Page 19 of The Art of Ruin

The shift.

The house changes in a way that’s hard to explain—like something essential has just entered it.

Letty doesn’t notice.

She’s halfway through explaining why one blue crayon is better than another when her head snaps up.

“Daddy!”

The word is bright, immediate.

She’s on her feet before I can react, already running.

I rise more slowly, brushing my hands over my trousers, suddenly aware of everything—where I’m standing, how I look, the fact that I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

I hear his footsteps before I see him.

Measured. Controlled. Unhurried.

Then he appears in the doorway.

And for a second—just a second—I understand exactly what Isabella meant.

He doesn’t need to announce himself. The space adjusts around him. His suit hugs his frame like a lover, his white shirt looking immaculate, the blue silk tie knotted perfectly. Even his dark hair is swept perfectly back from his handsome face. Yep, Adriano Mancini is a Greek God of a man, and I want nothing to do with it, thank you very much.

Letty crashes into him, arms wrapping tight around his waist, words tumbling out over each other.

“You’re early, and I told her about the blue one, and she said I was patient. But I wasn’t because I wanted to—”

He steadies her without looking down, one hand automatically finding the back of her head, fingers sliding into her hair in a gesture so practiced it barely registers as conscious.

Then his gaze lifts.

Finds me.

It isn’t hostile.

It isn’t warm.

It’s… precise.

Like I’ve just been placed somewhere on a scale he hasn’t decided how to read yet.

“You’re early,” he says, the words even, controlled, but carrying no real sense of welcome.

Something in my chest tightens before I can stop it, a small, instinctive reaction I wish I had better control over.

I straighten slightly. “I prefer not to be late. This way I can settle in and get started.”

His gaze doesn’t shift, doesn’t soften. “Friday was the agreed start.”

There it is—not anger, not accusation, just fact. I’m not meant to be here. I’m not wanted here.

It shouldn’t sting, but it does. That feeling of rejection.

For a split second, something sharp rises in me—old instinct, old voice. The urge to bite back and give him as good as he gets. I shut it down. I want to run, to slink away, and lick my wounds. “I understand,” I say, keeping my tone level. “I’ll come back at the agreed-upon time.”

Even as I say it, I step back slightly, already removing myself, withdrawing.