Page 83 of Ruin My Life
Chavez gives me a look that makes me shift uncomfortably. It’s not pity, exactly. More like he’s mentally buffering, trying to line up what I said with what he expected and getting a glitchy result.
“I thought Canadians were supposed to be nice,” he says, one thick brow arched in amusement.
I mirror the look right back at him. “I was born and raised in New York.”
“Ah.” He nods sagely, like that answers everything. “Makes sense. New Yorkers are all assholes.”
My lips twitch. “Isn’t your boss a New Yorker too?”
“You’ve met him,” he says with a smirk. “Telling me I’m wrong?”
This time, I actually smile. It’s small, but real.
“Point proven.”
I lean back on my palms, letting the tension settle just a little. “I take it you’re not from here, then?”
“Nah,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “Born in Florida. Moved around a lot whenever my dad found a new‘business opportunity’. Eventually landed here, where Damon caught wind of what he was up to. The beatings. The scams. The way he treated my mom and me. Damon stepped in—and the rest is history.”
I blink.
I wasn’t expecting him to be so…open.
There’s something heavy in my chest as I picture it. A kid like him, being dragged from place to place, never knowing if the next stop was better or worse.
Meanwhile, I can’t even say the wordwasabout my own family without feeling like I’m going to shatter.
“Damon got you out?” I ask, quieter this time.
He nods. “Set my mom up near her sister back in Florida. Got her out of reach. She was the first person he helped using King’s Eye. He’s helped a lot more since.”
There’s pride in his voice. Clear admiration.
It tightens something inside me.
It’s not that I don’t see it. Damon’s loyalty is obvious—so is the way his people look at him like he’s more than a man. Like he’s the undeniable force that rewrote their lives.
But I’ve seen what the Songbirds do for money. I’ve seen the wreckage they leave behind. And Damon King was one of them longer than he’s been anything else.
I don’t care what kind of penthouse he has. I don’t care how many people he’s helped. I’m not here to admire him.
I’m here tosurvive him—until I get what I need.
Maybe even a little more than I need.
The elevator dings just as that thought finishes forming, followed by a brash Russian accent that ricochets down the hallway.
“Chavez?” the woman calls. “Damon says he has a little rose that needs fixing—he knows I’m a nurse not a florist, right?”
“In here, Dahlia,” Chavez calls, waving her over from the doorway.
At first, I expect some kind of rugged medic—someone used to being called in for quick and messy damage control. A few stitches, some painkillers, and her work is done.
Instead, I’m met with a goddamnmodel.
She rounds the corner in powder-blue scrubs and spotless white sneakers, her platinum blonde hair yanked into a tight sock bun that shows off every sculpted inch of her high cheekbones. Her porcelain skin and light grey eyes practically glow under the dim hallway lights. Her features are so symmetrical, it makes me wonder if she was actuallybornor if she was built in a lab.
A laminated badge swings from her pocket, and I feel the blood drain from my face.
