Page 60 of Unchained Hearts
Emma's hand covers mine, steadying the shaking measuring spoon. "Your grandmother was an amazing woman, Bella. And she'd be so proud of you."
"Would she?" I set down the measuring spoon, my shoulders slumping. "Look at the mess I've made. Getting involved with Ares again, letting my guard down..."
"Stop right there." Emma's voice cuts through my self-recrimination. She grabs my shoulders, turning me to face her. Flour dusts her hands, leaving white prints on my shirt. "You didn't make this mess, Bella. You were pulled into something that has absolutely nothing to do with you."
"But—"
"No buts." Her green eyes flash with anger, but not at me. "They're using you. Painting you as the villain because it's convenient." She shakes her head, disgust clear on her face. "It's despicable."
Before I can respond, my phone chimes. A text from Ares makes my heart stutter: Turn on Channel 5. 10am. Please.
I glance at the clock—9:55. I want to ignore it, to delete the message and pretend I never saw it, but Emma's already reaching for the remote.
"Emma, don't—" I turn back to the counter, focusing on measuring chocolate chips with exaggerated precision. "Let's just finish these cookies."
The TV flickers to life anyway. I keep my eyes fixed on the measuring cup, determined not to give him the satisfaction of my attention. One cup. Two cups. The chocolate chips clink against the glass, each one a tiny rebellion against the pull of the screen behind me.
But curiosity gnaws at me. What could be so important? What game is he playing now?
"Oh, my god." Emma's sharp intake of breath makes my hand falter. "Bella, it's Ares. He's at the gallery."
Despite my resolve, my head turns toward the screen, and the measuring cup slips from my fingers, scattering chocolate chips across the counter like tiny dark stars as the reporter's voice fills my kitchen, professional and detached as she discusses the recent media attention—but it's not her words that draw my attention, it's the figure behind her. Ares.
My feet move without conscious thought, drawing me closer to the screen. He looks exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes, his usual impeccable appearance slightly rumpled. But there's something in his stance, a quiet determination in the set of his jaw, that makes my heart race.
"Mr. Saint," the reporter turns to him, "would you care to address the recent speculation about your relationship with Ms. Jenkins?"
Ares straightens, his expression composed but earnest. "Yes, I would." His voice carries that quiet authority that commands attention. "The accusations against Isabella Jenkins are completely false. My decision to end my engagement was personal and had nothing to do with her. Yes, we knew each other years ago, and yes, we recently reconnected when I returned to Boston. But she had absolutely no influence on my decision to end things with Jessica."
He pauses, his expression growing more intense. "Isabella Jenkins is an incredibly talented artist who deserves to be judged on her work, not dragged into tabloid speculation about my personal life. She deserves better than to have her career overshadowed by gossip and unfounded accusations."
"Those are strong words, Mr. Saint. Aren't you concerned about potential backlash?"
A half-smile crosses his face, but his eyes remain serious. "The only thing I'm concerned about is setting the record straight. Isabella Jenkins is innocent of everything she's been accused of. Her only crime was crossing paths with me again."
My vision blurs with tears as I watch him defend me. This is Ares as I remember him—the boy who would stand between me and any threat, who would fight any battle to protect what he believed in. But now he's doing it on national television, facing down not just Jessica but his own family's carefully crafted narrative.
I sink onto the couch, my legs unable to hold me. Emma's hand finds my shoulder, squeezing gently.
"Holy shit," Emma whispers.
On screen, Ares continues, his voice carrying that quiet intensity that always made people listen. "Isabella is one of the most talented artists I've ever known. She deserves the chance to share her work without this cloud of speculation hanging over her. That's all I have to say on the matter."
The reporter seems taken aback by his firm tone. "Your family might not appreciate such a public stance."
That familiar half-smile returns, but his eyes remain serious. "Some things are more important than family approval."
Emma mutes the TV as it cuts to commercial, turning to me with wide eyes. "Bella..."
But I can't speak. My mind is spinning, trying to process what just happened. Ares just stood up for me. On television. Against Jessica, against his family, against everyone who's been painting me as the villain. He just blew apart their carefully constructed narrative with a few minutes of quiet, dignified honesty.
"He's fighting for you," Emma says softly. "In probably the only way he can right now."
And suddenly I'm crying again. Emma pulls me into a tight hug, letting me cry against her shoulder until the tears slow. When I finally pull back, wiping my eyes, she's wearing a grin that makes me pause.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing." Her eyes sparkle. "Just... that was kind of impressive, watching him defend you like that. All calm and authoritative."
