Page 186 of The Art of Ruin

And, God, that somehow made everything worse. “I know he loves me,” I say quietly.

Bri glances over immediately, a glass of orange juice in her hand. “Well. That sounds absolutely devastating. I can see whyyou ran from the gorgeous billionaire who loves you. You go, girl.”

“It is devastating, Bri. Love was never the problem. Trust is.”

If anything, Adriano loves too much. Too fiercely. Too instinctively. Like the people he cares about become stitched directly into his ribs and anyone threatening them threatens his ability to breathe.

Part of me understands that terrifyingly well now. But love without trust becomes something toxic eventually.

My phone lights up against the counter, and I grab for it.

Not a message this time.

A photo.

I blink.

Then immediately feel my chest cave inward a little.

It’s Letty sitting at the kitchen island wearing pajamas and a deeply unimpressed expression while Adriano cooks pancakes in the background looking devilishly handsome.

Underneath, he’s written:

Apparently, my pancakes aren’t as good as yours. Matteo took this picture against my will by the way.

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

A second later, another message appears.

She says my dinosaur pancakes look like melted snowmen.

God.I press the heel of my hand briefly against my mouth because I suddenly miss them both so much I can physically feel the ache of it.

Bri notices instantly. “That bad?”

“You have no idea. I miss them so much, Bri.”

The worst part is I can see he’s trying. He’s giving me the space I asked for; he’s respecting my wishes.

That evening, another message arrives.

No pressure.

No demand.

Just:

I told Letty you were staying with a friend for a little while because grown-ups sometimes need time to sort things out properly. She asked if you still loved us. I told her yes.

The backs of my eyes sting with unshed tears as I read it.

Us.

Not me.

Like even now, even hurt and exhausted and heartbroken, Adriano still sees love as something shared instead of owned.

I stare at the message for a long time before finally typing back.