Page 2 of The Ruin I Chose

And sometimes, when the house is quiet, and the child is asleep, I still feel her—the woman he woke up in me, the one I thought I’d lost forever.

CHAPTER 1

ROXANNE

I half-ran to my gate, coffee in one hand, handbag swinging wildly over my shoulder. A cluster of men were arguing with airport security somewhere behind me, but I didn’t have time to slow down and enjoy the drama.

The gate was still a good five-minute walk, and the final call echoed through the terminal like a countdown to chaos. I shouldn’t have spent so long on the call with Mr. Bhandari. He had dragged a five-minute update into an hour-long monologue that could’ve easily been an email. My ears were still ringing. We shouldn’t have taken on this project—he insisted on micromanaging every little detail. But my partner, Sahil, had pushed for it.

“The money’s good,” he’d said.

I needed to get to the flight quickly and into my seat so I could call my daughter before take-off. I had been waiting for this trip with a quiet, almost guilty anticipation.

My clients, the Sahais, were supposed to fly with me from Dubai, but a last-minute meeting in London had pulled them away. They would join me later at the Salone del Mobile fair.

Their project was a sprawling 10,000 sq. ft. duplex overlooking the brilliant Mumbai skyline on one side and the sea link on the other. The view alone commanded silence. Every time I was there, I took five minutes just to breathe it in before letting my designer brain switch on.

As an interior designer, the perks of getting your frustration out by barking orders on-site was something of a release.

My sites were my stage. My voice.

It wasn’t until a month ago that we decided to purchase furniture from the Milan fair. We were all supposed to travel together from Dubai, but they had flown to London a day prior. They’d be joining me in Milan. I was looking forward to seeing some amazing brands and supporting a few friends whose creations would be on display.

I was so lost in thought that I bumped into a wall of a man, at least 6’-5’. My scalding coffee splashed across his pale blue shirt, blooming like a spill of regret.

“Merda,” he muttered under his breath, his voice deep and sharp.

He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing and fury stalled. My cardigan was pressed against his chest, my hands frantically trying to blot the stain. I didn’t dare look up as I scrubbed his shirt, babbling apologies like a malfunctioning robot.

How could I be so clumsy?

His shirt was stained and nearly transparent. As I slowly lifted my gaze, his scent hit me—a deep, sensual mix of musk and wood. Stirring up a calm storm in my chaotic mind.

As his green eyes locked onto mine with a glint of restrained fury, I feared he might lash out. He looked like the kind of man who could beat someone to a pulp if they got on his wrong side. The kind of man people didn’t bump into. The kind they avoided.

My bag lay forgotten on the floor. My hands rested on his abdomen, unmoving. His shirt clung to his body like it had been tailored to fit perfectly over his muscles. His rolled-up sleeves hugged his arms just below the elbow. Ink coiled above his wrists in symbols I didn’t recognise. A gold signet ring glinted on his left hand.

My hands moved with his breathing, and it felt like time had stalled. His eyes darkened, almost changing colour. But I didn’t look away.

I broke the spell and stammered, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. I was… lost in thought.”

He gently brushed my hands away and spoke in a deep, husky voice.

“It’s okay.”

His voice sent a tingle down my spine as he walked away. I stood frozen, the scent of him still clinging to my skin. Something in me stirred.

I gathered my thoughts, picked up my bag, and rushed to the plane. To breathe and plan for the next few days without interruptions. I settled into my seat, grateful for the silence. I needed space to think, to breathe, to remember who I was before the storm.

I called my daughter first. She was bubbling with energy, already plotting adventures with her grandmother. I listened, reminding her not to trouble her too much, her voice making me smile.

“Mumma, how many days will you be away?”

“Fifteen days, love,” I said.

“Why so long?” She pouted.

I hesitated. Fifteen days felt like a lifetime to her, but to me, not enough. I needed distance. Not from her—but from the version of myself I’d been pretending to be. I needed space to decide what kind of future I wanted for both of us.