Page 23 of Carved in Ruin

My fingers grip the counter as I brace myself. This mansion doesn’t do good news. Not the kind of good that comes without strings, without some knife poised to slit your throat when you least expect it.

My feet feel like they’re trudging through wet cement as I walk toward the living room. The smell of flowers, sickly sweet and overwhelming, clings to the air. It’s like the mansion ismocking me, dressed up in celebration while I feel like I’m marching toward my own execution.

I stop just outside the doorway, my fingers brushing against the doorframe as I take a shaky breath. I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to know what’s behind all of this. But I force myself to step inside anyway, my body moving on autopilot.

My father is sprawled on the couch, a wide, smug grin plastered across his face. Layla sits beside him, her head bowed low, her hands fidgeting in her lap. They can’t even be in the same room without snapping at one another, but here they are, playing house.

I lower myself onto the couch next to Layla, my body stiff. I grab the teapot and pour myself a cup, not because I want tea but because I need something to do with my hands. I sip it, the liquid cool against my tongue. Of course, it is. They’ve clearly been here for a while.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“A huge celebration,” my father says, his grin stretching wider.

My heart sinks. I take another sip of tea, letting the bitterness coat my throat as if it can drown out the unease clawing at me. Layla still hasn’t looked up, and that single detail sends a spike of panic through my chest. Something is wrong. Something isverywrong.

“Let’s just say,” my father says, leaning back like a man about to drop the bomb of the century, “there will be a wedding very soon in this family.”

The words hit me like a slap, stealing the breath from my lungs. My hand trembles as I set the teacup down on the table, the clink louder than I intend.

“Who’s the groom?” I manage, though my voice cracks. I can’t bring myself to ask the other question, the one that matters most…Who’s the bride?

“Rafael Ivanov.”

The name cuts through the air like a blade, and my stomach drops so fast it’s like I’m free-falling. My heart feels like it’s been ripped out of my chest and stomped on. Rafael.

He asked for my hand in marriage?

The memory of last night floods back. The way he touched me, whispered to me, and then ripped the rug out from under me. He’s toying with me. That has to be it. He thinks I’m something he can claim, like a piece of property, with no regard for what I want.

My teeth grind together, and I force my hands to stay still. Rage boils under my skin, mixing with the humiliation clawing at my throat. He thinks he can buy me? He thinks my father’s greed is all it takes to seal the deal?

He’s wrong. So, so wrong.

“Congratulate Layla.”

Hell passes over my skin. No, hellinvadesit, consuming every cell, lighting me on fire from the inside out. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the rush of my own blood. Jealousy—sharp, acidic, and bitter—burns through me, leaving destruction in its wake.

I’m jealous. I’m jealous of my sister.

The realization makes me want to scream, to claw at my own chest. It makes me hate her, hate the way she’s sitting there so calm. For the first time in my life, I hate Layla. And I hate my father even more.

But most of all, I hate Rafael.

Rafael, who kissed me. Rafael, who touched me. Rafael, who gave me more firsts than I could count and then threw me away like I was a bad taste he couldn’t wash out of his mouth.

I swallow the lump in my throat. My nails dig deep into my palms, the sharp pain grounding me, barely. “Congratulations,Layla,” I mumble, the words thick and heavy like they’re being dragged out of me by force.

Layla doesn’t move. She doesn’t even look at me.

“You know,” my father starts, and I want to cover my ears, but I don’t. I sit there and listen because I don’t have a choice. “I thought it would be a lot harder toconvinceher, but she said yes before I even finished the sentence. That was wise.”

Wise.

I’m going to implode. I feel it.

“Congratulations again, Layla,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady, even if it feels like it might crack in half. I try to smile, but it’s brittle. “I hope I’m theKuma.”

Finally, she looks at me. Her gaze is small, hesitant, like she’s tiptoeing across a minefield. And then she smiles, just a tiny, nervous curl of her lips.

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