Page 25 of Carved in Ruin

“There’s no cage worse than this, Mila. None.” She breathes. “I’ll get us out,” she insists again, like it’s a mantra she can’t let go of.

I can’t stop the bitterness from spilling out. “Get me out of here, and then what? Leave me to watch you play house with Rafael? To see you kiss him, love him, wear his ring?”

I gasp and slap my hand over my mouth. “Layla, I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean that. I want you to be happy. I really do. It’s just—everything’s so overwhelming, and I—”

Before I can finish, she pulls me into her arms, her hold tight. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I understand. I’m sorry too, Mila. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but it’s the only way. The only way to get out of this stupid mansion, this life.”

Her words break something in me, and all I can do is let her hold me as my tears soak into her shoulder.

Thirteen

Scorched Truths

Mila

The mansion is buzzing with energy. My father has organized a small celebratory party at the news. Everywhere I turn, flowers crowd my view—roses, lilies, and exotic blooms I don’t even know the names of. It’s like someone took the Amazon rainforest and dumped it in every corner of the mansion. Father spared no expense.

I smooth down the glittering fabric of my rose-colored set. My hair is swept up in an intricate updo, and the makeup artist did an amazing job. But the mask only goes so far. Beneath it all, I feel like a fraud.

Layla stands in front of the mirror, adjusting the lace sleeves of her white silk dress. It pools around her feet like liquid light, her dark hair cascading in glossy ringlets. Her eyes smolder with the smoky makeup, and her lips—painted a bold red—are a striking contrast to her pale skin. She looks breathtaking.

“You’re gorgeous,” I marvel at her.

Layla turns and presses a quick kiss to my cheek, leaving behind a perfect red imprint. She notices it almost immediately and wipes it away with her thumb, her brows furrowing.

“Are you okay?” she asks cautiously.

I nod. “I’m fine.” The lie rolls off my tongue so easily now. I’ve been practicing.

I’m not fine. I’m far from it. But this isn’t about me. My sister deserves this moment, this chance at freedom. I won’t ruin it because of my misplaced feelings or my stupid sense of entitlement. Rafael doesn’t want me. He never did.

“Let’s go,” I say.

We descend the staircase together, Layla moving like she owns the world, and me…well, I’m just trying not to fall apart. The leaders of the Bulgarian and Turkish mafias, Ivan with his wife Elena, and Kemal with his wife Aylin, are here. They are my father’s closest allies.

I walk through the room, greeting each of them with politeness. They kiss my cheek, call me “princess,” and offer compliments. I smile where I need to, nod where it’s expected, all while keeping a tight leash on my emotions.

“Congratulations, Layla,” Ivan says with a heavy accent. “Being the future wife of the Pakhan suits you well.”

Aylin chimes in, “You’re one lucky girl.”

Everyone knows of the influence of the Bratva. She truly is a lucky girl.

Layla’s response is measured. “Thank you. I’ll try my best to live up to it.”

They go back to conversing with Father, and I focus on breathing. A panic attack here is the last thing I want.

And then I see him.

He’s leaning against the edge of the long dining table, his suit dark and perfectly tailored, his presence magnetic as ever. Helooks up as I approach, and for a moment, his sharp green gaze pierces through me. But I refuse to flinch.

I extend my hand, my expression blank. “Rafael.”

He takes it, his grip lingers, but I pull my hand away quickly. “Mila,” he says, his tone unreadable.

I turn to the man beside him, tilting my head slightly, I offer a polite smile. “And who is this?”

Rafael’s eye twitches, his teeth clenching. “Anatoly. A friend.”

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