Page 59 of The Ruin I Chose

Just then, Vihaan stepped onto the terrace. He looked tired. But calm—the kind of calm people wear after surrendering.

“She’s not alone,” he said. “I’ll co-parent. We’ll live under one roof for now. We’ve been roommates for years anyway. Let’s stop pretending. Let’s make it official.”

His words loosened something inside me—something I’d kept clenched for years.

My mother looked at him, then at me.

“I love Kyra,” he continued.

“And I love you, in my own way. I’ll still show up. I’ll still provide—whenever you need me. I’m still her father. That won’t change.”

I stood up and hugged him, holding him tight and cried. Not out of grief. But out of release. Because I was finally letting go of the version of me that kept trying.

And she deserved to be mourned—the version of me who kept stitching a torn fabric alone.

For the first time, we were finally telling the truth. Finally agreeing on the same thing. My mother patted my shoulder, understanding, and quietly left us alone.

Vihaan wiped my tears and held my face in his hands.

“I’ll still fight for you, Roxy,” he said softly.

He leaned in and kissed my forehead.

A gesture of closure. Of kindness. Of letting go. Of two people ending softly instead of breaking hard.

We sat down together, side by side, and began to figure out how to live with this new truth. Not as husband and wife. But as co-parents. As two people who once tried, and now chose peace.

Our new normal. Imperfect. Unfinished, but finally honest. We weren’t whole. But we weren’t silently breaking anymore. And maybe that was its own kind of healing.

CHAPTER 24

ROXANNE

I threw myself into work.

To outrun the silence. To drown the ache.

To prove I could still create beauty even when I felt broken.

Sahil had just returned—his cast was off, but he still needed physical therapy. He worked from home, recalibrating, easing back into the rhythm.

I became the face of the firm, pitching, presenting, negotiating with quiet authority. Our social media strategies sharpened. Proposals landed. And Studio Rasa’s name began to echo in the right circles.

Three months after Milan, the Sahai penthouse was finally ready. Furniture, artefacts, and decor arrived like clockwork. The handover was seamless. Every detail had been fought for, finessed, and now it all stood—elegant, lived-in, luminous.

Our sweat, grit, and vision had paid off. Ritu and Sanjoy were ecstatic. And yet, as I stood in that luminous space, I wished he could see it. Wished Marcello could see me. Not as a designer. But as the woman he once held like she was art. And that longing hit me low in the chest—quiet, sharp, refusing to fade.

To celebrate, Ritu threw a private party at Imara by Canto, tucked inside Mahalaxmi Racecourse. She invited Mumbai’s crème de la crème—businessmen, philanthropists, fashion stylists, designers. It was the kind of room I used to dream of entering. Now, they were raising glasses to Sahil and me. To our success.

Inside Imara, the bass thumped like a heartbeat. Lights flickered like fireflies across walls. Music pulsed through the floor. Glasses clinked. Laughter spilled like champagne. The air shimmered—perfume, ambition, and possibility.

Ritu raised her glass.

“To Roxanne, Sahil, and the Studio Rasa team—thank you for turning my home into a masterpiece. Now let’s make tonight messy, loud, and unforgettable!”

Drinks flowed. Ritu swept me through introductions—stylists, architects, old college mates. Sahil hovered nearby, sipping slowly, watching me with quiet admiration. I caught his eye once, and he smiled—soft, proud. A grounding smile in a night where everything else felt a little too bright. I smiled back. We’d built something beautiful.

At one point, Ritu grabbed my phone to send herself a contact. Half-drunk, she fumbled through the list and accidentally tapped a name. I saw her shocked and mouth ‘Fuck’ before she cut the call quickly, laughing it off, never mentioning it.