Page 65

Three Years Later

The late September breeze carries the scent of autumn through the open windows, rustling the curtains like whispered promises.

Sunlight dances across my newest paintings—scenes of love and redemption that would have been impossible to create in the darkness of my past. I watch Ares chase our son through the living room, their shared laughter a melody I never tire of hearing.

Two-year-old Aiden's dark curls bounce wildly with each step, untamed like his father's.

His green eyes—my eyes—sparkle with mischief as he dodges another playful grab.

"Can't catch me, Daddy!" he squeals, darting behind the sofa where his favorite stuffed lion keeps watch over our little family's domain.

"Oh yeah?" Ares lunges, scooping him up in one fluid motion. He presses kisses to Aiden's giggling face, growling playfully. "What was that about not catching you, little man?"

The afternoon light streams through the windows, catching on the Celtic knots tattooed across Ares's chest—no longer symbols of chains, but a testament to how our paths always lead back to each other, intricate and unbreakable.

My eyes trace the newest addition to his collection: a delicate paintbrush on his forearm, its tip trailing watercolor strokes that form my name in flowing script.

He got it the day Aiden was born, saying it was time to mark the moment his world truly began to paint itself in colors again.

"Mama, paint!" Aiden demands, wriggling free to point at my easel where my latest commission stands half-finished—a piece for the new Jenkins-Saint School of Art and Dreams opening next month.

The foundation's flagship project, designed to nurture young artists who, like me, come from nothing but dreams and determination.

A place where talent matters more than last names or bank accounts, where broken children can heal through creativity and find their voice.

"Tomorrow, little love." I ruffle his hair as he squirms in Ares's arms, his small hands already reaching for the non-toxic paints I keep just for him. "Mama needs to rest."

"Growing a human is serious business," Ares agrees, his free hand splaying across my swollen belly with reverent tenderness.

Right on cue, our daughter kicks against his palm, strong and determined.

His eyes light up the way they always do when she moves, wonder and love transforming his features.

"Evelyn Rose Saint, already making her presence known. "

"Evelyn," I say softly, placing my hand over his, feeling our daughter dance beneath our joined fingers.

"For my grandmother, who taught me that love is worth fighting for.

" I smile at the memory of her strength, her wisdom, her unbreakable spirit.

"And Rose for the garden where we fell in love—where everything began. "

Saint Industries thrives now under Ares's leadership.

He kept the Saint name but transformed its legacy—transparent operations, ethical practices, a commitment to truth that would make Gran proud.

It took three years of legal battles, exposing decades of corruption.

But from those ashes, he built something new.

Something honest. Something worthy of the name we'll pass to our children.

Ares knows how to command attention without demanding it—a skill his father never mastered.

Where Theodore ruled through fear and manipulation, Ares leads with vision and integrity.

Companies that once hesitated to associate with Saint Industries now eagerly seek partnerships, drawn to his innovative approach and the company's renewed reputation.

He still keeps tabs on his parents—Theodore serving twenty-five years for fraud, embezzlement, and orchestrating Wells's murder; Olivia's eight-year sentence for being an accomplice to the crimes.

She chose power over justice until the very end, refusing to acknowledge her role even as the evidence mounted against her.

Sometimes I catch a shadow crossing Ares's face when they're mentioned, that fleeting reminder of the family that nearly destroyed us both.

But those moments grow rarer as we build our future.

"Poor Evie doesn't stand a chance with us as parents," I tease, but my voice catches on unexpected emotion. Because sometimes it still hits me—how far we've come, how much we've overcome, how close we came to losing this future that now feels as essential as breathing.

"Any regrets?" Ares asks softly, reading my expression like he always has, like he always will, his eyes seeing straight to my soul.

I look around our home—at the beautiful chaos of our life together.

Aiden's wooden trains intermingle with my paint brushes on the coffee table.

The journals that started it all, now published as part of the case evidence, sit proudly on our bookshelf beside photos of our growing family.

Gran's picture watches from the mantel, her knowing smile seeming to say I told you so, Isabella. Love always finds a way.

I trace the paintbrush inked on Ares's arm, watching how the afternoon light makes the watercolor strokes of my name shimmer like actual paint, still wet with possibility.

"Not a single one," I whisper, and kiss him as our son giggles between us and our daughter dances under his palm.

"Every step led us here, exactly where we belong. "

Some battles leave scars worth bearing. Some loves justify burning down empires to protect.

And sometimes, what once felt like chains—those Celtic knots, those family expectations—transform into the very connections that set us free, binding us not to fate but to the people who make life worth living.

In the end, we didn't just survive—we flourished. And that's the most beautiful masterpiece of all.