Page 35

Bella

Music fills my studio, something soft and hopeful floating through the space. My brush hovers over the canvas. No despair today—only something fiercer rising: determination. Defiance.

Gran's voice whispers in my memory: "Art isn't just about beauty, sweetheart. It's about truth. And truth always finds its way to the light."

My hand steadies as the first stroke of color blazes across the canvas. Each brushstroke that follows carries more confidence, more purpose. This isn't just art anymore—it's a declaration. A promise to myself and to every artist who's ever been told to be quiet, to disappear, to accept defeat.

"Watch me," I whisper, watching deep blues and vibrant golds merge and dance. "This is just the beginning."

The colors flow easier now, more vibrant than they've been in a while.

Since Ares stormed back into my life, my work had been chaotic—all sharp edges and fractured perspectives, beautiful in their own way but born from turmoil.

Now, something's shifted. Each stroke feels purposeful, grounded in a clarity I'd lost in the emotional whirlwind of his return.

My phone buzzes on the table, probably Ares checking in. He's at his penthouse with Ethan today, going through more files, giving me space to work. The thought makes me smile—he understands my need for solitude when I'm creating, just like he always did.

I step back, studying the emerging piece. The anger and confusion that had been driving my recent work has softened into something more nuanced. This isn't art born from revenge or hurt. This is art born from resilience, from choosing to believe in possibility despite everything.

Gran's voice whispers in my memory: "When the world feels darkest, that's when you must hold tightest to your light."

I dip my brush into a bold cerulean, adding depth to what was once flat. There's a spark reigniting in my work that I can feel in every brushstroke—not despite the chaos surrounding us, but perhaps because of how we're choosing to face it together.

My phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

The persistent vibration finally pulls my attention away from the canvas. Notifications flood my screen—Twitter, Instagram, news alerts. Each one making my heart beat faster.

I'm trending. Again.

And I know in my gut—whatever comes next, it won't be fair.

I click the link, and my world stops spinning as I read the headline. "REVEALED: SAINT HEIR'S MYSTERY ARTIST—FROM STEALING JEWELRY TO STEALING FIANCéES"

And there, in grainy black and white security footage, is my sixteen-year-old self walking into Olivia Saint's massive walk-in closet.

The timestamp in the corner reads 3:47 PM—I remember that day with crystal clarity.

The way Olivia's voice had demanded me to fetch her two favorite necklaces for the evening's gala.

My stomach lurches as I watch past-me carefully lift the jewelry box, taking out the necklaces, following Olivia's explicit instructions. The video cuts off there—conveniently.

Comments scroll past like poison darts:

"Guess the truth finally comes out."

"Poor Ares Saint, blinded by a con artist."

"No wonder her exhibition got cancelled. Karma."

The words blur together as my phone starts ringing. Ares's name flashes on the screen.

I answer.

"Red." His voice is tight with controlled fury. "I just saw it. I'm already working with our legal team to get it taken down. Ethan's tracing the source."

"It doesn't matter." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"The damage is done. Every gallery owner, every potential sponsor will see this.

One Google search and—" My throat closes around the words.

All those carefully cultivated relationships with collectors, the museum installation Elliot has been quietly negotiating—they'll vanish like smoke.

"They're not just attacking my reputation this time, Ares.

They're making sure no serious gallery will touch my work again. "

"No." The fierce certainty in his voice makes me catch my breath. "We're not letting them win this time. I'm on my way to you."

My phone keeps buzzing with notifications.

The video is everywhere—TMZ picked it up first, then local Boston news stations.

Now it's spreading across Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, each platform adding its own spin to the story.

Even respectable outlets like the Boston Globe are running pieces about the "controversial artist" and her "complicated history" with the Saint family.

I force myself to put the phone down when I see #SaintFamilyThief trending.

When Ares arrives twenty minutes later, he's already in full crisis management mode. His phone is pressed to his ear as he strides in.

"No, we need immediate action on this." His voice carries that quiet authority that brooks no argument.

"The footage was obtained illegally—yes, I understand the complications, but.

.." He catches my eye, mouth tightening.

"Caroline, they're destroying her reputation with stolen property. There has to be legal recourse."

I try to focus on my painting while he paces, but his words keep drawing my attention.

"Yes exactly—" He runs a hand through his hair. "File whatever you need to. And get me a meeting with the Globe's editor. If they're going to run this story, they damn well better hear both sides."

He ends the call, immediately dialing another number. "Ethan? Where are we on tracing the leak? ... Good. Send everything to Caroline's team."

Finally, he drops into my desk chair, looking battle-worn but determined. "The legal team's moving on it. Caroline's filing for an immediate takedown on copyright grounds—the footage belongs to Saint Industries, and since my parents are playing dumb, no one had permission to release it."

"Will that work?"

"It's a start." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "The bigger sites will have to comply. The smaller ones... that'll take more time."

Ares looks dangerous, his usual polished appearance slightly disheveled, eyes dark with rage.

"This was my parents." He runs a hand through his hair. "Has to be. They're the only ones with access to those security files."

"Why now?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Because of my interview. Because I defended you publicly." His jaw clenches. "This is their warning shot."

I turn back to my canvas, the bright colors now seeming to mock me. "Maybe they're right. Maybe I should just—"

"Don't." He crosses the room in three strides, turning me to face him. "Don't let them make you doubt yourself. Your art, your talent—that's yours. They can't take that away."

"They already have." The words scrape out of my throat. "First the exhibition, now this? Who's going to want to show my work when they think I'm a thief?"

His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Listen to me. We're going to fight this. The right way this time. With evidence, with lawyers, with the truth."

"The truth?" I laugh, but it comes out broken. "When has that ever mattered against your family's power?"

"It matters now." His voice drops, intense and certain. "Because this time, we're fighting together. And I promise you, Red—we're going to make them regret ever trying to silence your art."

His words hang in the air, heavy with promise and determination. For a moment, we just stand there, his hands warm against my face, my heart thundering with a dangerous mix of fear and hope.

"Stay." The word slips out before I can stop it. "Work from here today. I... I don't want to be alone right now."

Something softens in his eyes. "Of course." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Let me make some calls."

Hours blur together after that. I lose myself in my painting, letting the colors speak what my heart can't quite voice.

Ares sets up at my desk, his laptop open and phone constantly buzzing with messages from his legal team.

The familiar sounds of his work—quiet conversations, keyboard clicks, occasional sighs of frustration—become a soothing backdrop to my own creative process.

My own phone hasn't stopped either. It vibrated so persistently that I finally had to answer the group call from my friends, all three of them talking over each other in a cacophony of protective outrage.

"I saw the news—those vultures!" Emma's normally gentle voice had risen an octave.

"Just say the word and I'll personally ensure Saint Junior never reproduces," Alisha had threatened, her tone deadly serious despite the absurdity.

"Is he actually doing anything about this?" Amanda had demanded.

I'd stepped into the hallway, glancing back at Ares hunched over his laptop, jaw set in determination as he fired off another email. "He's been on the phone with his lawyers for hours," I'd assured them. "He's handling it."

"He better be," Alisha had muttered. "Because if he doesn't fix this, I know where he sleeps now, and I own very sharp scissors."

The fierce loyalty had made me laugh despite everything. My friends are the best weapons I have in this fight—loyal, fierce, and completely terrifying when provoked. By the time I'd convinced them not to show up at my door with wine and baseball bats.

"For the reporters, Bella, not for Ares... unless he deserves it", I'd felt stronger somehow. Fortified.

By late afternoon, Gran's diaries surround him as he methodically works through each one.

The sight of him there, sleeves rolled up and totally absorbed in uncovering his family's secrets, hits me with stunning clarity.

This is love. Not the desperate, consuming passion of our youth, but something deeper, stronger.

Love in its purest form—this man who's willing to tear down everything he's known, to face his own demons, to uncover painful truths about his family, all while refusing to let me face the fallout alone.