Page 78 of The Ruin I Chose

“This space… it breathes power. And the view is spectacular. I’ll admit, I was surprised Marcello was with a woman like you. But now I see it. There’s something in you.”

I wanted to laugh. And scream. And disappear.

Instead, I said:

“He wasn’t with me.”

Lie.

“We weren’t anything. He showed me around Italy. That’s all.”

The lie tasted like dirt in my mouth. Because I remembered the suite in China. His breath on my neck.

Lorenzo turned from the window, his eyes dragging over my body like a slow violation.

“Shame. I thought you’d make an unusual pair—a good one though. My wife was plump too. Had an ass worth grabbing.”

I felt my stomach knot. The air thickened. I wanted to vanish into the walls.

He was older than Marcello. Cruder. Less refined. But dangerous in a way that felt more unpredictable. He stepped closer.

“You’ve changed,” he said, voice gravelled and low. “More beautiful than the last time we met.”

His gaze dropped to my chest, lingered, then slid to my hips, almost undressing me with his eyes.

“Fuller,” he said, miming a crude gesture in the air.

“I bet they bounce real nice when you walk.”

I instinctively crossed my arms across my chest. Bile rose in my throat.

Why was I letting this man talk to me this way?

To hell with the final payment—I don’t give a fuck.

My mind screamed at me to run, but my body froze. Because that’s what fright does. It locks you in place. Makes you a statue in your own skin.

“You’re disgusting.”

He smirked. “I’ve been called worse. Usually by women who end up moaning my name.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate.

“You know what I like about you?” he said. “You look like you’d fight back. That makes the chase fun and worth it.”

I clenched my jaw and spat. “You’re fucking repulsive.”

“Repulsive?” he asked, amused. “That’s rich, coming from a woman who stayed married to a man she doesn’t love and fucked another she couldn’t keep.”

I flinched. The words sliced deeper than I expected.

How did he know about Vihaan?

He circled me like a predator, eyes never leaving.

“Lonely, aren’t you?” he said, grazing my arm. “Your husband’s gone. Marcello’s vanished. You must be starving for attention.”

I wasn’t starving. I was grieving. And grief makes you quiet. Makes you retreat into yourself. Makes you easy to misread. It reshapes the landscape of a person—an unravelling where love once lived.