my throat as I work. Dawn spills through the loft windows, setting my palette ablaze—cobalt and vermillion transformed into molten gems. My shirt clings to damp skin, muscles screaming from hours of violent movement, but I can't stop. Won't stop.

Around me, my real work watches in silent judgment.

The commissioned pieces that pay my bills—portraits that breathe with raw emotion—stand abandoned on their easels.

Three days of neglect. The ballet dancer I'd spent weeks perfecting now wears violent red slashes across her delicate form, collateral damage in this war against ghosts I thought I'd conquered.

My hands tremble as my phone vibrates against the paint-splattered table. Anxiety floods my mouth with metallic bitterness as the screen lights up:

Emma: You better not be doing what I think you're doing

Emma: Three days is long enough

Emma: I swear to God, if you're painting instead of eating again...

Emma: That's it. I'm calling in backup.

I ignore the messages, turning back to my canvas. But before I can lose myself in the paint again, my phone erupts with new messages, each vibration jolting my frayed nerves, and my eyes betray me and read.

Alisha: Get your paint-covered ass to Simply Irresistible

Alisha: Don't make me come get you. You know I will.

Alisha: The twins are with Cole. I have ALL DAY.

I sigh heavily, tapping the messages away with a paint-smudged thumb.

But before I can return to my canvas, a news alert flashes across my screen, the headline jumping out at me like an accusation: "Why Has Ares Saint Chosen Boston?

" My stomach knots as I stare at the words.

The same question echoes in my mind—why here? Why now?

The familiar mantra forms: I don't care.

It doesn't matter. But my traitorous thumb scrolls down to reveal a photo beneath the headline.

There he is—Ares Saint—striding confidently down Newbury Street beside another man I don't recognize.

His hair is the same dark shade I remember, his shoulders broader.

Then my eyes catch the stubble shadowing his jaw, the roughness that wasn't there when we were sixteen, when his skin was still smooth against my fingertips—

No. Stop.

But it’s too late. Suddenly I'm sixteen again, pulse roaring in my ears as I walk the endless marble hallway, security guards looming at my back while his mother dangles my compass necklace between manicured fingers like damning evidence.

The weight of shame and betrayal crushes my chest all over again, as fresh as yesterday.

"Family heirlooms," her voice slithers through memory, dripping venom as she twists the knife. "Not trinkets for the help's granddaughter." And Ares? The memory of him just standing there, silent, watching me crumble with those unreadable brown eyes, sends bile rising in my throat.

A car horn blares outside, yanking me back to the present with a violent jolt. I gasp, dropping my phone onto the paint-splattered floor. My hands tremble as I stumble toward the bathroom, desperate to escape the memories threatening to drown me.

My reflection stops me cold—paint streaking through my hair like war paint, dark circles shadowing my eyes, clothes bearing the evidence of my artistic breakdown. A hollow laugh escapes. Grandma would shake her head if she could see me, probably tell me I'm giving him too much power. Again.

Another memory hits with brutal clarity—the day Grandma brought home that second-hand easel, just weeks after I'd moved into her cottage on the Saint estate. Eleven years old and orphaned by a drunk driver, I was drowning in grief too vast for words.

"Sometimes, sweetheart," her voice echoes, "when words fail us, we need another way to let it out." The phantom lavender makes my chest ache. I can almost feel her weathered hands on my shoulders, steadying me like she always did.

"God, I wish you were here right now, Grandma," I whisper to my reflection, gripping the edge of the sink until my knuckles turn white.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hearing her voice as clearly as if she were standing beside me: "I'm always with you, Isabella.

In every brushstroke, every breath, every moment of strength when you think you can't go on. Look for me there."

I splash cold water on my face, the shock of it bringing me back to the present. With a shaky hand, I grab a towel and pat my skin dry, trying to compose myself before heading back to face the chaos of my loft.

Walking through the doorway, I survey the battlefield of my living room—canvases strewn about, paint tubes scattered like fallen soldiers.

My gaze falls on my phone lying face-down on the hardwood floor.

As I bend to retrieve it, the device buzzes against my fingertips, lighting up with a new notification.

Emma's photo of fresh pastries. The image shows perfectly flaky croissants arranged on Simply Irresistible's signature pink plates, probably still warm from the oven.

My empty stomach betrays me with a loud growl, reminding me that coffee isn't a meal, no matter how many times I try to convince myself otherwise.

Emma's talent is both a blessing and a curse when you're running on caffeine and determination.

Emma: Don't make me waste these

Alisha: 20 minutes, Jenkins. Tick Tock

I close the messages, only to be confronted again by Ares' face from the article I'd viewed earlier. His eyes stare back at me from the screen, and just like before, the sight of him triggers a memory buried deep within me.

His fingers trembling as he fastened the compass necklace around my neck behind the rose bushes, away from prying eyes and surveillance cameras.

"With this you'll always find your way back to me," he'd whispered against my neck, his breath warm against my skin.

My hand rises instinctively to my collarbone, remembering how I'd hidden the pendant under clothes, our secret treasure.

Until his mother ripped it away, leaving marks that faded faster than the emotional scars beneath.

I can still feel the weight of it against my skin, the cool metal warming to my touch.

"Damn it," I hiss at his digital image, heat rising in my cheeks.

"You don't get to do this. You don't get to haunt me like this.

" I jab my finger against the screen, as if I could physically push him away.

"It's in the past. You're in the past. I'm not that girl anymore, and I won't let you drag me back there. "

The words sound hollow even to my own ears, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet voice mocks my attempt at conviction. I'm failing miserably at keeping him locked away in my memories where he belongs, and we both know it.

I grab my jacket, not bothering to change. Dried paint crackles with each movement, a reminder of my three-day spiral. Let them see my battle scars. Let them wonder what war I'm fighting.

The morning air slices across my face as I step onto the Boston streets, the coldness doing nothing to clear the fog in my head.

Early sunlight catches on old brick buildings, turning them to burnished gold that makes my artist's eye itch despite my exhaustion.

The sidewalk pulses with commuter energy—clicking heels, rustling newspapers, the hiss of coffee carts. Each sound hammers against my temple.

Emma's bakery glows like a beacon in the morninglight, fresh paint and gleaming windows still carrying that 'new business' shine. Simply Irresistible thrums with life—regulars who once chased Emma's delivered pastries now crowd her counter, finally having their dedicated haven.

Coffee steam curls through air thick with sugar and butter. Cups clink against saucers while weathered hardwood creaks beneath my feet. Years ago, Emma was just a single mom baking custom cakes in her cramped kitchen while Charlotte played at her feet.

Then came Nick Brown, who fell for the whole package—Emma's flour-dusted smile and Charlotte's gap-toothed grin. He didn't just give them happiness and later Liam; he first built her a dream kitchen addition to his house, giving her space to grow.

From there, she expanded, and now she has this corner store where a bookshop used to be—her ultimate dream realized. The pride I feel watching her success briefly cuts through my fog.

In our usual booth—tucked in the corner with perfect sightlines to both street and counter—Alisha demolishes a croissant.

Designer sunglasses perch on her head despite the early hour, blonde hair in what she calls her "mom bun.

" Dark circles beneath her eyes betray another rough night with the twins.

The leather seat groans as I slide in across from her, muscles protesting days of standing at my easel.

"You're late," she announces without looking up, voice rough with exhaustion. Buttery flakes scatter as she gestures with her half-eaten croissant.

I sink into the seat, tugging paint-stained sweater sleeves over my hands. Dried paint catches on my skin. "It's nine in the morning, Alisha."

"Yeah, and I've already survived two tantrums, a milk flood, and an unauthorized art project involving my new MAC lipstick and the living room wall." Her green eyes narrow as she studies my face. "Jesus, Bella. When's the last time you actually slept?"

"Sleep is overrated." The words rasp through my dry throat.

"So is denial, but that's not stopping you." There's an edge to her voice that wasn't there before. The kind that means she's worried enough to drop her usual snark.