Page 5

Ares

The neon lights of Six-Pack pulse overhead in geometric patterns unique to this place—a blend of upscale elegance and raw energy that's makes this club Boston's hottest nightspot.

Heavy bass vibrates through the custom-designed floor, engineered to channel sound directly into the bodies of dancers.

The air carries layers of sensation: designer perfume, top-shelf liquor, and beneath it all, the unmistakable electricity of a crowd chasing oblivion.

I should be among them. Three days ago, I would have been—celebrating newfound freedom on the dance floor, losing myself in anonymous connection.

Instead, I'm tucked in the quieter VIP section, nursing eighteen-year-old whiskey.

The liquid burns a familiar path down my throat, but the numbness I'm chasing remains elusive.

My phone vibrates against the table, screen illuminating with a familiar name. My fingers freeze mid-reach for my glass. My jaw locks, tension spreading across my shoulders like wildfire.

Mother.

Again.

I've ignored her calls since landing in Boston, but texts are harder to resist. Like precision-guided missiles, they slip past my defenses.

I exhale slowly, counting to five before picking up the phone.

Mother: Darling, Boston? Really? Of all places, you choose to run there? I understand you're feeling overwhelmed - the pressure of the position, the expectations - but this isn't the answer. Come home. We can discuss this like a family.

I take another sip, watching three dots appear, vanish, reappear. The crystal tumbler grows slick in my grip as I imagine her in Father's study, carefully crafting each word for maximum impact.

Mother: You know you can't just walk away when you feel stressed, Ares. That's not how we raised you. Think of what this tantrum is doing to your father's blood pressure. To the company. To our family name.

My free hand curls into a fist beneath the table. The Saint name. Always the Saint name. As if I'm nothing more than a walking extension of the family brand.

Me: I'm not coming back, Mother. Not this time.

Three dots dance again. A longer pause. I can almost see her perfectly manicured nails hovering over her phone, weighing which emotional lever to pull next.

Mother: Fine. Take a few days if you must. Clear your head. But remember who you are, Ares. A Saint doesn't hide in Boston like some common runaway. Try not to embarrass us more than you already have with that spectacle at the party.

The words slice exactly where intended. Mother always knows precisely where to slip the knife. I kill the screen, shoving the phone face-down onto the table with enough force to make nearby glasses jump.

"Whoa there, killer." Ethan's voice cuts through my spiral. "What did that innocent phone ever do to you?"

I glance up to find him watching me, one eyebrow raised despite the blonde whispering in his ear. He's known me long enough to read the signs.

"Nothing worth discussing," I mutter, draining my glass.

"Let me guess." Ethan disentangles himself from the blonde with practiced ease. "The Dragon Lady has awakened and demands the return of her wayward son?"

Despite everything, a corner of my mouth twitches. "Something like that."

"You look like you could use another." He signals the waitress without waiting for my response. "Double for my brooding friend here. He's having mommy issues."

"I am not having—"

"Save it for someone who didn't room with you for four years.

" Ethan leans forward, dropping his voice.

"Remember when she showed up unannounced at the boarding school in Switzerland because you missed two Sunday check-ins?

Poor Mrs. Benson nearly had a heart attack when Olivia Saint descended on her dormitory. "

The memory—Ethan's wild laughter as Mother inspected my room with white-gloved disapproval—breaks through my dark mood. "Mrs. Benson quit the next semester."

"Coincidence? I think not." Ethan grins, accepting fresh drinks from the waitress. "So, what's the real plan here? Hide out in Boston until they forget they have a son, or are you actually looking at those investment opportunities Harrison sent over?"

I swirl the amber liquid, watching light fracture through the crystal. "The tech startups look promising. Less risk than Father would take, but higher potential returns." The words feel good—decisions that are mine alone, choices made without the Saint Industries board breathing down my neck.

"There he is." Ethan raises his glass. "The business genius who graduated top of our class. Was starting to think you'd left him back in that ballroom with Jessica."

The mention of my ex-fiancée sends a different kind of tension through my shoulders. "She's already calling my father, you know. Offering to 'help bring me to my senses.'"

"Shocking." Ethan's voice drips sarcasm. "A woman who spent two years planning to become the next Mrs. Saint doesn't want to give up the title. Who could have predicted?"

Across from us, the brunette who's been eyeing me all night makes her move.

She slides closer, her designer dress catching the light in a way that's clearly meant to draw attention to curves that would have tempted me before.

Her manicured nails trace over my wrist, the touch unsolicited and unwelcome.

"You look like a man who could use some fun tonight." Her voice drops to what she clearly thinks is seductive, breath carrying notes of expensive champagne.

I shift my arm away, the contact making my skin crawl.

There's something in her calculated approach—the practiced tilt of her head, the strategic display of wealth in her jewelry—that reminds me too much of Jessica.

Of the world where every interaction is a transaction, every smile conceals an agenda.

"Not interested." The words come out sharper than intended.

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise. "Are you sure? I could—"

"He's sure." Ethan cuts in smoothly. "But I'm devastatingly available and significantly more fun." He winks at her, redirecting her attention with the easy charm that's gotten us both out of countless awkward situations since boarding school.

The brunette hesitates, clearly calculating whether Ethan is an acceptable consolation prize. After a moment, she shifts her attention to him, allowing me to fade into the background of their conversation.

I scan the club, restlessness building under my skin.

The familiar pressure closes in—different from my parents' expectations, but no less suffocating.

Three days of freedom, and already I'm falling into old patterns.

Drinking to numb. Using Ethan as a buffer.

Hiding in VIP sections instead of mapping out a future on my own terms.

"You're zoning out again, Saint," Ethan says, momentarily turning from his admirers. "Your brooding levels are reaching new heights."

"You have no idea what heights my brooding can reach." I set my glass down with unnecessary force. Whiskey sloshes, much like my churning thoughts. "I need a break."

"You mean you need to stop thinking for ten damn minutes." Ethan's knowing smirk tells me he sees right through me. "Go. I'll handle the fallout." He gestures to the women with a theatrical sigh. "The burdens I bear for our friendship."

I push up from the velvet seat, ignoring the brunette's disappointed pout. The last thing I need is another person wanting a piece of me, another headline waiting to happen. Freedom carries its own kind of pressure.

The crowd parts as I move through it—whether recognizing me or simply responding to my determined stride, I'm not sure. The dance floor throbs with bodies moving in synchronized abandon, chasing connection or escape or both. Bass pulses through my chest, matching the restless rhythm of my heart.

I catch fragments of conversation as I pass—business deals being made in dark corners, relationships beginning and ending in shadowed booths. Six-Pack is more than a club; it's a microcosm of Boston's social ecosystem, every layer of society compressed into one pulsing space.

The hallway leading to the restrooms offers momentary reprieve from the sensory assault.

The music dulls to a distant throb, allowing me to hear my own thoughts again.

My shoulders drop as I exhale, tension bleeding out with each step away from the crowd.

The empty corridor stretches before me, blessedly devoid of watching eyes and social expectations.

I loosen my tie, a reflexive action from years of feeling constrained. The silk slides smoothly against my fingers, a reminder of the world I'm trying to escape—and the one I'm still very much a part of. The Saint name might be a burden, but its privileges are woven into the fabric of my existence.

I round the corner, mind still tangled, when it crashes into something with physical force.

Auburn hair. Forest-green eyes. The air vanishes from my lungs.

Isabella Jenkins.

For a heartbeat, time suspends. The club's bass becomes my pulse, thundering in my ears as fifteen years collapse into nothing. The sight of her steals every thought from my head, and unlocks memories I've spent years burying.

Her eyes widen, recognition and shock flashing across features that have matured but remain hauntingly familiar. The softness of her teenage face has given way to defined cheekbones and a stronger jaw, but those eyes—God, those eyes haven't changed.

Then her features turn to stone, and she steps sideways, clearly intending to pass without acknowledgment. Something hot and primal flares in my chest at the dismissal, and before I know what I'm doing I mirror her movement, blocking her path.

"Get out of my way." Her voice—lower than I remember, rougher at the edges—sends electricity down my spine.

"That's not very polite." I lean against the wall, deliberately casual despite the chaos erupting inside me. "Didn't anyone teach you manners?"