Page 57

The door creaks open, the familiar cadence of Ethan's footsteps echoing through the cavernous loft.

I don't look up from where I'm huddled on the floor, knees tucked to my chest in a fragile approximation of comfort.

I can't bear to meet his gaze, not when my defenses have shattered into this raw, exposed state.

"Bella?" His voice is soft, careful—like he's approaching an injured animal more than a friend. The floorboards groan under his weight as he moves closer.

I try to respond, to dredge up the tattered remnants of the strong, unbreakable woman I once was. But when my eyes lift and find his, all I can manage is a choked, trembling whisper. "I can't—"

The rest dissolves in a ragged sob that feels torn from the deepest pit of my soul.

In an instant, Ethan's arms are around me, and I crumple against the solid warmth of his embrace.

His shirt carries the faintest trace of Ares's cologne, which is ridiculous, but my brain doesn't care about logic.

That painfully familiar scent is all it takes for the last thread of my composure to snap, unraveling me completely.

It's absurd how something so small can break me when I've withstood so much, but here I am, coming apart over a ghost of a scent on a different man's shirt.

"I can't even call him." The confession is agonizing, each word scraped over shards of broken glass. "I can't hear his voice, because it would break me, Ethan. Break us both into pieces too jagged to ever piece back together."

His arms tighten almost imperceptibly, and I cling to him, to this solitary lifeline keeping me tethered to the world. We sit there, the silence a cacophony of my inner turmoil, surrounded by the chaos of my anguish spilled onto canvas in broad, manic strokes.

Ethan doesn't try to fill the void with empty platitudes or hollow reassurances. He simply... lets me break, cradling the shards of me that grow sharper with every ragged breath. He's the eye in the storm, the singular point of calm in my raging sea of heartbreak.

I don't know how long we stay like that, frozen in an endless moment of grief.

But eventually, the sobs ebb into hiccuping exhales, and Ethan gently pulls away just enough to meet my gaze.

His expression is a war of guarded concern and barely restrained anger—not at me, but at whatever forces have brought this much anguish crashing into my world.

"Come on, Bells." His voice is low, soothing, as he helps me up from the floor with an ease that speaks to the countless times he's had to put the pieces of me back together these past weeks. "Let's get you over to the couch."

I let him guide me across the loft, his presence a comforting anchor against the maelstrom in my head.

He settles me on the worn, overstuffed sofa that's become my place of refuge more times than I can count.

As I curl into the familiar embrace of the plush cushions, Ethan's gaze roams over the new canvases with a pensive intensity.

"These are...intense." His tone is carefully neutral, giving nothing away. "Different from your usual style."

A harsh, bitter bark of laughter escapes before I can stop it. "Yeah, well, apparently heartbreak does that to your art."

I don't miss the flicker of something like gratitude in his expression—a silent acknowledgment that I'm not trying to plaster over the cracks with empty bravado. Not this time. Not with him.

Leaving me cocooned in the warmth of the sofa, Ethan moves toward the kitchen area with a familiar, easy confidence.

The coffee pot whirs to life, the rich aroma filling the air as he sets out mugs—just another ritual in our daily dance of coping.

Of breathing through the unbearable by focusing on the simple tasks that tether me to the act of living.

By the time he's settled into his usual overstuffed armchair, steaming mug in hand and paperback thriller resting open on the broad arm, the jagged edges inside me have started to dull ever so slightly.

This is what I've come to crave about our time together—the seamless cadence of silence punctuated by the soft sounds of pages turning, of ceramic on wood, of brush against canvas as I get up and lose myself in creating.

I don't know how much time slips by like this. Entire lifetimes might rise and fall in the spaces between each measured inhale. But eventually, the ping of Ethan's phone shatters the tranquil spell—the arrival of our usual takeout order, like clockwork.

"You need to eat, Bella." His tone is gentle but unwavering as he holds out a pair of cheap wooden chopsticks, the paper cartons of kung pao chicken and lo mein steaming on the coffee table before us.

I set down my brush, realizing for the first time just how ravenous I am. As I accept the chopsticks, our fingers brush, and I'm struck by how his hands have become the physical tether keeping me grounded to this world.

We eat in companionable quiet, the silence as nourishing as the food itself. Until, finally, the question I've been desperate to ask but terrified to hear the answer to slips out in a hoarse murmur.

"How is he?"

Ethan's chopsticks freeze halfway to his mouth, the muscles in his throat working as he weighs his response with careful consideration.

"He's...okay." The words are measured, cautious—a truth, but not the entire truth. "Working a lot."

I nod, the knot in my chest constricting around the confirmation that Ares is just as shattered as I am right now. These tiny crumbs of information are all I can allow myself, the only morsels my battered heart can digest without shattering into a million inextinguishable pieces.

"I was going through Gran's things earlier." The abrupt change of subject is more a desperate pivot than an attempt at misdirection. "Actually, I found a new diary of hers, tucked away in her old trunk. Hidden under her wedding dress of all places."

Ethan's eyes light up with interest, a welcome shift from the simmering storm lurking behind his gaze. "Yeah? Any embarrassing stories about teenage Ares in there? God knows I need more ammunition against him."

Despite everything, a small huff of laughter escapes me at the thought. I reach for the worn leather journal I'd discovered earlier, the one that felt heavier with secrets than the others. The scent of old paper and Gran's favorite lavender perfume envelops me like a warm embrace.

"I haven't had the chance to read this one yet," I say, running my fingers over the warped cover. "But knowing Gran, there's bound to be something good in here. She never missed a chance to document Ares being..." I pause, searching for the right word, "...less than graceful."

"Oh, do tell." Ethan leans forward, his earlier tension momentarily forgotten.

I flip through the yellowed pages, Gran's looping script as familiar as my own heartbeat. "Here's one..." I clear my throat, steadying my voice. "Listen to this..."

The words flow with practiced ease as I share the tale of ten-year-old Ares trying to sneak treats from Gran's kitchen, only to send an entire shelf of spices clattering to the floor in a cloud of cayenne and cinnamon.

For those few, blessed moments, the loft is filled with the rich baritone of Ethan's laughter mingling with my own—a balm against the hollowed-out ache in my soul. It's a glimpse of lightness, of joy, that I've been drowning without.

"That sounds like him." Ethan grins, eyes bright with fond exasperation. "Always so graceful, our Saint."

The endearment he uses for his best friend hangs in the air, a stark juxtaposition against the torment simmering in the canvases surrounding us.

It's a reminder that Ethan knew Ares after I was already gone—after his parents shipped him to that Swiss boarding school with a head full of lies about my betrayal.

He knew the Ares who was pieced back together after I supposedly shattered him, the one who learned to function with walls around his heart.

My smile falters as a new wave of guilt washes over me. I move closer to the couch, diary in hand, and settle onto the battered cushion beside Ethan. I need to share these memories—these fleeting moments where Ares was simply...happy. It's the only way to keep breathing.

I flip aimlessly through the aged pages, letting my fingers trail over Gran's handwriting.

The faded scent of her perfume washes over me, and for a moment, I can almost imagine her warmth surrounding me, her soft hands brushing the hair from my face as she murmurs the soothing lullabies from my childhood.

It's then that I notice it—two pages seeming to cling together, the delicate paper edges melded into one. Frowning, I carefully pry them apart, half-expecting to find another cherished memory trapped between the fragile pages.

But what flutters into my lap is no ink-scrawled entry. It's a folded envelope, yellowed and brittle with age, the outside bearing a single word in Gran's flowing hand: "Evidence."

My breath catches in my throat as I carefully open the tattered envelope and let the contents spill out—a folded sheet of paper, the crisp creases still razor-sharp despite the years. As I unfold it, something cold and leaden settles in the pit of my stomach.

Because there, inked in an unknown calligraphy, is a list of names, and... a string of numbers. I don't understand what I'm looking at, but the names leap out with strange familiarity:

"Cayman Holdings. Helios Enterprises. Project Cerberus & Omega."

The chopsticks clatter to the floor, long-forgotten, as Ethan sits up ramrod straight beside me. His hand darts out, snatching the paper from my grasp as his eyes scan the list in a fevered daze.

"No fucking way." The expletive hisses through his clenched teeth, jaw ticking rapidly. "Holy fucking shit, Bella. This is Theodore Saint's handwriting."

My eyes fly to his, wide with a combination of fear and tentative, fragile hope. "What? A-are you sure?"

He nods once, a sharp, impatient jerk of his head. "I'd recognize it anywhere. All those goddamn contracts, those fucking board meeting notes." His fist clenches around the paper, the crisp edge slicing into his palm hard enough to draw blood. "This is his hand, Bella. I'd stake my life on it."

My heart thunders in my ears, the roaring rush of blood drowning out every other sound.

Ethan's eyes are blazing, the intensity of his focus bordering on feverish as it darts between the list and me.

"Bella…" He leans in, hand finding my wrist in a grip just shy of bruising.

"If this is what I think it is, if this is the key to unlocking those encrypted files.

.." A savage grin twists his lips, more a promise of violence than true joy.

"Then everything is about to change. Everything. "

The implications crash over me in waves, a deluge of terrifying possibility. Is this is the key, the missing piece that can unravel Theodore Saint's entire web of lies and manipulation?

The thought is so staggering, so monumental, that it steals the breath from my lungs. I can only gape at Ethan, at the burning intensity blazing in his eyes, as he gives my wrist one last emphatic squeeze.

"I need to go confirm this, Bella. I need to..." His jaw works furiously, that feverish light dancing in his eyes. "I'll be back as soon as I know anything solid. Don't go anywhere, yeah?"

The words are barely out before he's on his feet, long legs devouring the space between the couch and the door in a few determined strides.

Something in Ethan's gaze, that blazing intensity, that raw hope, ignites a fierce spark within me that I thought had died with Ares's departure.

"Ethan, wait!"

My voice rings out, raw but unwavering, as I scramble off the couch. He pauses, hand on the door, eyes questioning as I cross the space between us in a few long strides.

"You're not going without me." I state it as fact, no room for argument. "I'm coming with you."

For the first time since Ares left, I feel something other than crushing grief. Something that feels dangerously like hope.