Page 16 of The Art of Ruin

We ate the ice cream, drank the wine, and I made her promise not to tell anyone what had happened. It’s just too embarrassing to bear.

Isabella promised, although she admitted Nico already knew I’d broken up with my boyfriend. She said she’d hold back on the details for me.

I love my friend, and just being here with her makes me feel stronger.

Only… barely.

The crying, shattered phase is starting to fade, and something sharper is taking its place.

Anger.

And with it, a restless need to move forward.

To take my life back.

I can’t sit still anymore.

The hotel room that’s been my home for the past week is beautiful. Clean. Luxurious. Safe.

And still, at some point around three in the morning, I realize I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours—replaying conversations I don’t want to remember, imagining new ones I’ll never have.

So I get up.

Take a nice hot shower, enjoying the multiple jets as I scrub my skin, washing away the past. I dress, taking the time to choose an outfit that’s professional and functional for the job. Adriano Mancini doesn’t mess around when it comes to his daughter. He’s the devil in a Tom Ford suit. Handsome, rich, powerful, and devoted to his child, and my attempts to tease him have fallen as flat as a pancake in the few times we’ve met.

Although, I’m not sure the woman who teased him so easily exists anymore. I feel like I’ve aged and changed so much in the last week that I hardly recognize myself. Yes, outwardly I’m the same, but inside, everything is different. My emotions have locked down; my openness has closed up shop. I’m an island now, and only a very few people will be allowed on it.

I pack my bag again, even though it doesn’t need it, and check the room in case I missed something. Usually it’s a phone charger, but nothing is left.

By ten-thirty, I’m sitting in a cab outside the gates of a house that looks nothing like anywhere I’ve ever worked before.

It isn’t just the size.

It’s the stillness.

The kind that feels curated. Maintained. Like nothing happens here by accident. The manicured lawns even have those fancy lines, like someone mowed it in a certain way to create them.

I smooth my hands over my trousers, then immediately regret it when I notice a faint crease I hadn’t seen before. I try to fix it anyway. It gives me something to do.

I’m early. I should have called first. Maybe I should leave.

The thought lands with a familiar edge.

This is a mistake.

I almost tell the driver to turn around.

Come back tomorrow. Do this properly. Arrive at the correct time, with the correct introduction, with everything exactly where it should be.

But then I think about the hotel room.

About the silence.

About the way my phone sat face down on the bedside table like it might still betray me if I looked at it.

I reach for the handle.

“I’ll get out here,” I say.