Page 76 of The Ruin I Chose

I laughed—a cruel, guttural sound.

“And you? You’re just my collateral. You were stupid enough to think you were someone special. I kept you around to suck my cock and sign my papers.”

She slapped me. I barely flinched.

“You’re filth,” she spat.

“Says the whore,” I say, lighting another cigar.

“If I’m going down, so are you,” she said, panicking.

“Try all you want,” I said, already halfway to the door.

She stood there, trembling—already erased.

“Ti ammazzu, bastardu!” (I’ll kill you, you bastard!)

When the agents came, I was gone. I had prior knowledge of their arrival. Isabella was arrested. She screamed my name.

But I was already halfway to Montenegro—untouched, unbothered, watching the show.

Now I sat in a new villa. Somewhere colder. Just firelight. Staring at the flames, sipping cheap liquor. Marco entered, silent as ever, handed me a file like it was a death sentence wrapped in paper. I opened it. Her face stared back.

Roxanne.

The bitch he bleeds for. I smiled. Slow. Sinister. The fire from my cigar crackled.

“Let the games begin.”

I’ll burn her world down. And when he comes crawling, I’ll slit his throat with her tears.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the fire roared. And somewhere far away, she slept—unaware that war had just begun. Unaware that her name would be the last thing he’d scream. All for her.

CHAPTER 31

ROXANNE

Back in Mumbai, at Khushnaaz, Vihaan moved out. It wasn’t dramatic. He simply packed his things and moved into my mother’s apartment. He said it would be best for the two of us to live separately for a while.

I didn’t argue. I just let him go because I was tired of pretending being someone Vihaan could still love.

My identity dissolved into being the perfect wife, the perfect mom, the one who held it all together, the one who planned and smiled while quietly disappearing.

My mother moved in the next day, quietly replacing Vihaan—filling the silence with warm meals and gentle distractions. It felt like I’d stepped back into my younger days—living with my mother again. I didn’t have to worry about meals anymore. Or Kyra’s school runs.

It was a relief. A regression. A return to something simpler. At least I wasn’t functioning like a robot in repeat mode—cook, clean, work, care for everyone but myself. Without emotion. Without feelings. Just motion. Just duty

I was losing myself in the service of everyone else, resenting the family I had built and the woman I had become. I had to do better. Be better. Not just for Kyra. For the woman I still wanted to become.

Sahil and I worked day and night to get everything ready for the handover. The furniture from China arrived just in time.

The site was complete. We stood in the centre of the massive office, surrounded by sleek walnut desks, brass accents, and sculptural lounge chairs—modern, minimal, commanding.

We were excited, exhausted yet triumphant. I barely thought of Marcello anymore. Except in the quiet of the night. He hadn’t called. I hadn’t called either. But I checked my phone. Every night. Just in case.

I lived with the memory of his mouth on mine, the last kiss in China—brief, bruising, unfinished.

The handover was a success. We photographed the space, hoping it would be picked up by leading design magazines. Within weeks, our work was featured in three publications. I wore my best smile. The team cheered. The client was thrilled.