Page 9 of The Ruin I Chose

And still, here I was, stepping into a shadowed alley with a man whose name I barely knew.

Bold? Foolish? Maybe even dangerous?

But the thrill beckoned. My pulse quickened despite my best efforts at composure.

We were seated in a corner booth, half-shadowed, half-lit. The table was worn wood—the kind that had soaked up decades of secrets and spilled wine. Marcello ordered without asking. Wine, antipasti, and handmade pasta. Everything arrived with quiet reverence.

His phone buzzed twice. He glanced, typed something quickly, then flipped it face down. He poured my wine, then leaned back, watching me with that unreadable gaze. I felt both seen and exposed, a curious mix that somehow unsettled yet thrilled me.

“So,” he said, “What brings you to Milan?”

I took a sip, letting the wine settle before answering, aware my hands trembled slightly.

“I’ve always wanted to come. But this time, it’s work. Helping my clients select furniture for a duplex project back in Mumbai.”

I told him about my firm, the long nights, the grit, the self-belief.

“I’m an interior designer. I started my firm alone. No investors. Just instinct and grit. Then Sahil came along. We designed spaces that felt like poetry—rooms that breathed.”

“Sahil?”

“My partner. He had reach and I had resonance. Together, we built something that could scale without losing its essence.”

He leaned back, more relaxed now. His sleeves were rolled and the tension in his shoulders had softened.

I took another sip of wine and tilted my head.

“So, what about you? What brings you to the fair?”

He swirled his wine. “I’m a patron. I collect pieces that speak to me. Milan is where the world comes to pretend it still cares about elegance.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

“Art is just a more palatable form of control,” he said.

I scoffed, studying him.

“You speak like someone who decides how things move.”

He didn’t speak at first, just watched me, unreadable.

Damn, his eyes were dreamy.

“You should explore more of Italy. Milan is just the surface,” he said.

I reached into my handbag and pulled out a small folded paper—my itinerary. I laid it on the table, letting him glimpse it briefly.

“I intend to. I didn’t plan much for this trip,” I said finally. “Just my stay. The rest… I’ll take the days as they come.”

I didn’t say how foreign that felt. How unnatural. Like walking barefoot on unfamiliar ground. But I needed to feel something that wasn’t scheduled. I wanted to be surprised, even if it scared me.

I’d spent years planning everything—holidays, birthdays, even date nights my husband barely showed up for. He didn’t do grand gestures. No gestures at all. And most nights, I paid in silence.

“I wanted this trip to be different. I needed it to be.”

Marcello didn’t interrupt. Just watched me.

“I like control too,” I admitted. “I like knowing what’s next.”