Page 64

The familiar roads leading out of Boston slowly give way to winding country lanes, and something tugs at my memory, a half-forgotten dream. Ares is uncharacteristically quiet beside me, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel in a rhythm I recognize as nervous energy.

"Are we going where I think we're going?" My heart stutters as we turn onto a tree-lined drive I haven't seen in fifteen years.

He just smiles, that rare, genuine smile that still makes my stomach flip. The one that transforms him from the powerful businessman into my Sainty, the boy who used to watch me draw for hours with wonder in his eyes.

The old Saint estate emerges from the morning mist like a ghost from our past. My breath catches as memories flood back—running through these grounds with dirty shoes, sketching in hidden corners, stealing kisses in the rose garden. The pain and betrayal that followed, now dulled by time and truth.

"Ares..." My voice wavers, caught between past and present.

"Trust me, Red." He parks near the staff cottage—my cottage—and my heart clenches at the sight of its weathered walls. Even now, I swear I can smell Grandma's fresh-baked cookies, hear her humming as she worked, feel her gentle hands braiding my hair.

"Are we even allowed to be here?" I ask as he helps me from the car, his hand warm and steady in mine.

"Actually..." That mischievous glint I love appears in his eyes. "We are. Come on."

He leads me down the familiar path toward the rose garden. The grounds are a bit wild now, nature slowly reclaiming what was once meticulously maintained. But there's a strange beauty in it—like the estate is finally breathing after years of rigid control.

"Oh my god." I stop short as we round the corner. The rose garden, though overgrown, is still here. And there, beneath the tangle of blooms, is our bench. The very spot where a teenage boy with careful hands and cautious eyes first told me he wanted to be more than friends.

"You remember?" Ares's voice is soft behind me, threaded with uncertainty.

"Of course I remember." My fingers trail over the weathered wood, feeling every groove and imperfection.

"I used to draw here while you talked about your dreams. All the places you wanted to see, things you wanted to do.

" I laugh softly, the sound catching on emotion.

"I even painted this bench once. Spent hours getting the shadows just right. "

"I remember. You were wearing paint-splattered pants.

" His arms slide around my waist, pulling me back against his chest, his heartbeat strong against my spine.

"Your hair was falling out of that messy braid you always wore.

You had a smudge of blue paint right here.

" His lips brush my temple, soft as butterfly wings.

"You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. "

"Ares..." There's something in his voice, something that makes my heart race with wild hope.

"This is where I first knew I loved you." He turns me in his arms, and the intensity in his eyes takes my breath away. "Right here, watching you create beauty out of nothing, seeing how you could find light in even the darkest places."

"Why did you bring me here?" I whisper, though something warm and wild is blooming in my chest.

"Because this is where our story began." His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks with reverent tenderness. "And I want this to be where our next chapter starts."

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. My hands shake as I take it, feeling the weight of possibility in the crisp edges.

"The deed to the estate," he says softly. "I bought it last month."

"What?" I stare at him, uncomprehending.

"This is the place where we fell in love, where your grandmother made a home filled with more warmth than the Saints ever knew.

" His eyes hold mine, intense and full of emotion that steals my breath.

"I want us to rebuild it together. Turn it into something new—something ours.

Replace every bitter memory with something beautiful. "

A sob catches in my throat as I look around—at the wild roses reaching for the sun, at the cottage where Evelyn raised me with love and strength, at this man who fought his way back to my heart through darkness and pain.

"But there's more." His voice softens, and my heart stops as he sinks to one knee in the dewy grass, morning sunlight catching the tears in his eyes.

"Isabella Jenkins." His voice catches, rough with emotion. "Red. My fierce, beautiful artist who taught me what real love looks like."

He pulls out a ring—simple and stunning, an emerald surrounded by delicate diamonds that catch the morning light. "No empire, no legacy, no expectations. Just us." His voice breaks. "Marry me, Red. Let's write our own story, create our own family, build something real on these grounds."

I drop to my knees in front of him, grass soaking through my jeans. "You ridiculous man." I'm laughing and crying at once, my hands cupping his face, feeling the prinkling of his beard beneath my palms. "Did you think there was any chance I'd say no?"

His smile breaks like sunrise across his face, brilliant and beautiful. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes." I kiss him, tasting salt and joy and promise. "Yes, yes, yes."

He slides the ring onto my finger with shaking hands, then pulls me into his arms. We sit there in the damp grass, holding each other as morning light spills across the garden. Somewhere, I swear I can feel Evelyn smiling, her presence warm in the gentle breeze that stirs the roses.

"I've been thinking about the grounds," Ares says, his voice soft but vibrant with excitement. His eyes scan the overgrown gardens, seeing something I can't yet visualize. "There's so much space here, Red. Too much for just us."

His fingers tangle with mine, the ring between us catching sunlight. "What if we built the place for kids who need somewhere to belong, somewhere to create without judgment or pressure, on this property?”

I look up at him, heart swelling at the passion in his eyes.

"We could call it The Jenkins-Saint Academy of Arts and Dreams," he continues, his thumb tracing the ring on my finger.

"A place where young artists can flourish, where they can find their voice without the weight of expectations.

Where they can become who they're meant to be, not who others demand they should be. "

"Ares..." I whisper, overwhelmed by the vision he's painting.

"We'll build it from the ground up," he says, his smile growing wider, more brilliant. "Make it everything we wished we had back then. A place where talent is nurtured, not exploited. Where creativity is celebrated, not controlled."

"Our legacy," I breathe, the words feeling right in a way the Saint legacy never did. "Something real. Something that helps people instead of destroying them."

"And the cottage?" he asks, eyes soft as he watches me.

"My studio," I decide immediately. "All those memories of Evelyn, her warmth and creativity—it's the perfect place to paint. And we could live in the main house, make it a real home. Turn it into everything it never was under your parents."

His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling. "We'll make this place everything it should have been. Fill it with love and art and family."

"Our family," I whisper, thinking of our friends waiting back in the city—of Emma's maternal warmth and Nick's steady strength, of Alisha's fierce loyalty and Cole's quiet support, of Amanda's endless enthusiasm and Brian's protective nature. Of Ethan's unwavering friendship.

"Our family," he agrees, pulling me closer until I can feel his heartbeat against mine. "Past, present, and future."

Above us, the roses sway in the morning breeze, their fragrance mixing with the scent of damp earth and new beginnings. On these grounds where our love first bloomed, where pain once took root, we'll grow something new. Something real. Something beautiful.

And this time, nothing will tear it down.