Page 53 of The Ruin I Chose

“I never told you the truth. I didn’t know how.”

“That’s as good as lying,” he snapped. “You kept me in the dark. You lied.”

“I told you about me and you… You cheated. Made me look like a fool. You made me…”

He stopped mid-sentence, grunting.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you. About me. All of me. Please let me explain.”

His words stung—like a hundred needles pressed into my skin, all at once. Rage rose in his eyes, his jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line as he let out a distasteful hiss.

I instinctively reached out to touch his cheek.

“Don’t,” he said, swatting it away. “Don’t touch me.”

His voice cracked—just a hairline fracture—but it was enough to show the pain beneath the fury. The rejection burned hotter than any slap could’ve. For a moment, I thought he might let his anger slip into something brutal. Then he turned and started to walk away.

“Marcello, wait,” I called out. “Please. Hear me out.”

He hesitated, walking—shoulders rigid, breath uneven.

“Keep it, or throw the damn necklace into the sea for all I care,” he said, voice breaking as he stormed off.

I stood there, clutching the box to my chest, crying. Something inside me split open—clean, silent, catastrophic. Panic rose like a tide and I couldn’t breathe. The world thinned around the edges. My vision blurred, knees buckling as a strange ringing filled my ears, drowning out the world. My body gave out before my heart could. And just before everything went black, I heard Antonio’s voice—faint, urgent—calling my name.

I woke to muffled voices outside the room.

It was already dark. I’d slept through the day. My head was pounding, and my chest ached as I sat up on the bed.

This was my last day in Sicily. My room still smelled like him. Stronger than it should have. Like he had stood there long after I’d passed out—watching, breathing me in, unable to walk away even when he already had.

The velvet box sat untouched on the nightstand, its presence heavy.

I rose slowly, steadying my steps, and began emptying the closet—folding clothes, packing methodically, even though my flight wasn’t until the next evening. I needed something to do. Anything to keep my hands from shaking. Something that didn’t feel like drowning.

I undressed and stepped into the cold shower, hoping it would numb the pain. But it only made it sharper. I scrubbed until it stung.

Until my skin turned red. Until it hurt more than my heart. But the guilt clung to me like steam. I had ruined something pure and rare. With my own hands.

I cried into the water, hoping it would drown the sound. I slipped back into my pyjamas and crawled back into bed, eyes fixed on the box in the dark. Food lay untouched on the nightstand. I didn’t have it in me to stomach anything. My body felt heavy, like it didn’t belong to me anymore. Sleep came, not as rest, but as surrender.

Bright light pierced my eyes. I blinked against it, disoriented.

My last day in Italy. Marcello hadn’t come—not once. Hadn’t spoken to me since the truth unravelled.

My chest felt carved out. And I was furious with myself for being so stupid, so naive. To believe someone could want me—this fat, messy, complicated woman with too many scars and not enough grace.

I found a notepad and began writing. I couldn’t leave without letting Marcello know, even if it meant he wouldn’t read it. Even if it meant he would burn the damn letter.

I wrote like I was confessing to God. Like I was begging for forgiveness from someone who might never forgive me. Explaining myself, how I felt. How I feel—for him. A memory of his laugh surfaced, slicing through me.

I stepped out and headed to the study. I knew he’d be there. Martin stood outside the door, blocking my way.

“I need to see Marcello,” I said.

“He’s in a meeting,” Martin replied. “He’s not here.”

I knew he was lying. His scent still lingered in the hallway like a bruise. I pushed Martin aside and knocked on the door. Antonio opened the door. Sighing.