Page 98 of 10 Days to Ruin

She searches my face. Then, a nod—sharp, reluctant. “Men like you don’t know what to do with happy endings, Sasha Ozerov.”

“We don’t deserve them in the first place.”

The basement door bangs open. Ariel strides in, scowling. “Hinges were installed upside down. Had to take the whole thing apart. What’d I miss?”

Belle releases me, smoothing her apron. “Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing at all. Now, come, Sasha—let me give you a tour.”

She guides me around the house, the picture of a perfect hostess. The place itself is a time capsule. Faded lace doilies, framed photos of a younger Belle holding two dark-haired girls, a piano with sheet music yellowed at the edges.

“And that’s that,” she concludes when we return to the kitchen. “Not much to it.”

“You have a beautiful home. Strangely enough, I mean it. It’s so far from my world that I want to laugh out loud on seeing it. Mismatched cutlery in the drawers, but with fingerprints smudged into the metal that say it’s been loved for so long. Watercolors she must’ve done herself hang on the walls.

It’s a quiet, simple life, but a full one.

The shit makes my chest ache.

“Why, thank you,” she says demurely. “Perfect timing, too. Dinner’s almost done. Ariel, check the oven. Sasha—” She points to a rickety stepstool by the ceiling-high pantry. “Be a dear and fetch the bourbon? Top shelf.”

I nod. “Of course, Ms. Ward.”

The stool groans under my weight as I reach up to fetch the liquor. But up here, I’m eye level with the clock on the wall, and something occurs to me.

The hands haven’t moved since I walked in.

Frowning, I lower myself down, set the bottle of bourbon on the counter, and approach it. A tiny, winding crack in the wooden surface is calling my name. With a fingertip, I lift the broken facade and peer inside.

Ach, it’s all so wrong. Gears twisted, springs loose, mechanisms lolling like shreds of an open wound.

I immediately pluck it off the shelf and walk it over to the dining table. I peel off the shattered front piece, murmuring to the timepiece, “Que t’est-il arrivé, mon ami?”

Belle, bustling through the kitchen, freezes in place. “You speak French?”

“Enough to order wine and piss off waiters.” I lift the clock carefully to peek underneath. “Ariel, hand me a screwdriver from the tool kit.”

“Since when do you fix clocks?” she asks in amazement as she brings the tool over.

“Since never. But my mother… She had a knack for mending broken things.”

Ariel is frowning as she watches me work, but Belle’s face looks stricken, fragile, her hand covering her mouth. “Leander bought that for me on our honeymoon in Paris,” she whispers hoarsely. “I broke it the day Jasmine left.”

I freeze. A lot of things broke the day Jasmine left. I should know—I was there to send her off into the next life. But these women weren’t where I was. There’s a reason they don’t know my face—only the consequences of the decisions I made.

“Give me twenty minutes and it’ll work again.”

“Oh, Sasha, you don’t have to?—”

“Twenty minutes.”

Ariel watches me like I’ve sprouted horns. Belle keeps stirring the food on the stove, sipping bourbon, glancing furtively in my direction every minute as I dismantle the clock and begin to resuscitate it.

It’s methodical work. Cleaning rusted gears. Realigning escapements. My mother’s voice hums in my ear:Careful, Sasha. Time is a jealous thing. It hates being mishandled.

When the first chime rings out, crisp and clear, Belle’s hand flies right back to her mouth.

Ariel gawks at the clock, then at me. “You… fixed it.”

“Temporarily. It still needs proper restoration.” I wipe grease on my handkerchief. “I know someone who can do a better job than I could.”

---