Page 56 of Ruined

"No," I say, my voice coming out raspy. "I'm not hungry."

Noah nods, still not stepping into the room. He keeps his distance, one hand on the doorframe, the other shoved in his pocket. The space between us stretches wide and cold.

Of course he's distant now. What did I expect? That he'd come rushing in with declarations of feelings? That last night meant something?

It was just sex to him. Another conquest. Another woman in his bed.

And that's fine. That's what it needs to be for me too. A moment of weakness. A biological response to stress. Nothing more.

"You should eat something," he says, but there's no force behind it. Just words filling the awkward silence.

"I said I'm not hungry." I look away from him, fixing my gaze on the window where night presses against the glass. "I just want to be alone."

He hesitates and it seems he might say something else. Something about last night. Something that would make this all more complicated than it already is.

But he doesn't.

"Fine," he eventually says. "There's food in the kitchen if you change your mind."

The door closes softly and I'm alone again with the sheets that still smell like him and the memory of his hands on my skin.

I close my eyes and try to convince myself this is better. Simpler. Safer.

I sit alone in the bedroom until the walls start closing in on me. My stomach growls despite my claims of not being hungry.Still, I can't face Noah right now. Not after everything that happened.

I reach for my violin case at the foot of the bed, running my fingers over the latches. My violin has always been my voice when words fail me. My escape when there's nowhere to run.

Right now, I need that escape more than ever.

I open the case and lift the instrument, feeling its familiar weight in my hands. The polished wood gleams in the dim light as I tuck it under my chin. I draw the bow across the strings, testing the sound. Perfect, as always. I tune it by ear, the ritual calming my racing thoughts.

Walking to the window, I stand in a spot where the last light of day filters through the glass. The city stretches before me, lights beginning to twinkle in the dusk. I'm so high up that the people below look like ants, going about their lives, unaware of the woman trapped in this gilded cage.

I close my eyes and begin to play Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor. It's always been one of my favorites—passionate and melancholy, with moments of hope breaking through the darkness. My bow dances across the strings as my fingers find each note from memory.

The music fills the room, wrapping around me like an old friend. During these precious minutes I'm not a prisoner. I'm not a pawn in some mafia war. I'm just Evelyn, speaking through my violin the words I can never say aloud.

The concerto builds and I sway with it, losing myself in its familiar rises and falls. My body moves as one with the music, tension flowing from my shoulders through my arms and into the instrument. The world falls away—no Noah, no Ivan, no danger. Just me and the music.

As I draw out the final notes, letting them hang in the air before fading to silence, I open my eyes and turn from the window.

Noah stands in the doorway, completely still. His dark eyes are fixed on me but they're different now—glassy and bright, like he's holding back tears. His jaw is clenched rigid, a muscle flexing at the hinge.

I lower the violin slowly, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel. Not because I'm standing here in borrowed clothes, but because I've just revealed more of myself through that music than I ever intended.

"How long have you been standing there?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Noah doesn't answer. He just stares at me, that glassy look still in his eyes, something raw and vulnerable breaking through his usual mask of control.

CHAPTER 17

Istare at Evelyn, watching the last notes of the song hang in the air between us. Something about the way she plays—it's like she's having a fucking conversation with her violin. And I'm just standing here, listening in on something I'm not supposed to hear.

Her eyes meet mine and I see it—that same look from last night. The one that tells me she's fighting herself more than she's fighting me.

I step closer, my body moving before my brain catches up. "Take your clothes off."

She freezes, bow still in hand. "What?"

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