Page 28 of The Ruin I Chose

“Everyone’s staring,” I whispered.

“If my eyes are on you, don’t worry about the eyes on me,” he reassured.

“They’re staring because they want what I have. But they’ll never touch it. You’re mine tonight, and I want them to know it.”

One woman deliberately bumped my shoulder, cheekily apologised, then looked me up and down—and then at Marcello, as if silently asking: What is she doing with you?

Her smile was fake. Her eyes, sharp. I felt a jolt of heat and shame invisibly pressing against my chest. I wanted to disappear, or scream—maybe both.

I wasn’t used to being the woman who didn’t belong. But tonight, I felt it in every glance, every whisper, every polished heel that clicked past me like I was invisible.

I took a deep breath, looped my arm through Marcello’s, and held it tighter.

He leaned in.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I won’t let you fall.”

We took our champagne glasses and settled into our seats. As we browsed through the catalogue, a particular necklace caught my attention—an emerald one, simple but beautiful, the exact shade of Marcello’s eyes.

A slender chain of platinum held a single oval emerald, surrounded by tiny diamonds like stars around a moon. I shut the catalogue as soon as I saw the starting bid.

It reminded me of him. That exact shade. That impossible green. But I didn’t want to want it. Not if it meant fighting for his attention. But Marcello noticed and smiled.

When the necklace came up, the bidding began at €100,000. Marcello raised his paddle. The same woman who bumped me joined in, throwing me a dirty look and winking at Marcello.

“Hundred and fifty thousand,” the auctioneer called. “Do I hear two hundred?” “Three hundred.” “Four hundred.”

Marcello didn’t flinch. He raised his paddle again.

“Five hundred thousand,” the auctioneer called. “Do I hear six hundred?”—looking in her direction.

She raised her paddle. Marcello was about to raise his paddle, but I gently tugged on his arm.

“Stop. It isn’t worth the fight.”

He smiled, took out his phone, and typed something quickly.

The auctioneer spoke, “Going once, going twice. Sold to the lovely lady for six hundred thousand euros.”

Everyone gasped and clapped. She turned around and gave me a cunning look. Marcello went on to win a few more items—paintings, sculptures, and rare artefacts.

I excused myself to go freshen up. As Marcello stepped away to collect his winnings, the same woman approached him.

She was tall, slim, and wore an ochre-coloured fitted dress with a plunging neckline. Her chestnut hair fell in soft waves; her hips swayed with every step. She was sensual, flirtatious, and knew it. She gently took Marcello’s arm and purred something to him.

I was walking back when I saw them—too close, too familiar. She pressed her tits against his chest, whispered something I couldn’t hear, then kissed him slowly. And he let her. My stomach twisted. I felt the heat rise in my chest—rage, shame, something feral. I wanted to rip that necklace off my neck and hurl it across the room. But I didn’t. I smiled like a good girl. Like a woman who knew her place.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said with a wink.

I froze. A wave of jealousy crashed over me. And Marcello had done nothing to stop her. Not a word. Just silence.

I had never felt so out of place. He didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at me. And that silence screamed louder than any insult—felt louder than any slap.

In the car, I was quiet.

Then, softly: “I need to leave,” I said, voice tight.

“Tomorrow. Alone.”