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"I know." His thumb traces my cheekbone, understanding shining in his eyes.

Just then, something flickers in the trees—a quick glint, maybe sunlight catching on metal. I pause but shake it off when a mouthwatering aroma drifts through the air.

I spot a line of food trucks along the Esplanade, colorful and inviting. My stomach growls in response, loud enough to make me laugh.

"Ooh, let’s grab a bite from one of those! I’m starving."

Ares chuckles and falls into step beside me as I make a beeline for a truck boasting gourmet burgers.

"The Truffle Shuffle with extra aioli," I order, practically bouncing with anticipation.

"Make that two," Ares adds, his hand finding its way to the small of my back.

We claim a spot by the river, sharing bites of our burgers and stealing each other's fries. A spot of aioli catches the corner of his mouth, and before I can stop myself, I reach up to wipe it away. His lips catch my thumb, pressing a soft kiss to the pad. My breath hitches.

"Still hungry?" His voice carries a different kind of heat now.

"Starving," I whisper.

A warm breeze stirs my hair as I crumple our burger wrappers and grab Ares's hand. "Come on." My fingers slide between his, fitting perfectly like they always have. "Let's walk for a bit."

The Esplanade stretches before us, a ribbon of serenity winding along the river's edge.

Each step feels like moving through honey—slow, sweet, precious.

The setting sun gilds everything in amber light, turning ordinary scenes into snapshots of magic.

A pair of ducks glide past, leaving ripples that catch and scatter golden reflections across the water's surface.

Ares's thumb traces absent patterns on my skin, and I find myself matching my breathing to his steady stride. We don't need words right now. The gentle rustle of leaves in the warm breeze and distant city sounds create their own kind of music, a soundtrack to this stolen moment.

My artist's eye catalogs details I want to remember forever: the way late afternoon sunlight filters through the dense summer foliage, how Ares's profile looks carved from marble in this golden light, the perfect contrast of his dark hair against the deep green canopy above.

But it's more than just visual—it's the way my body recognizes his presence, like muscle memory awakening after a long sleep.

He adjusts his grip, interlacing our fingers more firmly, and something inside me both soars and trembles. This feels too right, too easy—like picking up a conversation mid-sentence after fifteen years of silence.

The sky deepens to purple at its edges as we round a bend in the path. My heart feels too full, too fragile. "I don't want today to end," I whisper, the words escaping before I can catch them.

He pulls me into his arms, and I go willingly, breathing in his familiar scent. His lips brush my forehead, igniting sparks under my skin. "Then let's steal every minute we can."

The sweet moment shatters at the flash of cameras. They emerge like vultures from behind trees and parked cars—reporters with hungry eyes and microphones thrust forward like weapons.

"Mr. Saint! Any response to your father's comments about 'maintaining family standards'?"

Ice spreads through my veins as I watch Ares's entire face transform. The tender lover from moments ago vanishes beneath a mask of rigid control, his jaw clenching tight.

"No comment."

But they press closer, circling like sharks scenting blood.

"Miss Jenkins, how long have you and Mr. Saint been seeing each other?

" One particularly bold reporter shoves her microphone toward me.

"Miss Jenkins, there are rumors about your past connection to the Saint family. Can you elaborate on that?"

Heat floods my cheeks as anger and humiliation war in my chest. Ares's arm tightens around me, his body coiling with tension.

"Miss Jenkins, is your relationship with Ares Saint worth sacrificing your art exhibition? Sources say the Luminous Gallery canceled your show because of this scandal."

The question hits like a physical blow, deliberately crafted to wound, to provoke. I feel Ares stiffen beside me, his breath catching in his throat.

"Mr. Saint, sources say you've been spotted at Miss Jenkins' gallery multiple times before ending your engagement. Care to comment?"

Ares moves with liquid grace, positioning himself between me and the cameras. "Back off," he growls, the sound vibrating through his chest where it presses against my back. "Now."

But they're relentless, closing in from all sides. The questions become more pointed, each designed to provoke:

"What about the Westwood merger, Mr. Saint?"

"Has this affected your position at Saint Industries?"

"If you don't move," Ares's voice drops to that lethal register that makes my spine tingle, "I will ensure every one of you loses your press credentials. Permanently."

A few reporters falter, but one pushes forward. "The public has a right to know—"

"The public," Ares cuts in, his words sharp as steel, "has no rights to our private lives. And if any of you come near Isabella again..." He lets the threat hang in the air, heavy with promise.

His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with deliberate purpose. "Ready to go, Red?"

I nod, unable to trust my voice. We move together through the crowd, Ares's body a shield between me and the flashing cameras. Questions continue to fly like arrows:

"What does Jessica Westwood think about your new relationship with Miss Jenkins?"

The words cut off as Ares suddenly stops. The tension radiating from him makes my breath catch. He turns slowly, his expression carved from marble.

"Print whatever you want about me. But Isabella's career and her art stand on their own merit." His voice carries across the sudden silence. "She is not your story. She is not your scandal. And I suggest you remember that."

The declaration hangs in the air like thunder after lightning. Without another word, he guides me toward his car, leaving the stunned reporters in our wake. But I hear the cameras clicking frantically, capturing what will undoubtedly become tomorrow's headlines.

Inside the car, his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry," he grinds out. "I should have known they'd be watching. Should have protected you better."

I reach over, covering his hand with mine. "Hey." I wait until his eyes meet mine. "You did protect me. You stood up for us. That's all that matters."

His fingers relax slightly under mine, but I can still feel the rage simmering beneath his skin. The perfect day we'd planned lies in shambles around us, but somehow, watching him defend our love so fiercely makes me feel stronger than ever.

They want to write the story of our fall, but we’re already writing something else—one brushstroke, one vow, one kiss at a time.