Page 52 of The Ruin I Chose

“Marcello… I have to tell you something.”

Before I could continue, he held out a blue velvet box and opened it. Inside was the emerald necklace—the one from the auction. I froze.

“How?” I asked, the world tilting a little under my feet.

“You wanted it, I got it for you,” he said simply.

“But Isabella—she won it.”

“Everything has a price,” he said, kissing my temple.

I looked down at the necklace, its green glint catching the light. It had the same impossible intensity as his eyes—sharp, rare, like sea glass caught in sunlight. The kind of green that lingered in memory.

He watched me with that unblinking intensity he rarely revealed. As if my reaction mattered more than it should. As if the necklace was less a gift and more a claim.

“I couldn’t,” I whispered, biting my lip, tears welling up in me.

“It’s too…” My words wouldn’t come.

He just watched me.

“Not more precious than you.”

“I have a daughter—I can’t,” I blurted without thinking.

“I learnt that yesterday,” he said. “It changes nothing.”

He said it like a fact. His voice softened—unexpected, almost tender. A rare ease settled over his features, like something in him had finally unclenched. Like he was letting me in without realising it. Like gravity. Like I already belonged to him.

My heartbeat stuttered violently. The words clawed their way out of me before I could stop them.

“I…” I swallowed, trembling.

“I have a husband.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. The quiet between us suddenly felt sharp enough to cut. Marcello went completely still. Not stiff—still. Like every thought in him had frozen at once.

His eyes didn’t widen; they darkened, slow and deliberate, as if a switch had been flipped inside him. It wasn’t the darkness of rage—it was the darkness of a man blindsided, whose control fractured at the seams. Like someone had switched something off inside him.

His eyes fixed on mine like he was waiting for me to take the words back or offer a logical explanation.

When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerously low.

“A husband,” he repeated, the word quiet—too quiet.

He said it like something filthy.

Tears had already started to roll down my cheeks. His hands were now at my arms, increasing his grip on me with each word. He stepped closer, not even realising he had. His breath came sharp through his nose, the kind that sounded like he was holding something dangerous back. His expression changed before I could speak—a slow, hardening disbelief. A betrayal cutting across his features like a shadow.

“So this entire time…” he murmured. “You let me—”

He blew out an angry breath. “You lied.”

He looked away for a single fractured second—as if he didn’t, he might break something. Or someone. When his gaze returned, it was colder.

“I didn’t lie,” I said, voice trembling, between sobs.

My knees threatened to give way. I felt small—shrunken—like a child caught stealing.