Page 133 of The Art of Ruin

That’s exactly what it was—is.

Standing in that market while everyone else apparently already knew I was the only person stupid enough to still believe in my own relationship.

The first woman sighs softly. “Apparently she works for the Mancinis now.”

“That’s awkward.”

“I heard Adriano Mancini’s hired her to be his nanny.”

The other woman lets out a surprised laugh. “Seriously?”

“That’s what people are saying.”

“Well,” she says after a moment, “at least something good came out of it. He won’t break her heart because he doesn’t have one.”

My throat tightens so suddenly it catches me off guard.

Because I know they aren’t trying to be cruel.

That somehow makes it worse.

They aren’t malicious.

They’re just discussing me like I’m a story.

A cautionary tale.

I step backward quietly before either woman notices me, my chest suddenly too tight for the amount of air I’m pulling in. I need fresh air.

Stupid.

This is stupid.

They don’t matter.

None of this matters. I shouldn’t even be here. Like they said, I’m staff. I don’t belong here.

And yet humiliation burns anyway, hot and ugly and impossible to reason yourself out of once it’s awake.

I make it to the balcony doors before my composure starts cracking properly.

Cold air hits my skin immediately as I step outside, sharp enough to sting my lungs. Snow drifts softly beyond the terrace railings, New York glittering in distant gold and white lights, but I barely register any of it as I brace both hands against the stone balustrade and close my eyes hard for a second.

Jesus Christ.

Why am I letting this affect me?

I know what happened.

I know I did nothing wrong.

And still, there’s this awful crawling feeling under my skin, like everyone who looks at me sees the woman who got cheated on, lied to, and publicly humiliated without even realizing it was happening.

I hate that.

I hate him for making me feel like that.

I hate myself a little for not being over it yet.