Page 77 of The Ruin I Chose

I stood in the centre of that pristine space, surrounded by glass and steel and light. And I felt nothing. I smiled for the cameras. For the world. Because that’s what strong women do.

We smile. We pose. We perform. Even when we’re hollow.

Mr. Gulati called a few days later. The final instalment—long pending-would be processed the following week. I offered to send Sahil. But Gulati insisted we both be present. Their European chairman was flying in to personally congratulate us. I agreed—hesitantly, and informed Sahil.

The following week, we arrived at the office. Mr. Gulati greeted us and escorted us to the MD’s cabin—the one we’d designed.

“Wait here,” he said. “He’ll be with you shortly.”

The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Mumbai skyline like a living painting. To the left, the marble desk gleamed under soft light. Opposite it, a sleek storage unit with a TV nestled between shelves of books, records, and even a vintage turntable. I was surprised by how personal it felt.

“Who even uses records anymore?” I muttered.

Sahil took a seat, relaxed. I wandered towards the bookshelf, fingers grazing spines. Mostly coffee table books. Europe. Architecture. History.

I pulled out one—Rome Through My Lens.

The pages were stunning. Arched doorways, crumbling columns, golden light spilling over cobblestones. I remembered walking hand in hand with Marcello, the bells chiming in the distance, stealing glances and kisses in hidden alleyways. The memory hit like perfume on old fabric—familiar, intimate, and impossible to wash out.

I was lost in that memory when Mr. Gulati re-entered.

“Roxanne, Sahil—may I introduce…”

I didn’t hear the rest. I snapped the book shut, turned, and froze. My spine stiffened before my mind caught up. Like my body remembered him before I did.

The man who entered was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked custom-made for violence. Greying hair slicked back. Black eyes—cold, unreadable. His skin was olive-toned, but his origin was impossible to place. He looked like he belonged everywhere and nowhere.

Lorenzo.

He walked towards me with that same calm, calculated expression. Held out his hand.

“Lorenzo Marcellini.”

I swallowed. “Roxanne Talati.”

He took my hand and kissed the back of it. Lingering. Too long. I pulled away, plastering a smile that felt like glass. Cracked. Brittle. Ready to shatter.

What was he doing here? Marcello had told him to stay away.

Why was he in this office?

My thoughts spiralled. My heart thudded—hard, loud, stupid against my ribs. I could feel Sahil watching me, sensing the shift in my energy. Lorenzo’s eyes didn’t leave mine.

He knows. He’s here for something. Marcello… does he know?

I stood straighter, smiling wider. But inside, I was unravelling.

Mr. Gulati cleared his throat.

“There’s a small issue with the final payment. Sahil, come with me—we’ll tally it together.”

Sahil gave me a look as if asking: All ok?

I just nodded as assurance. I didn’t want him anywhere near Lorenzo.

Lorenzo stood by the window, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the skyline like he owned it. The room felt smaller now. Tighter. Like the walls were listening.

“You’ve done well,” he said, voice rough, less polished.