Page 24 of Carved in Ruin

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that I love him. She doesn’t know that I want him in ways that aren’t even close to platonic.

But how am I supposed to tell that to my heart ? How am I supposed to make it understand that it’s already lost?

“I’m just going to go take a shower,” I say, standing abruptly. “And then maybe we can discuss the wedding plans.”

I don’t wait for a response. My legs move faster than my mind, carrying me up the stairs. As soon as I reach my room, I slam the door shut and sit on the bed, my chest heaving as I try to breathe through the suffocating rage, the heartbreak.

But it doesn’t work. None of it works.

The door creaks open, and I don’t have to look up to know it’s her. Layla hesitates, like she’s testing the air before stepping into it. My fingers smooth over the blanket in my lap, and my hands tremble, betraying me.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, breaking the silence.

“Sorry for what?” My voice is detached. I keep my eyes down. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s a lie, and we both know it. Heat spreads under my skin, jealousy twisting in my chest. And something darker—hatred. Hatred for her, for him, for my father. But mostly for myself, for feeling all of it.

“Mila,” she says, stepping closer, her footsteps almost tentative. “Don’t do this. Don’t pretend it doesn’t bother you. I know it does.”

I glance up at her then, meeting her gaze with as much indifference as I can fake. “It doesn’t,” I say, lying through clenched teeth.

Her voice cracks, desperation leaking into her tone. “I know this is hard for you. Even if you don’t have feelings for him—”

“I don’t,” I snap, cutting her off before she can finish. My throat tightens, and I force myself to swallow hard, to stay calm.

She doesn’t stop. “Even if you don’t, he’s your childhood best friend. This has to meansomethingto you.”

I stare at her, my face a mask of emptiness. She doesn’t get it.

“I don’t feel any type of way, Layla,” I say. “And besides, if you thought this might hurt me, why’d you agree to it?”

Her shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh. She moves closer, sitting beside me, the bed dipping under her weight. “I could lie and say Father wouldn’t have given me a choice,” she begins. “And that’s true. He wouldn’t have. But that’s not why I said yes.”

I glance at her, my frown deepening. “Then why?”

She meets my gaze, her eyes swimming with something I can’t quite name—fear? Resignation? “This is my chance, Mila,” she says softly. “A chance to get out of this hellhole. Out of Father’s control.”

Her words hit like a slap. “What did he ever do to you to make you hate him so much?” I snap.

She exhales slowly, running a hand through her hair. “You’re still looking at him through rose-colored glasses,” she says, barely above a whisper.

I shake my head, the motion jerky and frantic. “Helovesus,” I hiss.

Her hand reaches out, cupping my cheek before I can pull away. The touch is soft, warm, but it feels like fire against my skin. “No, Mila,” she stresses. “You don’t see it. You don’t see how much he controls you. How he’s made you bend yourself in half to please him.”

I jerk back, my voice rising. “That’s not true! He—he’s strict, yes, but it’s because he cares!”

“He’s done nothing but take from you, Mila. And you don’t even see it. But I can’t stay here and let him take from me too. That’s why I said yes.”

The words hang heavy in the air, pressing down on me. My chest feels like it’s caving in, my breaths coming in shallow gasps. I want to argue, to scream, to tell her she’s wrong. But a tiny, traitorous voice deep inside whispers that she might be right.

Layla grips my hand, her fingers trembling slightly. “I’ll get us out of here, Mila. I promise,” she says.

I pull my hand back. “What if I don’t want to get out?” The question escapes before I can stop it, and I immediately regret it.

Layla slams her palm against the bed. Her frustration spills over as she leans closer, gripping my arm like she’s trying to anchor me. “Please. I’m begging you, open your eyes,” she pleads. “See how he treats you. The way he looks at you like you’re a possession. The way he speaks to you like your opinions don’t matter. The way he controls every part of your life.”

Her words sting, each one cutting deeper than the last. I force myself to push back. “And what if you’re just walking into another cage? Maybe an even worse one?”

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