Page 9

Ares

Pain spikes behind my eyes as dawn creeps in, the skyline a blur of greys and purples. Headlines blur on my screen, but I can’t stop scrolling.

WESTWOOD HEIRESS "DEVASTATED" BY brOKEN ENGAGEMENT Jilted Jessica Westwood refuses to comment

SAINT INDUSTRIES STOCK DROPS AMID ENGAGEMENT SCANDAL Investors question stability as merger hangs in balance

Words swim before me, a dull throb building at my skull's base. The warning signs are familiar—screen-glow sensitivity, temples pulsing with each heartbeat. Still, I can't stop scrolling, searching for any mention of Isabella's name.

So far, no photos of me at her door. Small mercies.

My phone buzzes, sending pain spiking through my head. Ethan's message fills the screen:

Need to show you something. Coming to your suite.

Those few words make my stomach clench. I press fingers to my temples, fighting the growing pressure. Whatever he's discovered, I need a clear head.

Minutes later, Ethan strides in, usual swagger replaced by something darker.

His sandy blonde hair looks ravaged, like he's been running hands through it all night.

Shadows beneath hazel eyes match my own sleepless hours.

Even his typically immaculate suit hangs rumpled—a warning sign.

The leather portfolio in his hands makes my stomach twist.

"What did you find?" My voice scrapes like gravel.

Ethan chuckles, humorless. "Used your login to access archived financials. Started with Evelyn's employment file, but it was suspiciously clean—too clean. Like someone sanitized it."

He spreads documents across my desk. "So I dug into records from that period, focusing on unusual transactions through subsidiaries." His fingers drum against the portfolio. "Remember Jacob Wells?"

"Father's old head of security."

Ethan nods as he taps a financial record. "Found this buried in Saint Global Ventures' records—twenty thousand dollars transferred to Wells a day after Evelyn and Bella were escorted out."

My stomach lurches as I lean forward, the papers swimming before my eyes. "Saint Global Ventures? Father's favorite shell for delicate transactions." The implications hit me like a physical blow—this wasn't just some routine payment. This was buried intentionally.

"When I saw that, my gut told me something was seriously off," Ethan continues, leaning forward. "But to dig deeper, I needed help. So I reached out to Heath."

I blink, momentarily distracted from the shock of the payment amounts. "Hacker Heath? The guy who got into the boarding school's system and changed all the administrators' profile pictures to cartoon villains?"

A ghost of Ethan's usual smirk appears. "The very same. Remember how he made Headmaster Phillips' profile play the Imperial March whenever someone opened it?"

Despite everything, a huff of laughter escapes me. "I remember the old man's face turning purple when he realized what was happening during parents' weekend." The brief moment of levity evaporates as I refocus on the documents.

"And?"

"And here's where it gets interesting." Ethan's finger slides to another entry, tapping a figure that makes my blood run cold. "Heath followed the money trail and found this—a one-time payment of two million dollars a month later."

"Two million?" The words hollow out my throat, leaving me breathless.

Ethan nods grimly, his hazel eyes clouded with concern.

"They hid it well," he continues, methodically spreading more documents across my desk like pieces of a disturbing puzzle.

Each page reveals another layer of deception.

"The money was laundered through three shell companies before hitting an offshore account that belonged to Wells.

The paper trail was deliberately fragmented, designed to be untraceable.

Only caught it because Heath has skills that make the NSA look like amateur hour. "

He leans back, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Your father went to extraordinary lengths to cover this up, Ares."

"Where is Wells now? When I came back from boarding school, he was just... gone."

"He's dead. Car accident. Fourteen years ago. Late night, no witnesses." Ethan's words drop like stones into the silence of my office. "And here's the kicker—that offshore account? Emptied the same day he died."

My chest constricts as if someone's tightening a vise around my lungs.

"What about Finn and Richards?" The names taste like ash on my tongue. "They worked security with Wells."

"Both left Saint Industries years ago." Ethan's already pulling out his phone, his expression grim but determined. "I can try tracking them down."

"Do it." I stand, tension bristling under my skin like electricity seeking ground.

Ethan's fingers drum the portfolio, a nervous rhythm I've rarely heard from him. "If your father discovers what we're doing..." He rakes a hand through his disheveled hair. "Furious doesn't cover it. This isn't about the company anymore—we're digging into their personal dirt."

"I know." My fingers trace Boston's skyline through the window, pressing against cool glass like I could reach through and grab the answers hiding out there. "But knowing this, I can't stop."

Ethan's reflection appears beside mine, hazel eyes hard with concern. "This could get messy—"

I turn. "I know. But think about it. If we find something substantial, it might be the leverage I need for breathing room—my fucking freedom."

"That's one hell of a dangerous game." His voice drops, tension threading each word.

"You think I don't know that?" My laugh cuts bitter through the air. "But what's the alternative? Look the other way when something's clearly wrong?"

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken implications. Finally, Ethan's shoulders slump slightly. "You really think this is our only play?"

I look back at the scattered documents, at Wells's death certificate, at the suspicious trail of money leading to and from his accounts. Something's there, buried in these transactions, in these perfectly timed payments. "Right now? Yeah, I do."

"Well." He straightens his tie, a ghost of his usual smirk flickering across his face. "Then I guess we better make it count."

The door clicks shut behind him with a finality that echoes through the suite.

Morning sun streams through the windows, casting long shadows across the scattered documents on my desk.

Jacob Wells's face stares up at me from his employee file, his expression serious, giving no hint of the secrets he might have taken to his grave.

What were you paid two million for?

My parents' faces flash through my mind, Mother's perfectly composed smile, Father's stern authority. Every childhood memory suddenly feels tainted, viewed through a lens of suspicion. How many secrets lie buried beneath the polished surface of the Saint name?

Only one way to find out.