Page 39 of Ruins
A framed photo.
It’s of me. Dressed in my favorite yellow dress.
My breath stills.
That photo was on my phone.
I school my expression quickly, but it’s too late. Santo catches my reaction. His throat bobs as he clears it, a fraction too late.
“Your father left that behind,” he says.
He’s lying.
The photo wasneverprinted. Never shared. It was on the phone Luca took.
“Oh. Okay,” I murmur, stepping back—from the desk, fromhim.
Santo watches me for a moment longer before lowering himself back into his chair. He picks up his pen and returns to his notes, as if the moment never happened. “I should get back to work.”
I nod, hesitating at the door even though I’ve clearly been dismissed. I should leave. And yet, something in me lingers.
I steal one last glance over my shoulder, but Santo doesn’t look up. His focus remains on his notepad, his pen moving in smooth, practiced strokes.
My future husband is a contradiction. A man who carves initials into glass like a lover and steals photos like a thief.
I’ll unravel the mysteries of Santo Amato after the wedding.
Chapter 9
Santo
Grandgesturesarenotmy thing, I don’t date women; I don’t bring them home to meet family, I’m never exclusive.
I meet a woman, we fuck for a few weeks and I move on.
Keeping a woman is a liability, a responsibility and a weakness, one that my enemies would use against me. Now, I’m forced to take a wife, one that I thought I could easily keep in my fortress of a home, and that I could have followed by guards if she wanted to go out. We would make appearances when needed and she would then be safely tucked away, no affection, no love, no fairy tales, no weakness.
Instead, I get Vasilisa. I read her file, she’s young, trained, dutiful and knows the rules of being part of this life. What wasn’t in the file is that she and I have things in common, she’s smart, she likes books, art and she’sbreathtakinglybeautiful up close.
But she lacks the softness of rounded curves that line a woman’s body, the bountiful breast and the voluptuous ass that comes with a fuller figure; one that could handle a man like me and knows it’s nothing more than physical, no love, no expectations, no marriage,no happily ever after.
Vasilisa is the opposite of that. She’s small, breakable, vulnerable, and full ofhope.
Those eyes, like ice shimmering under sunlight, searing into mine with interest and an unspoken longing for a prince.
I wanted her.
Iwanther.
Her texts replay in my mind. The endless stream of photos—dresses, bouquets, shoes—each one paired with a quiet hope that I’d respond.
And I did, against my better judgment.
Just a few words here and there. Beautiful. Elegant. Stunning. I told myself it meant nothing. That I was humoring her, keeping things civil.
But it wasn’t nothing.
Each photo was a glimpse into her world, a world I’d soon be a part of, whether I wanted to or not. And with every response I sent, I felt her pulling me closer, breaking through the walls I’d built around myself. She’s supposed to be just a name on a contract, but now she’s becoming real—too real.
