Page 7

Ares

Boston's skyline stretches dark beyond my windows, save for the occasional high-rise light piercing the night.

Rain streaks down glass, distorting distant city lights into watercolor blurs.

The steady patter creates a melancholy rhythm that does nothing to quiet my mind.

Isabella's unfinished accusation loops endlessly: "Your parents—"

What was she going to say?

"Did you really think she loved you?" Mother's voice cuts through time, dripping venom. "A servant's granddaughter? She saw dollar signs, not you. And you were foolish enough to let her close."

"Fuck." I sit up, raking fingers through my hair. Sheets pool at my waist as I grab my phone. Three missed calls from Father light up my screen.

I ignore them.

Sleep is a lost cause now. I throw off the tangled sheets and pace the room, my mind a battlefield of memories and questions. The night passes in a haze of restlessness—shower, whiskey, failed attempts at work emails. Nothing anchors me.

Hours later, I'm still trapped in my thoughts, perched in the leather chair by the panoramic windows of my suite. The city below stirs to life, oblivious to the chaos in my head. My reflection stares back at me—hollow-eyed and unshaven—a ghost haunting my own life.

The door opens, and Ethan strides in, coffee in hand, wearing that knowing smirk that begs for a fist.

"You look like shit," he announces, dropping into the chair across from me.

I accept the coffee, letting bitter match my mood. "Thanks."

He pulls out his tablet, his smile fading to something more serious. Screen-glow carves shadows across his face as he scrolls. "Did some digging. Want to hear what I found about her?"

I nod once, watching his fingers dance across the tablet.

"Isabella Jenkins." His thumb swipes left, revealing image after image. "Shows at Luminous Gallery—that's serious. Top tier." He turns the screen toward me. "And look at this. This month's her first solo showcase. They're calling her 'the rising talent every collector needs to watch.'"

An image freezes me—a hyperrealistic painting of a child pressing their palm against rain-streaked glass, longing etched in every line. The aching loneliness steals my breath. Her signature sits in the corner: I. Jenkins.

Memory ambushes me: sitting beside her on that garden bench, watching for hours as her pencil transformed blank paper into something alive. The way her brow furrowed in concentration, how she'd bite her lip when—

I shove the tablet back at Ethan.

His eyes lift, studying me with that razor-sharp intensity that makes me want to squirm. Nothing escapes that gaze—not a twitch, not a breath. "Maybe you should check it out?"

My eyes narrow to daggers, lips curling into a snarl that would send most running.

But not Ethan. He just cocks an eyebrow, mouth twitching as he leans in.

"Come on, admit you're curious. Maybe she's done a whole series on you.

" His eyes dance with mischief. "Probably calls it 'Asshole in Armani' or 'Trust Fund Tragedy. '"

Something twists in my gut. Would she? Has she captured our history on canvas?

My mind spirals—what moments would she choose to immortalize?

The golden afternoons or the brutal ending?

Would her brushstrokes show tenderness, or would she paint me as the fool she played—the naive rich boy who actually believed a servant's granddaughter could love him?

The possibility burns through me like wildfire, igniting a desperate need to see her work.

"Fuck you." I drain my coffee, but the bitter taste doesn't mask the acid rising in my throat. "Besides, even if I wanted to check it out, I can't exactly waltz into a gallery right now. Or did you miss the swarm of vultures camping outside?"

"Please." Ethan rolls his eyes. "You're Ares fucking Saint. Call the gallery, ask about their collection, hint at being an anonymous donor. They'll trip over themselves arranging a private viewing."

I won't do it. This is insane. I have enough chaos without chasing ghosts from fifteen years ago. There's absolutely no reason to—

"The number." My phone's already in my hand. "Now."

Ethan's smile widens as he reads out the digits. "You know, for someone who claims not to care—"

"This is your fault." I jab a finger at him. "You're the one who suggested she might have painted something about me."

"Oh sure, blame me." He laughs. "Use me as your excuse to go see the woman who clearly still gets under your skin."

I punch in the gallery's number, ignoring his smirk. But I can't ignore the way my pulse quickens.

Two hours later, I slip through Luminous Gallery's private entrance, a generous donation securing my solitude.

The space breathes quiet elegance—gleaming hardwood floors and stark white walls swallowing sound.

My footsteps echo as I move through the pristine halls, soft instrumental music filtering through hidden speakers like a reverent whisper.

Towering windows line the far wall, city views framed like living art. Sunlight streams through glass, warming the carefully curated pieces within. High ceilings and minimalist design force focus to where it belongs—each canvas and sculpture demanding attention in this temple of creativity.

I move through the space, past landscapes and abstracts that blur together until—

There. Her work.

Isabella's style strikes like lightning—hyper-realistic paintings that slice through pretense to raw emotion.

A child reaches for a bubble, wonder captured in oils and dreams. An elderly couple dances in rain, joy radiating from every brushstroke.

Each piece tells stories most people walk past without seeing.

But Red—she always saw everything.

"Hold still," sixteen-year-old Isabella commands, pencil poised over her sketchbook. Morning light filters through Mother's prized roses, turning petals to stained glass.

"How do you do that?" I whisper, mesmerized by the magic flowing from her fingers.

Her smile, soft and secret, burns itself into my memory. "Everything's more. You just have to pay attention."

The memory shatters as I turn and come face-to-face with her self-portrait. It dominates the far wall, impossible to miss, impossible to look away from. Isabella's face, larger than life, tears streaming down her cheeks in crystalline trails that catch light like diamonds.

My feet move without permission, drawing me closer. The technical mastery stuns—the exact shade of forest green in her eyes, a single tear balanced perfectly on her lower lash. But it's what radiates from those painted eyes that guts me.

Pain. Raw, visceral pain.

And betrayal. Not guilt—betrayal.

In her painted hand, two necklaces dangle—diamonds and sapphires fracturing mid-air, caught in the moment of destruction.

I recognize them instantly. They are the ones she allegedly stole: Mother's Art Deco collar with the Tiffany clasp.

Grandmother's emerald strand with the distinctive platinum setting.

Both shattering in places, gems falling like tears.

Something twists in my gut as I study how she's captured the light on their breaking surfaces. The delicate way she holds them.

"There are two sides to every story."

The thought slithers through my defenses before I can stop it. No. I know what I saw. I know what happened.

But the anguish in those painted eyes...

My gaze drops, searching for distraction, and catches on something woven into the shadowed background. Nearly invisible unless you're looking—the faint outline of a compass, its needle pointing true north. And beside it, in delicate script, two words that feel like a blade between my ribs:

Forever yours.

My words. The last thing I whispered to her that summer night, before everything shattered. My fingers had traced that same compass resting on her skin as I made my promise.

Something cracks open inside me—a dam I've spent fifteen years reinforcing with cynicism and careful distance.

I press my palm against my chest, right over the compass tattoo hidden beneath my tailored shirt, as if I could physically hold myself together.

The ache spreads—familiar and foreign all at once.

Like a wound that never properly healed.

"Magnificent piece, isn't it?"

I turn to find an older man watching me, his gaze measured and unwavering. His gallery tag reads "Elliot Vanlow" in neat, formal script.

"Isabella Jenkins," he continues, "she’s quite remarkable. Fought her way up from nothing, refused multiple offers from wealthy patrons who wanted to... guide her career." His pause is deliberate, the unspoken implication hanging in the air like a challenge.

"I want to buy it." The words come out rougher than intended.

Elliot's smile is tight-lipped. "I'm afraid that's not possible. Miss Jenkins was quite clear—this piece isn't for sale at any price."

I step closer to the painting, studying the intricate details.

The jewels aren't just shattering—the shattered parts have twisted into familiar shapes.

Saint Industries' logo. It's subtle enough that most viewers would miss it, but unmistakable to anyone who's spent their life beneath that emblem's shadow.

My phone buzzes. Ethan's text ignites a spark of determination within me. Got her address. Three simple words that feel like a lifeline thrown across a decade of silence.

"If you're interested in her work," Elliott offers, watching my reaction carefully, "Miss Jenkins has a showcase this month. I could arrange an invitation if you'd like to meet the artist behind that mesmerizing painting."

For a moment, I almost laugh at the irony. Meet her? I know the precise sound of her laugh when she's truly amused. The way she bites her lower lip when concentrating. How her eyes flash emerald when she's angry. The exact pressure of her fingertips against my skin.