Page 33 of The Ruin I Chose

The resort was tucked into the edge of Ortigia, the historic heart of Syracuse—an island suspended between centuries. It looked like something out of a dream: stoned structure with arched balconies, terracotta roof tiles, and bougainvillea spilling over wrought iron railings. The entrance was lined with lemon trees. The scent of salt and citrus hung in the air. Inside, the lobby was cool and elegant—textured limestone walls, linen drapes, and ceramic vases in muted blues.

It was the kind of place people came to fall in love.

Or forget.

I checked in. The staff was warm, smiling. I smiled back, but it didn’t reach my eyes.

In my room, I opened the itinerary Marcello had prepared.

Taormina. Ortigia. The Valley of the Temples. Each place marked with a note, a suggestion, a quiet intention.

I crushed it and threw it in the trash can. I would explore alone.

That afternoon, I wandered through Ortigia’s cobbled streets. I visited the Temple of Apollo, lingered at the Fontana di Diana, and stepped into the hushed beauty of Chiesa di Santa Lucia. I passed couples holding hands, kissing in alleyways, laughing over shared gelato.

I stopped at Piazza Duomo to admire the symmetry of the buildings, the way the light hit the stone. I lingered at a bookstore tucked into a courtyard; ran my fingers over spines I couldn’t read. I bought lemon sorbet from a street vendor and sat by the Arethusa Spring, watching the papyrus sway in the breeze.

Locals smiled at me. Men didn’t leer. I felt safe, but not whole. I felt like a woman who’d been worshipped in private and erased in public. Like my body had been remembered, but my soul had been forgotten.

By the time I returned to the resort, my feet ached, and my heart felt heavier than it had in days. I didn’t eat. I showered, curled into the sheets, and let sleep take me like a wave.

The next morning, I woke to birds singing and the scent of espresso drifting from the courtyard. The May air was warm. The sea whispered. I dressed in a soft white cotton dress covered in sunflowers, its short sleeves and hemline falling just below my knees. To finish the look, I threw on flats and sunglasses, then tied my hair into a half bun so the rest could fall in soft waves.

I wandered the resort, letting the sun kiss my shoulders. A relaxing day would be the best way to wash away the ache and the thought of Marcello.

I walked along stone paths that wound past fountains, olive trees, and a staircase curving upward towards the spa.

I was about to climb when a hand grabbed my wrist. Before I could react, I was pulled into a shadowed alcove beneath the stairs—arched stone walls, a narrow doorway that opened into what looked like a linen room. Dim at first, but sunlight filtered in through a small window.

My back hit the cool wall. A hand covered my mouth and nearly my nose. Another pinned both my wrists above my head. The grip wasn’t gentle. It was a warning—one my body answered before my mind could.

I struggled, breath shallow, heart racing. Then I smelled it.

Musk. Spice. Marcello.

Heat punched low in my belly, sharp and involuntary—like my body had recognised its owner before I had. My body stilled. He pressed into me, unyielding. I could feel his heat, the tension in his grip. My pulse throbbed in places.

“So, you had a good time, huh? Done with me?” he murmured, mocking. “A vacation fling you could walk away from?”

His breath grazed my ear and neck. I trembled as his hand slid down—tracing the curve of my breasts slowly, the slope of my waist, the edge of my thigh. His touch felt like a man checking what still belonged to him. Like he was relearning me and punishing me for leaving at the same time.

“You wanted our paths to cross,” he murmured. “You hoped.”

I could barely speak. Couldn’t think. His hand left my mouth for a second and his name spilled out of me like a gasp.

“Marcello.”

It sounded more like surrender. Something in him snapped at the sound like he’d been waiting days just to hear her say his name again. His forehead pressed to mine, breath hot, uneven.

“That note,” he said, voice tight, strangled. “It felt like a goodbye.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t deny it; neither did I bother explaining. I just held his gaze and let the silence stretch between us. His grip tightened on my wrists, on my waist, on something deeper.

“You’re good at walking away, bella…”

His mouth hovered over mine, a threat and a promise.

“…but I’m not the kind of man who lets you.”