Page 71 of The Ruin I Chose

“They’ll try to take her. You know how they are.”

“I know,” he said. “And I won’t. I’d never put you in that spot.”

I pulled back. He wiped my tears.

“I still love you, Roxanne. Not in the way I used to. But I’ll always care. I’ll always support your decisions. It’s the least I can do.”

I exhaled, the relief washing over me like warm rain.

“I’m your friend for life,” he said. “You can count on me.”

I nodded, breath shaky. “Thank you.”

Just then, my mother walked in. She’d heard everything. For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then she asked, gently.

“What’s his name?”

I looked out to the terrace, where Kyra was now twirling in circles, her arms wide like wings.

“Marcello. Marcello Vitale,” I said.

My mother raised an eyebrow. “Italian?”

“Sicilian.”

Vihaan pulled out his phone, typed something into it. I chuckled through my tears.

“Don’t bother. He’s old-school. Vintage. No social media.”

I didn’t tell them about my encounter with him in China. Or the necklace, now warm against my skin. Or the way my body had betrayed me in the dark.

I just said, “We’re not in touch. Not since I told him about you.”

My mother looked at me. She tilted her head, her voice quiet.

“Are you in love with him?”

I didn’t reply, just sipped my tea. And that silence was answer enough.

CHAPTER 29

MARCELLO

I stood under the cold shower, letting it numb the ache that pulsed between my legs. Not just desire—need. The kind that coils in your gut and refuses to leave. My hands trembled but from restraint.

She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t pushed me away. Instead, she’d whispered my name like she was still mine. And that name—spoken like a prayer, like a wound—split me open. It wasn’t just recognition. It was permission. And I took it.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

What the fuck had I done? I slammed my palm repeatedly against the wet shower wall.

I knew she would be here. I’d heard it over the phone. I told myself I’d keep my distance. But when I saw her dancing—free, flushed, laughing—my body went to war with itself. Her closeness with Sahil, the leering eyes of men watching her, something in me snapped. I needed to know she was still mine. And when she spoke my name, I knew.

I stepped out of the shower, poured a drink sinking into the armchair of my penthouse suite, staring out at the Guangzhou skyline. The whiskey burned, but not enough. I lit a cigarette. The first drag scorched my throat. I welcomed it. My fingers twitched—a habit returning too easily.

The city pulsed with fervour even at night. But inside me—silence. The kind that comes before a storm.

I could still feel her breath on my palm. Her pulse under my fingers. The taste of her lips—a mix of alcohol and strawberry. I could still hear the soft groan she’d tried to swallow.