Page 40 of The Ruin I Chose

“Just vacation?” Alessia echoed, one brow lifting in blatant disbelief.

“She’s an interior designer. From Mumbai.”

Antonio leaned forward. “Where’d you meet her?”

I smiled, remembering.

“Bumped into her at Dubai airport. Then again at the Salone Del Mobile in Milan.”

“How much does she know about you?”

“Only bits.”

“And you? Do you know about her?”

I hesitated. “Barely.”

“I can find out if you like,” Antonio offered.

I shook my head.

“No. I’ll ask her myself.”

But where would I begin? My mother reached for my hand. Held it.

“If she makes your heart dance, get to know her. And get rid of the pain you see in her eyes—even when she smiles.”

“It’s nothing, Mamma. I’m just showing her around Italy,” I said.

She gave me that look—the one only mothers have.

“I’m only speaking what I see.”

I looked towards Roxanne. Sophie sat on her lap, pointing out her eyes and nose. She looked happy, finally relaxed. And yet, something in her still felt distant—like she was borrowing joy, not living in it. It unsettled me.

“Dinner time,” Alessia called.

The children ran in, holding Roxanne’s hand. She shrugged as she walked past us.

The table was long, candlelit, and fragrant with grilled fish, lemon risotto, and wine that tasted like memory.

Roxanne sat beside me, posture relaxed but eyes alert, taking everything in. Alessia tried to feed Sophie, but she squirmed and ran straight to Roxanne, arms lifted. Roxanne looked at Alessia, almost asking permission. Alessia nodded. Roxanne took the spoon and fed her gently, murmuring something soft that made Sophie settle instantly. Alessia watched, surprised.

“She likes you,” she said. “That’s rare. She doesn’t warm up to strangers. You’re good with children.”

Roxanne smiled, wiping Sophie’s mouth.

“I have a daughter,” she said quietly.

The air shifted. Not like a breeze. Like a fault line cracking beneath the table. I straightened, confused. The room fell silent.

“Her name is Kyra,” Roxanne continued, tugging on her necklace like it was the very air she breathed. “She’s four.”

She pulled out her phone and showed them a photo. Kyra—wide-eyed, curly-haired, with the same expressive pout as Roxanne’s. Everyone gasped.

“Oh my! She’s your mirror,” my mother whispered. “A splitting image.”

I frowned. The warmth in my chest turned sharp.