Page 16 of The Ruin I Chose

CHAPTER 7

ROXANNE

The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that made my pulse aware of itself.

I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to regain composure. My heart raced like it had a mind of its own, my throat tight, and heat pooled low in my belly that made me squirm under the weight of my own thoughts. My fingers drummed against the sheets, betraying the calm I was pretending to have.

The villa was beautiful—rustic, warm wood, the kind of place that held secrets in its walls. I hadn’t asked for it. I hadn’t expected it. But Marcello had already cancelled my hotel without asking.

And I was here. And I didn’t know why. Not in the way that begged answers. In the way that made me ache. Like I’d stepped into someone else’s life and found pieces of mine scattered across the floor.

What was wrong with me?

My body had a mind of its own around him. Why was I flustered mid-flight like a teenager, nipples straining through my blouse like a neon sign announcing ‘look here’?

The uninvited wetness between my legs—had soaked through my underwear by the time we landed. I hadn’t felt that way in years. Not since I stopped wanting. Not since I stopped being wanted.

I hadn’t noticed until we landed—then wished I could crawl under a rock and stay there. It wasn’t just arousal. It was betrayal. My body betraying the woman I’d tried so hard to become.

And then the guilt crept in. My daughter. Her tiny voice. Her drawings. Her absence.

Why was I here? With him?

Who was he—really—and why did being near him make me feel anchored instead of afraid? Why did his scent settle my heartbeat? Why did the unknown feel…safe with him? Safe in a way that made no sense. Like I could follow him to the ends of the world.

There was something invisible between us. A thread. A pull. A current under my skin. And I didn’t know if it was real or if I was just tired—tired of being alone, tired of carrying everything with no one to lean on.

I dressed quickly and stepped out. Martin was waiting, silent and watchful like a shadow that never blinked.

We drove to Pisa first. The Leaning Tower stood like a question mark against the sky. A group of friendly tourists were kind enough to snap some pictures of me that I could send to my daughter.

Martin stood nearby, watching silently as a few men stood too close. I smiled politely, though clearly uncomfortable. Pretending, not very well.

Then we moved through Florence—Piazza della Signoria, the Uffizi, Ponte Vecchio. Places that should have filled me with awe. Instead, I felt hollow.

I wandered through the Boboli Gardens, letting the scent of cypress and stone settle into my skin. Lunch was quiet at a small café tucked into a side street. I sat alone, stirring my risotto and watching couples touching freely, casually. Hands brushing. Shoulders leaning in. Kisses pressed without hesitation. A language my marriage had forgotten.

I envied their ease. The way they touched without asking permission. The way they belonged.

My mind drifted back to the villa—how Marcello held me, led me in, guiding me. And then, the moment he’d dropped his little bomb. So casually.

He had a wife. My stomach dropped. He didn’t tell me until he had to. But I hadn’t told him either—about my husband, my daughter, my life. My messy, unfinished life. My turmoil.

My husband never hit me, never yelled. He just… wasn’t there. Emotionally absent, mentally elsewhere. Always making me feel like I wasn’t enough. Not doing enough, not earning enough. Not present enough.

He married me when I was at my heaviest, then critiqued me into shrinking.

“Do it for yourself,” he said.

But then he’d compare me to others. We had been in love once. But that love felt like a ghost now—visible only in old photos and faded memories.

He went against his family’s wishes to marry me. Maybe that’s why I stayed. Maybe that’s why I tolerated the distance, the lack of intimacy, the kisses that felt rehearsed for our daughter’s sake. Maybe that’s why the suspicion—of Sahil, my business partner, of every male colleague—felt like slow poison instead of outrage. He never understood that two professionals could build something together. Never understood me. Never cared to.

By late afternoon, I was exhausted from pretending, pretending to be fine, pretending to be whole.

“Take me back,” I told Martin.

I skipped dinner. Instead, I drank wine straight from the bottle like a savage. It warmed my chest, loosened my thoughts. Martin quietly informed me that Marcello would meet me soon. I nodded, unsure why it mattered.