Page 30

Ares straightens, his expression composed but earnest. "Yes, I would.

" His voice carries that quiet authority that commands attention.

"The accusations against Isabella Jenkins are completely false.

My decision to end my engagement was personal and had nothing to do with her.

Yes, we knew each other years ago, and yes, we recently reconnected when I returned to Boston.

But she had absolutely no influence on my decision to end things with Jessica. "

He pauses, his expression growing more intense. "Isabella Jenkins is an incredibly talented artist who deserves to be judged on her work, not dragged into tabloid speculation about my personal life. She deserves better than to have her career overshadowed by gossip and unfounded accusations."

"Those are strong words, Mr. Saint. Aren't you concerned about potential backlash?"

A half-smile crosses his face, but his eyes remain serious. "The only thing I'm concerned about is setting the record straight. Isabella Jenkins is innocent of everything she's been accused of. Her only crime was crossing paths with me again."

My vision blurs with tears as I watch him defend me.

This is Ares as I remember him—the boy who would stand between me and any threat, who would fight any battle to protect what he believed in.

But now he's doing it on national television, facing down not just Jessica but his own family's carefully crafted narrative.

I sink onto the couch, my legs unable to hold me. Emma's hand finds my shoulder, squeezing gently.

"Holy shit," Emma whispers.

On screen, Ares continues, his voice carrying that quiet intensity that always made people listen. "Isabella is one of the most talented artists I've ever known. She deserves the chance to share her work without this cloud of speculation hanging over her. That's all I have to say on the matter."

The reporter seems taken aback by his firm tone. "Your family might not appreciate such a public stance."

That familiar half-smile returns, but his eyes remain serious. "Some things are more important than family approval."

Emma mutes the TV as it cuts to commercial, turning to me with wide eyes. "Bella..."

But I can't speak. My mind is spinning, trying to process what just happened.

Ares just stood up for me. On television.

Against Jessica, against his family, against everyone who's been painting me as the villain.

He just blew apart their carefully constructed narrative with a few minutes of quiet, dignified honesty.

"He's fighting for you," Emma says softly. "In probably the only way he can right now."

And suddenly I'm crying again. Emma pulls me into a tight hug, letting me cry against her shoulder until the tears slow. When I finally pull back, wiping my eyes, she's wearing a grin that makes me pause.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." Her eyes sparkle. "Just... that was kind of impressive, watching him defend you like that. All calm and authoritative."

A laugh bubbles up through my tears as we return to the kitchen and our abandoned cookies. "God, it kind of was, wasn't it?"

"Says a lot about the man he's become." Emma's voice turns serious. "Standing up to his family, facing the media..."

"That's what scares me most." I trace a pattern in the spilled flour. "For that man? I have no defenses."

It was easier when I could hate him. When I could tell myself he was just like his parents—cold, calculating, willing to sacrifice anyone who got in their way. The anger felt righteous, felt safe. Because anger meant walls, and walls meant protection.

But this Ares? The man who just stood in the gallery and faced down not just Jessica, but his entire family's carefully crafted narrative? He's knocked down every wall I've built with a few minutes of brutal honesty on national television.

"Fuck." The word comes out as a whisper, more prayer than curse.

Fifteen years ago, he stood silent while his parents destroyed my life. That silence had cut deeper than any accusation. I'd built my new life on the foundation of that betrayal, brick by bitter brick.

But he's not that scared seventeen-year-old boy anymore, is he? Just like I'm not that naive girl who thought love could conquer everything.

We've both grown up. Both changed. And maybe that's what terrifies me most—the possibility that we've changed into people who could, actually...

No. I can't finish that thought. Can't let myself hope. Because hope is dangerous. Hope leaves you vulnerable. And I've worked too damn hard to be vulnerable again.

But watching him defend me, seeing that familiar fire in his eyes as he stood in the gallery... God, it felt like coming home and stepping off a cliff all at once.

"You're thinking too hard." Emma's voice breaks through my spiral. She slides a spoonful of cookie dough my way. "Eat this instead."

I take the spoon, but the sweetness feels wrong against the bitter tangle of my thoughts. "What am I supposed to do now, Em?"

"Maybe," she says carefully, "you stop trying to do anything. Stop fighting so hard against what you're feeling."

"That's terrifying." The admission slips out before I can stop it.

"Good things usually are." She bumps my hip with hers. "And Bella? That man just declared war on his entire family for you. On live TV." A small smile tugs at her lips. "Maybe it's time to let someone else fight for you for a change."

The words hit like a punch to the gut, because she's right.

I've been fighting alone for so long, I've forgotten what it feels like to have someone in my corner.

Besides my dear friends, I'm not used to having someone defend me—especially not publicly, not at the risk of their own reputation and family ties.

The novelty of it is as terrifying as it is exhilarating: to have someone say "I choose you" instead of running away.

We return to our abandoned cookie dough, the familiar motions of measuring and mixing settling my nerves. The kitchen fills with the sweet scent of vanilla and chocolate as the first batch goes into the oven.

My phone rings. Ares.

"Answer it." Emma nudges me. "He deserves that much."

I sigh, picking up. His deep voice sends shivers down my spine. "Did you see it?"

"Yes."

"Can we talk?"

I hesitate, but then— "Please, Red."

"Okay." The word barely leaves my lips when a knock echoes through my loft.

Emma heads to the door, and there he stands, phone still pressed to his ear, looking rumpled and gorgeous and determined.

"Sharp and smooth," Emma murmurs as she lets him in. "I like it."

His eyes never leave mine as he walks in, intense and unwavering. My heart pounds against my ribs.

"I should go." Emma checks the oven timer. "Eight minutes for golden brown, don't forget." She kisses my cheek, whispering, "Get it, girl."

The door closes behind her, and suddenly the air feels electric. All I see is this man who just defended me to the world, who's looking at me with those deep brown eyes like I'm everything.

"I'm so sorry, I—"

I close the distance between us in three steps, grab his face, and kiss him.

The kiss is everything—gratitude, fear, hope, and years of love that never really died.

My heart knows this truth: I choose this man.

I've always chosen this man, even when I tried to deny it.

His public defense of me, his willingness to stand in my corner, only confirms what my heart has known all along.

He makes a surprised sound against my lips before his arms wrap around me, lifting me off my feet.

The kiss deepens, turns desperate and consuming.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him, drowning in the taste of coffee and him.

My fingers tangle in his hair as his hands span my waist. And God, this feels right.

Like coming home and falling apart and being put back together all at once.

When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard. "This is... not what I expected when I came here."

"Should I stop?" The words come out breathless.

He growls—actually growls—and pecks my lips. "Don't you dare."

His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling in the space between us. "I'm so sorry, Red. For everything."

The sincerity in his voice makes my heart ache. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the gentle way his thumbs stroke my sides—he means it. Really means it.

I nod, my fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "They won't be happy about what you did. Going public like that..."

"I know." His arms tighten around me. "But I'd do it again. A thousand times over."

His eyes lock with mine, intense and unwavering. "I won't stand by and watch them hurt you, Red. Never again." The words carry the weight of a vow. "I'm in your corner now. It's you and me against them—against anyone who tries to come between us."

My breath catches at the fierce determination in his voice. This isn't the scared seventeen-year-old boy who stood silent while his parents destroyed my life. This is a man who just declared war on his own family to protect me.

"Ares..."

"I choose you." His voice roughens with emotion.

"I should have chosen you fifteen years ago.

I was too young, too weak to understand what they were doing.

But I'm not that boy anymore." His hand cups my face, thumb brushing away tears I didn't realize had fallen.

"And this time, I'm strong enough to fight for us. "

The words hit like a physical blow, breaking down the last of my carefully constructed walls. Everything I've been fighting against, everything I've been afraid to hope for, crystallizes in this moment.

I kiss him again, pouring years of hurt and hope and unspoken feelings into the press of my lips against his. His response is immediate, passionate, a promise sealed with shared breath and tangled tongues.

When we break apart, he doesn't let me go far. His arms stay locked around me like he's afraid I'll disappear if he loosens his grip.

"We're really doing this?" I whisper against his lips.

The determined set of his jaw softens, but his eyes remain serious, unwavering in their conviction.

"Together. We're doing this together." He brushes his nose against mine, a tender promise sealing his words. "This isn’t just a second chance. It’s us finding our way back to each other—like we were always meant to. "

And for the first time since this nightmare began, I let myself believe in us, in our messy, imperfect, undeniable connection.