Page 8

I stop myself, swallowing the dangerous flood of memories. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Vanlow. I appreciate the offer, but I need to go." My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

With one last look at the words and pain Isabella has captured on canvas, I turn to leave.

Then I hit reply. Send it.

Because one thing has become crystal clear after this visit. I need answers.

The address Ethan provided leads me to a forgotten corner of Boston's warehouse district, where weathered brick facades whisper stories of industrial glory days.

Faded paint peels from walls, and the metal staircase groans beneath my feet as I climb.

Through the doorway above, glimpses of an open, airy space filled with canvases tease me.

Of course this is where Isabella would choose to live—a haven of creativity, tucked away from city chaos.

Before I can second-guess myself, I press the buzzer. Seconds stretch into eternity before the door swings open, and there she is, those captivating green eyes widening in shock before narrowing dangerously.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

She's wearing paint-splattered overalls, denim worn thin at the knees and smeared with a rainbow of dried acrylics.

Auburn strands escape a hastily twisted bun, falling around her face.

A slash of cobalt blue paint streaks across her left cheekbone like war paint.

Even with specks of paint dotting her skin like freckles, she's...

Stunning. And furious. The door hurtles toward my face, but my palm connects with wood, the impact stinging through my arm as I halt its momentum mere inches from my nose.

"We need to talk."

"No, we don’t."

A burst of white light flickers. Then another. My gaze drops to the sidewalk and ice floods my veins. Paparazzi. Their cameras like rifles, lenses fixed on me.

Isabella's face goes bone-white and her hands tremble.

"No, no, no..." Her voice breaks.

More flashes. Shouts from below.

"Mr. Saint! Is this your new girlfriend?"

"Ares! What about the engagement?"

"Is this why you left Jessica?"

Isabella stumbles back, eyes wild.

She stumbles away from me like I'm something dangerous.

And for the first time in fifteen years…

I wonder if I am.

"Is this a revenge romance?" a voice from the crowd hollers.

She flinches, and my body moves before my mind catches up.

I lunge forward, shouldering through the narrowed doorway.

Isabella presses herself against the wall as I slam the door shut, the lock clicking into place with a decisive snap.

The reporters' voices become muffled, but their presence looms like a threat.

"What are you—" Her words cut off as footsteps thunder up the metal staircase. Her breathing becomes shallow and rapid. "No, no, no..." The whispered words escape like a prayer. "Why would you bring them here?" Her voice cracks wide open.

"I didn't know I was followed." I move away from the door, taking in her space. The loft is stunning—high ceilings stretching to exposed beams, walls a patchwork of brick and plaster. Canvases in various stages lean against walls, edges catching warm light from oversized windows.

"Get out." Her voice is steel, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she moves and stops beside her easel. "If they start digging, Ares—" Her knuckles turn white. "I can't..."

I step closer. "I went to Luminous. I saw the self portrait, Isabella."

She stills. "What?"

I watch her pulse jump at her throat. "Why did you create that piece?"

Her jaw tightens, and she takes a shaky breath.

For a moment, she's sixteen again—vulnerable, hurt, before the walls slam back into place.

"That's none of your business." She turns, walking towards the kitchen space.

"Let yourself out. And tell your paparazzi friends to leave before I call the police. "

I should leave. Should respect her wishes and walk away.

Instead, I follow her. "It's time we talk, Isabella."

She spins, fury radiating off her in waves. "There's nothing to talk about. You made your choice fifteen years ago."

"What were you going to say about my parents?"

Her eyes widen, then narrow, something dark and painful flickering across her face.

"Get out."

"Not until you finish those sentences you started at Six-Pack." I move closer, watching her retreat until her back hits her easel.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, paint-stained fingers curling into fists. When she speaks, her voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through me like a blade.

"Why do you care? It’s been fifteen years, Ares."

More camera flashes illuminate the wall of windows. But all I can focus on is the way she says my name—like it's both a curse and a prayer.

"Because I need to know. Tell me."

Her laugh is bitter, broken. "Why? So you can run back to them with whatever I say? So they can finish what they started fifteen years ago?"

"Isabella—"

"No." She straightens, green eyes blazing. "You don't get to come here, into my space, demanding answers after fifteen years of silence. You don't get to act concerned about my life now, not after—"

The rest of her words are cut off by pounding on the door. Voices echo—reporters, trying to get in. Shouting my name.

Fuck.

Isabella's eyes meet mine, panic replacing anger. "This is your fault. If they start digging into our past..."

The fear in her voice hits me like a physical blow. Before I can think better of it, I reach for her, my fingers grazing her arm. She flinches but doesn't pull away.

"I won't let them hurt you." The words come out fierce, protective.

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, confusion, before her walls slam back into place. "Like you didn't let them hurt me before?"

The accusation hangs between us as the pounding grows louder. She moves to the window, peering down at the growing crowd. The setting sun casts long shadows across her face, highlighting the tension in her jaw.

"There's a back exit," she says finally, not looking at me. "Through the service stairs. Use it."

"I'm not leaving until—"

"Damn it, Ares!" She whirls around, color high in her cheeks. "You want to know what happened? Fine. Your parents—" She cuts herself off, pressing her lips together. "No. I won't do this. Not with them out there, not with you storming in here demanding answers like you have any right—"

A camera flash explodes through the window, making her flinch. I move without thinking, stepping between her and the glass. "Isabella—"

"Don't." She backs away, but there's nowhere to go. Her easel wobbles behind her, a canvas teetering dangerously. "Just... don't."

I catch the canvas before it falls, and my breath catches.

It's another self-portrait, but different from the one at the gallery.

In this one, she's standing in what looks like the Saint estate garden, surrounded by the roses my mother was so proud of.

But the roses are withered, dying, their petals scattered like drops of blood around her feet.

"Put that down." Her voice shakes.

"Is this how you see it?" The words scrape out of my throat. "That summer?"

"You don't get to ask me that." She snatches the canvas away.

"You're still thinking about—"

"Get out."

"No. You were going to tell me what you think my parents did. Finish it, Isabella. Please."

Something in my voice must reach her because she stills, studying my face like she's searching for something. Whatever she sees makes her shoulders slump.

"Why now?" she whispers.

The truth claws its way up my throat. "Because when you mentioned my parents at the club, I saw it—the same look you had at sixteen. No guilt. No deception. Just..." I swallow hard. "Just truth. The same truth you had when you promised never to lie to me."

She makes a sound—sharp and bitter, like breaking glass. "And you promised to always believe and protect me. How did that work out?"

The words hit like a physical blow. The reporters are still shouting, but their voices seem distant, unimportant compared to the weight of this moment.

"I want to hear your version," I say softly. "All of it."

Her eyes lock with mine, and for a moment, I see past her walls, past fifteen years of hurt and anger, to the girl who made me feel seen.

"Your mother—" she starts, but her eyes snap to something behind me.

I turn to follow her gaze. There, balanced on the wide industrial windowsill outside her loft, a reporter has his camera pressed against the glass.

The flash is already charging, the lens focused on our intimate standoff.

The desperate vulture must have used the adjacent building's roof to access her windows.

"Shit." She grabs my arm, pulling me toward a door I hadn't noticed. "Storage room. Now."

"Isabella—"

"Unless you want your face splashed across every tabloid tomorrow, looking like the jilted ex-fiancé harassing another woman, move."

She shoves me through the door just as voices call my name.

The storage closet is cramped and shadowed, the air thick with the scent of oil paints and turpentine.

Canvases and stretchers lean against the walls, their edges digging into my back as Isabella shoves me inside.

We're pressed close, her breath warm against my chest, the rapid flutter of her pulse visible at the base of her throat.

Shelves groan under the weight of art supplies—brushes, palettes, half-empty jars of medium—casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across our faces.

"Don't. Move," she whispers, and then she's gone, closing the door behind her.

Through the thin wall, I hear her handling the chaos outside.

"Miss! Are you Ares Saint's new girlfriend?"

"How long have you known the Saints? Were you the reason for the broken engagement?"

The questions come rapid-fire, hungry and relentless. But Bella's voice cuts through their frenzy like ice.

"This is private property." Her tone is steel wrapped in silk. "You have exactly thirty seconds to leave before I call the police. And trust me, my friend at the Boston PD would love to arrest a few paparazzi tonight."

The reporters' voices fade. Seconds stretch into minutes, the space feeling smaller with each passing moment. The air grows thick with paint fumes and unspoken words. Finally, the door opens.

She steps back, allowing me to exit. The studio feels different now, charged with everything we've stirred up.

"Isabella—" Her name feels heavy on my tongue, weighted with all the times I've wanted to say it over the years.

She holds up a hand, and the gesture stops me cold. Her eyes are fixed on some point past my shoulder, like she can't bear to look at me directly. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the soft tap of rain starting against the windows.

I watch her throat work as she swallows, the way her fingers twist in the hem of her paint-stained shirt. She looks so familiar and yet so strange, the girl I loved transformed by time and pain into this fierce, guarded woman.

Finally, she meets my eyes, and the raw emotion there steals my breath.

"Not now." Her voice cracks slightly, betraying the composure she's fighting to maintain. "Just... not now."

Instead of arguing, I reach into my jacket and pull out a business card. For a moment, she just stares at it like it might bite.

"My private number," I say quietly. "For when you're ready to finish that conversation."

Her fingers brush mine as she takes the card, and that slight contact sends electricity racing up my arm. She starts to pull away, but I catch her wrist gently.

"This isn't me walking away, Red." The old nickname slips out before I can stop it, and I see her breath catch. "I'll give you space, but not for long. I need to hear your version. If you want to talk to me in person instead of on the phone, I'm staying at the Four Seasons."

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something in her gaze, pain, longing, fear, before she shutters it away.

"Goodbye, Ares."

She leads me to the back exit in silence, each step heavy with unspoken words. As I reach for the door handle, her voice stops me.

"Some answers..." she says softly, "might destroy everything you think you know."

I turn to look at her one last time, my jaw clenched tight. "Then destroy them."

The rain has stopped by the time I make it back to my hotel, but the clouds hang low and heavy, promising more to come. Isabella's words echo in my head: "Some answers might destroy everything you think you know."

I close my eyes, seeing her face—the way fear flickered across it when she mentioned my parents. What are you so afraid of, Red?

Maybe it's time I stop waiting for answers to come from her lips. Maybe it's time I do some digging of my own.

I pull up Ethan's number before I consciously make the decision.

"Hey, what's up?"

"I need you to dig into Saint Industries HR records, and get everything on Evelyn Jenkins."

"Isabella's grandmother?" The playfulness vanishes completely. "You sure you want to open this door?"

"Yes!" I run a hand through my hair, pacing the length of the suite. "Something's not adding up."

There's a pause on the other end. "Ares, man, sometimes the past should stay buried."

"Not this time."

"Your parents aren't going to like this." Ethan mutters.

"My parents don't like anything I do lately." I stop at the window, looking out over the Boston skyline. "Can you do it or not?"

"Of course I can."

"Then do it. And Ethan? Keep this quiet."

"Always do." He pauses. "But remember, your parents have eyes everywhere."

I end the call, letting my forehead rest against the cool glass. Below, the city stretches out, lights blinking on as dusk settles in. Somewhere out there, Isabella is probably working on her next piece, turning pain into beauty like she always could.

I think of Isabella's painting—those shattering necklaces, the hidden Saint Industries logo.

The compass and the words "forever yours" woven into the shadows mock me now.

Before I can stop it, I'm drowning in the memory: Isabella being guided through the mansion's marble halls, her red hair wild, tears streaming down her face.

Our eyes met across that endless space, and her voice cracked as she pleaded, "Ares, please, just let me explain!

" But I stood there, frozen, a coward in an expensive suit, watching as security escorted her out.

Guilt churns in my stomach as the memory fades.

She begged me to listen, but I was the perfect heir then—too well-trained to question, too gullible to doubt what my parents presented as truth.

Now, standing in this hotel room fifteen years later, I make a silent promise to the ghost of that terrified girl: I'm ready to listen, Red.

Whatever truth you tried to tell me then, I'm finally ready to hear it.