Page 123 of Ruins
The afternoon is spent surrounded by warmth—flour-dusted counters, the rich aroma of simmering sauce, and Amelia’s infectious laughter filling the air. Despite the lingering tension from Mimi’s call, I find myself relaxing, allowing the present moment to wrap around me like a soft cocoon.
By evening, the meal is ready—an elaborate spread, fit for a king.
I take a deep breath and adjust the thin straps of my short black dress.Tonight, modesty be damned.
My fingers brush over my bare skin, a shiver trailing in their wake as I pick up La Serenata, holding the painting close to my chest.
Tonight, I will show Santo just how ready—and willing—I am.
As I wait for Santo’s arrival, I take in the dining room, ensuring everything is perfect—the soft flicker of candlelight, the delicate arrangement of silverware, the deep red wine shimmering in crystal glasses.Tonight has to be perfect.Then, I hear it—the front door opening and closing. My heart leaps, but instead of approaching, his heavy footsteps retreat.
I hesitate for only a second before grabbing my painting and rushing after him.No. Not tonight.Not when I’ve done everything to make this special.
“Santo,” I call, my voice hopeful, desperate to catch his attention.
He turns his head slightly, acknowledging me, but keeps walking, his long strides carrying him swiftly down the hall.
I quicken my pace, my heels clacking against the polished floor, the canvas awkward and cumbersome in my arms. “I made dinner,” I say, breathless.
“I’ll take some in my study when I can.”
My heart sinks.
His words hit like a slap—distant, dismissive, uninterested. I grip the canvas tighter, willing myself not to falter. “I made lasagna,” I add quickly, my voice wavering. “And I finished the painting for you. I thought we could spend some time together.”
Still, he doesn’t stop.
I push forward, determined. I need him toseeme.
But just as I nearly reach him, he stops abruptly in front of his office door.
The breath catches in my throat as he presses his thumb against the handle. A soft beep, the quiet click of the lock disengaging.
Then, finally, he turns.
His piercing gaze rakes over me, slow and unreadable. For a second, I swear I see something there—desire? frustration? My heart jumps, desperate for any sign that he feels what I feel.
Then it shifts, it’s gone. His expression hardens, Like a mask slipping into place, eyes turning sharp, detached,cold.
A blush creeps up my neck beneath his scrutiny, but it no longer feels like warmth. It feels likeexposure. Like I’ve laid myself bare, only for him to turn away. Without a word, he takes the painting from my arms.
He steps inside, turning toward me slightly.
“If you’re looking to spend time with someone, call Luca.”
The door shuts in my face.
The lock clicks.
I stand there, frozen.
Confusion and heartbreak tangle inside me, squeezing my chest so tightly it’s hard to breathe.What just happened?
For a moment, I stay rooted to the spot, hoping—foolishly—that the door will open again. That he’ll realize what he’s done. That he’ll come back to me. But the silence stretches, pressing down like a weight.
He’s not coming back.
My arms feel empty without the painting. My bodyfeelswrong in the dress I wore just for him.
