Page 60

Ares

I stare at my phone, the blue light harsh against my eyes in the dim confines of my car. Nine weeks. Sixty-three days of suffocating under the weight of golden chains. Of waking up reaching for her, finding only cold sheets and colder reality.

The irony isn't lost on me—sitting in the exact same spot where I walked away from Jessica and my parents' carefully orchestrated engagement party months ago. Same venue, different headline.

"SAINT HEIR RETURNS: PRODIGAL SON RECONCILES WITH FAMILY EMPIRE"

My fingers clench around the phone until the edges bite into my palm. Theodore Saint's words leap from the screen like perfectly aimed daggers:

"Every family faces its challenges. Ares has found his way back home, where he belongs. The past is behind us, and Saint Industries remains stronger than ever with the next generation ready to take the helm."

The metallic taste of bile floods my mouth. Another pristine lie wrapped in PR silk. Like my public rejection never happened. Like Isabella—

The migraine spikes, sharp and merciless.

My hands shake as I fumble for another pill, the bottle rattling accusingly in the silence.

Nine weeks of this dance. Nine weeks of waking up in a cold sweat, dreaming of paint-stained fingers and rooftop stars.

Of plans we made under an infinite sky—a school for broken kids, a future built on hope instead of power.

Now all I have are board meetings and carefully staged photo ops, each one feeling like another nail in a coffin I chose for myself. The dreams we shared that night seem as distant as those stars we watched together, fading into nothing under the harsh Los Angeles sun.

Thank god for Ethan's texts. "She's okay" feels like both salvation and torture, each message a lifeline I'm not sure I deserve to grab. Last week's update still burns in my memory: "She's painting again. Different now. Darker. She misses you, Saint."

I close my eyes, seeing her loft in perfect detail. The way morning light streams through those industrial windows, catching the dust motes dancing above fresh canvases. The smell of coffee and oil paint. The sound of her bare feet on paint-splattered hardwood.

Gone. All gone.

The venue's lights blur as I straighten my tie, the designer silk a noose around my throat. Another night, another performance. Crystal chandeliers cast their merciless glow over Los Angeles' elite, their diamonds and perfect smiles reflecting artificial light like predators' teeth.

"Ares, darling!"

Faces turn, whispers follow. I catch fragments as I weave through the crowd, each one a paper cut to my already bleeding soul.

"...broke off the engagement..."

"...quite the scandal..."

"...back in the fold now..."

My father's business associates nod respectfully. Their wives offer air kisses that never land. Everyone plays their part in this carefully choreographed dance of bullshit. Just like I play mine—the prodigal son, properly chastened, ready to take his place in the empire.

The familiar throb behind my eyes intensifies as I approach our table. Mother materializes from the crowd, her designer dress rustling with each calculated step. Everything about her is precisely orchestrated—from her perfectly coiffed hair to the predatory gleam in her eyes.

"Darling." Her lips brush my cheek in a practiced gesture of maternal affection, leaving behind a waxy smear of Chanel Red. The scent of her signature gardenia perfume threatens to suffocate me. "You're looking tired. Are those business courses wearing you down?"

The concern in her voice is as fake as her smile.

The "business courses" are really intensive reprogramming sessions—daily reminders of my duty, my legacy, my chains.

Three hours every morning of being force-fed Saint Industries propaganda while my father's most trusted advisors watch for any sign of rebellion.

I fight the urge to wipe my face as I survey the table—a masterpiece of my parents' manipulation. Father's most loyal board members occupy strategic positions, their wives adorned in enough diamonds to fund a small country. Their judgment weighs heavier than their jewelry.

The empty chair beside mine might as well have a spotlight on it. Nine weeks of these setups, each one more suffocating than the last. Nine weeks of watching my cage being rebuilt, bar by golden bar.

Right on cue, Jessica appears. Her white Valentino dress is obviously new, chosen to project an image of angelic innocence that couldn't be further from the truth. She slides into the vacant seat with practiced grace, her perfectly manicured hand finding my arm.

"Ares." Her voice drips honey-sweet venom. "You look absolutely wonderful tonight."

My stomach churns at the familiar touch, at this carefully choreographed dance of pretense and power. This is what coming home looks like in the Saint family—a pristine facade masking a nest of vipers.

I think of Isabella's loft again, of dreams whispered under starlight.

We'd talked about creating a safe space for kids like her, somewhere they could pour their pain into art and find healing.

Now those dreams feel like smoke, slipping through my fingers as I drown in this ocean of wealth and manipulation.

My mother beams. The other guests at our table coo appreciatively at this display of forgiveness and reconciliation. I want to flip the fucking table.

Instead, I adjust my cufflinks—the ones Father gave me this morning, another golden chain disguised as a gift. "Jessica."

The soup course arrives. Discussion turns to stock portfolios and summer homes.

Someone mentions their new yacht. Jessica laughs at all the right moments, playing the perfect almost-was daughter-in-law.

My mind drifts to another laugh—rich and genuine, usually accompanied by paint-stained fingers and dancing green eyes.

"Remember that weekend in Aspen?" Jessica asks, voice pitched for our audience. "The skiing was divine."

We never went to Aspen together. The lie slides off her tongue smooth as honey, adding another layer to this alternate reality where I didn't publicly humiliate her, where I'm the prodigal son returned, where Isabella—

The spoon clatters against my bowl. Conversation pauses, then resumes with practiced ease. My mother's eyes flash a warning across the table. The unspoken threat clear in her gaze: Step out of line, and watch Isabella’s world burn down around her.

I loosen my tie a fraction, fighting for air in this circus of fake smiles and manufactured memories. My phone burns in my pocket. Ethan's last text playing on repeat in my mind: "She's working on something big."

A painting, I assume. Something massive and vibrant that's consuming her days and nights. The thought brings a whisper of comfort—at least she's creating again, channeling her pain into something beautiful. At least one of us is still breathing instead of just existing.

The questions from around the table start rolling in, each one a carefully aimed missile designed to test my compliance. I meet them with the sharp edge of truth wrapped in just enough politeness to maintain plausible deniability.

"How are the wedding plans coming along?" Mrs. Henderson chirps from across the table.

"Oh, there won't be a wedding." I flash my most charming smile, the one that doesn't reach my eyes. "Didn't you read the papers? I left Jessica at our engagement party a few months ago. Quite dramatic, really."

Mother's knuckles go white around her champagne stem. Jessica's practiced laugh sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

"Ares is such a tease," she deflects, but I can see the crack in her porcelain mask.

"Speaking of teases," I continue, swirling my whiskey, memories of starlit confessions giving me courage, "remember that time Father promised to attend my graduation but sent his executive assistant instead? Classic Saint family moment."

The table goes silent. Mother's face tightens into that particular expression that means I'll pay for this later. Good. Let them see the cracks in their perfect facade.

"Darling," she cuts in, voice dripping honey-coated venom, "why don't you and Jessica share a dance? For old times' sake."

I stand, offering my hand to Jessica with all the warmth of a cobra. Her fingers curl around mine like shackles as we move to the dance floor. Each step feels like another betrayal—of myself, of Isabella, of every dream we whispered under the stars.

The familiar waltz fills the ballroom, Jessica's perfectly manicured nails digging into my shoulder as we move through the practiced steps. Each turn, each measured movement reminds me of the choice I made—chains of my own choosing, wrapped tight around my soul to keep others safe.

Better me than them. Better this gilded prison than watching Isabella's world burn, seeing her friends lose everything they've built. The thought of Brian's club empty, Amanda's boutique shattered, Emma's dreams crushed... No. My freedom isn't worth their destruction.

"You're distracted tonight," Jessica purrs, pressing closer than strictly necessary. The cloying sweetness of her perfume makes my head swim. "Finally accepting your place, are you?"

I spin her, perhaps a touch too forcefully, satisfaction flickering as her smile falters. My compliance might be necessary, but my silence isn't. "Don't mistake presence for surrender, Jessica. I'm here because I choose to be."

Her eyes narrow, venom seeping through the cracks of her porcelain mask. "You know, it's almost tragic how desperately you cling to this rebellion. We both know you'll come around eventually. You always do."

The truth in her words burns like acid, but not for the reasons she thinks.

Yes, I'm back in their world, playing their game—but this time it's different.

This time, I'm not their puppet dancing on golden strings.

I'm a soldier in enemy territory, watching, waiting, searching for the weakness that will bring their empire crashing down.