Page 31 of Unchained Hearts
"If the Saints ever cause trouble again, use my diaries," she'd said, her voice weak but urgent.
I trace my fingers over the worn leather cover of the topmost journal, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything. Gran wrote in these religiously every night, no matter how exhausted she was from working multiple jobs—jobs she'd been forced to take because no one would hire a "thief." She called them reflections. Just quiet observations about life in the Saint Household. But now, I see them as something more—breadcrumbs.
What had she meant about using them? The doctors said the medication might make her confused near the end, and she'd said so many things that didn't quite make sense in those final days. Still, something about the way she'd insisted, the clarity in her eyes when she spoke of the diaries...
I pull out the first diary, while settling onto the living room couch. The pages fall open naturally, as if welcoming me home. Evelyn's elegant handwriting fills the pages, and for a moment, I can almost hear her voice:
April 12, 2006
My dearest Isabella smiled today. Really smiled. The kind that lights up her whole face and reaches her eyes. The kind I feared was lost forever after we buried her parents.
Ares. He brings out something in her I haven't seen in so long. They spent hours in the library today, and when I passed, I heard laughter drifting through the doors. Real laughter, not the polite kind these walls usually echo with.
I should be worried, I suppose, given who his family is. The Saints aren't known for their warmth. But there's such gentleness in that boy when he looks at her, such genuine kindness in how he treats her. He's nothing like his parents' carefully crafted coldness. Makes my heart glad to see that children aren't always carbon copies of their parents.
They both needed a true friend, I think. Isabella, lost in her grief, and Ares, drowning in expectations. How beautiful that they found each other. These children don't see the barriers their parents build—they just see each other.
Watching them share cookies and stories today, I saw two lonely souls connecting, nothing more, nothing less. Perhaps that's the purest kind of friendship there is.
I sigh, memories washing over me like a bittersweet tide. Grandma had been right—Ares had brought light back into my world when everything felt dark. Somehow, between his Latin conjugations and shared cookies, he'd made the grief feel less overwhelming. His presence had been like a lifeline pulling me back to the surface when I was drowning in loss.
Stop it, I tell myself firmly. That same boy later became the anchor that dragged you under.
My fingers trace over her words, seeking comfort in their familiar curves and loops. What would she say now? What wisdom would she offer about this mess I've stumbled into?
The setting sun paints my loft in shades of gold and shadow, and somewhere in the city, Ares is probably still wrestling with the truths I gave him today. Part of me hopes they haunt him as much as his parents' lies have haunted me.
The other part... Well, that's the part I need to silence before it gets me into trouble. Again.
I reach for another diary, this one from later years. The pages are more worn, the ink slightly faded. My breath catches as I read the first entry:
June 2009
Sometimes the greatest joys come from simply watching love unfold. Today, I couldn't help but smile as I observed Ares and Isabella in the garden. They thought they were being subtle, those two, but a grandmother's eyes see everything.
He was supposedly studying for his Latin test, but his textbook lay forgotten as he watched Isabella sketch. The way his eyes follow her, so full of wonder—it reminds me of how Thomas used to look at me, back when the world was young and everything seemed possible.
Isabella blooms under his attention. My quiet, serious girl who used to hide behind her sketchbooks now laughs freely, her eyes sparkling whenever he's near. Today, she was trying to teach him to draw, and oh, what a sight that was! The mighty Saint heir, completely hopeless with a pencil, but grinning like a fool just because it made her laugh.
They bring out the best in each other. He grounds her wild dreams with gentle practicality, while she teaches him it's okay to reach for the stars sometimes. In his presence, Isabella's confidence grows. And Ares—that boy sheds his careful mask of perfection, becoming simply a young man in love.
I see them sharing books, dreams, and those sweet, secret glances that only the young can master. Their friendship has grown into something pure and beautiful, like wildflowers breaking through garden walls—unexpected but somehow perfect.
Lord knows there will be obstacles ahead. The Saints live in a different world than we do. But watching them together, seeing how they lift each other up, how they make each other stronger—perhaps love really can bridge any gap.
For now, I'll keep their secret, and pray that whatever grows between them will be strong enough to weather any storm. But watching Olivia's calculating gaze follow them across the garden today, I can't help but wonder—can love truly flourish when one side holds all the power?
"It can't," I whisper to the empty room. "You knew that, didn't you, Gran?"
My phone chimes with a text from Amanda: TURN ON YOUR TV. CHANNEL 7. NOW.
A cold knot twists in my stomach as I push off the couch, my feet carrying me toward the kitchen where the remote lies abandoned on the side table. My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for it, dread making even this simple movement feel clumsy and uncertain.
The TV flickers to life, and my breath catches in my throat. There on the screen, the local news is running a story about Ares's broken engagement, and there I am, walking into the Four Seasons. My legs go weak, forcing me to grip the back of the couch for support. Oh shit. The caption burns into my retinas: "Saint Heir's Secret Romance: The Real Reason Behind Broken Engagement?"
The blood drains from my face as they splice in old photos from our teenage years. My knees buckle and I sink onto the couch, watching as they display a grainy shot of Ares and me in the Saint family garden. His arm around my waist, both of us laughing. The image hits me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. It's one of Gran's photos—I'd know her work anywhere. She always carried that old Polaroid camera, claiming she needed to document the "little moments of joy" in life.
The memory slams into me with such force that my vision blurs. That day in the garden, Ares trying to teach me chess. My hands had been everywhere, gesturing wildly about some point I was trying to make, accidentally sending pieces flying. Instead of getting angry, he'd thrown his head back and laughed—that pure, unrestrained sound that had drawn his mother's disapproving attention from above. My skin prickles with goosebumps at the memory of that moment, of Gran capturing that perfect slice of happiness.
