Page 54 of Carved in Ruin

Twenty Five

Trust me, or Don’t

Mila

The shitty reality show blares in the background as I dig into my ice cream, a carton of salted caramel Nadia was kind enough to fetch for me. I’m grateful for her, honestly. Not every staff member in this mansion is Irina. Thank God for that small mercy.

Onscreen, some overly bronzed woman in diamonds the size of small planets is shrieking about “came from the bottom now we’re here”.

Then the front door slams, and my peace evaporates.

Rafael strides in like he owns the place—which, technically, he does—and I scowl. “What are you doing here? You barely left an hour ago.”

“Is my wife not happy to see me?”

I shrug, shoving another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. Sweet and cold. So much better than him.

He sighs and crosses the room, lowering himself onto the couch beside me. My shoulders stiffen immediately, every nerve on edge.

“Look,” he says, his voice softer now. “Can we have one normal day? Just one? Where you don’t act like you’ve seen the devil when you look at me?”

I don’t bother replying, just focus on the show. But I can feel his gaze on me, waiting. There’s no getting out of this anytime soon, so maybe civility is my only option.

“What are you watching?”

“Dubai Bling,” I mutter around the spoon in my mouth.

“Dubai what?” His confusion almost makes me laugh.

“Just watch it,” I grumble.

He rubs the bridge of his nose but stays quiet, his attention shifting to the screen.

It doesn’t last.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, voice dripping with disgust.

“Don’t shit all over my TV show, Rafael.”

“I’m sorry,Kroshka, I’m trying, but it’s just so… silly.”

Onscreen, the over-dramatic wife pouts as her husband apologizes with an entire designer handbag collection. She gasps, kisses his cheek, and gushes about how love is priceless while showing off a bag worth more than most people’s organs combined.

I snort. “If you bought me something every time you pissed me off or broke my heart, I’d own the entire planet by now.”

The words slip out before I can stop them, but I don’t regret them.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. I’ll give you the whole damn world, Mila. Just ask.”

“Just watch the damn show,” I mutter, turning back to the screen, pretending I don’t care that he looks like he regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.

My feet ache because of the towering heels I stupidly wore yesterday. I rest one ankle on my knee, subtly kneading the arch with my thumb.

Of course, Rafael notices. He noticeseverything.

“Do they hurt?” he asks.

He’s watching me, his dark eyes softer than I expect. I nod reluctantly. “The heels were too high. It’s nothing.”

---