Page 168 of The Art of Ruin

Of course she is. Because Casey doesn’t care about power or money or even violence.

She cares about trust.

And I lied to her.

Maybe not directly, and maybe for good reasons, but I kept something from her.

I drag a hand slowly down my face before loosening my tie with rough jerking movements. “Where’s Letty?”

“Asleep.”

Good. At least one thing in this house is still safe tonight. The last thing I want is my child witnessing this or feeling the tension.

“You should talk to her,” Elena says gently.

I nod once. “Thanks, Elena. You can head out now. I’ve got this.”

“Be gentle with her, Adriano.”

“I will,” I say, a little hurt that she felt the need to say that.

I watch as Elena lets herself out and head to the annex. I’m so grateful for Isabella’s mother in our lives. That she was here for Casey today, when I was stuck in a stupid meeting and had no idea what was happening.

The hallway outside the annex feels too long tonight. Every step heavier than it should be. Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being about protecting Casey and became something far worse. Something capable of destroying me, of destroying us.

The light beneath her door is still on when I knock quietly.

No answer.

I open it anyway, wondering if I’m going to get a stray shoe thrown at my head.

Casey is sitting curled against the headboard in her room, wearing one of my sweaters, laptop open but untouched in front of her while her gaze stays fixed on the window beside the bed. She looks beautiful; she looks like mine, and I’ll do anything to fix this because I can’t lose her.

The second she looks up at me, I know.

She knows everything, or at least enough to shake her trust in me.

My chest tightens painfully at the distance already sitting in her expression. “Hi,” I say quietly.

The word sounds wrong in the room somehow.

Her eyes move over me carefully.

Searching for something.

Honesty maybe. Or proof I’m exactly who she feared.

“Did you do it?” she asks softly.

Straight to the point. That’s my Casey. She doesn’t play games or show any kind of fear; she just comes out with it.

I close the bedroom door behind me slowly and step closer, my gaze running over her, looking for any signs that he hurt her but I can’t see anything obvious. That doesn’t make me feel better. I know some wounds are invisible, and they’re often the worst ones.

“What did he tell you?”

Something flashes across her face instantly—hurt.

“Enough that you answering my question with another question feels pretty shitty.”