Page 116 of Ruins
“My wife wants cooking lessons, so I need you.” The lie slides off my tongue with ease, though it’s only half a lie. The truth is, I just need her here—to make sure Vasilisa eats, to keep her occupied, to fix the mess brewing in my head.
Mrs. Keen hums knowingly. “Why can’t Julian do it?” There’s amusement laced in her tone.
I press my fingers to my temple. “He’s starting his vacation tomorrow.”
“That’sodd. He wasn’t supposed to leave until I got back.”
I exhale, already tired of this conversation. “I gave him an early break.”
There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again, and I can practically hear her disapproval. “And Lila? Can’t she fill in for me?”
“Lila’s on vacation too.” I rub my jaw, the weight of my own irrationality pressing against my ribs.
Mrs. Keen laughs softly. “So this new wife of yours has already made an impression on you… and she’s made friends you don’t approve of?”
Heat creeps up my neck. My grip tightens around the phone. I don’t respond fast enough.
“Can you come back to work early or not?” I snap, my frustration bubbling over.
“Santo,” she tsks, pausing just long enough to drag out my irritation.
I grit my teeth. “Please, Amelia.” The moment her first name leaves my mouth, I know I’ve lost.
A soft chuckle hums through the line. “Okay sweet boy, I’ll be there,” Mrs. Keen soothes, her motherly nature shining through just like it did when I was young.
My shoulders drop slightly in relief. “I’ll send the private plane for you. First thing in the morning.”
Then, in a quieter voice, I confess, “Vasilisa doesn’t eat enough.”
That, more than anything, earns Mrs. Keen’s cooperation. “I’ll take care of her, Santo.”
When I hang up, the silence is louder than before. The ticking clock. My own measured breaths. The simmering unease that never truly fades.
I push off the couch and move to my desk, flipping on the monitors. One by one, I scan the security feeds.
She’s not in the bedroom.
My fingers tighten around the armrest as I cycle through the cameras.
Then, I find her.
The library.
She’s still wearing that damned dress—though now, a smock is tied loosely around her waist, the fabric dusted with paint. Her golden hair is twisted atop her head in a messy knot, wisps falling loose, framing her face.
She’s completely absorbed in her work, her expression contorted in deep concentration, her brush gliding effortlessly over the canvas.
Something in my chest tightens.
I watch her.
Because even from a distance, even when I should leave her alone—I can’t stop watching her.
The easel is turned just enough to keep the painting hidden from view, a deliberate tease that ignites something restless inside me. A burning curiosity. A need.
I want to see it.I need to see it.
The desire propels me forward before I can think twice. I leave my office hastily, heading straight for the library. Failing to knock, I push open the double doors.
