Page 132 of Ruins
He shifts slightly. “NovaRael. Working on some file or something.”
His words are vague, but I can feel the weight of them. He knows more.
Romeo watches me closely as I continue cleaning my brushes, then—out of nowhere—“How old are you?”
I chuckle, raising a brow. “No one ever told you not to ask a lady her age?”
His eyes widen in realization, and he stumbles over an apology.
I laugh, waving him off. “I’m kidding. I’m twenty. How old are you?”
“Same,” he smirks. “Mr. Amato is a lucky guy.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Be sure to tellhimthat next time you see him.”
“Trouble in paradise?” Romeo probes, his smirk lingering.
I don’t answer. Instead, I grab my canvas and stride toward the library doors.
Romeo follows, not deterred in the slightest, carefully taking the painting from my hands. “Be careful, Mrs. Amato,” he scolds gently.
That’s it.
I throw my hands up, exasperated. “Vasi!”
Romeo chuckles as we make our way down the stairs to my bedroom. When we reach the door, I push it open and step inside—only to realize he hasn’t followed me.
Turning back, I find him standing in the hallway, shifting uneasily.
“Get in here!” I huff, gesturing for him to enter.
He shakes his head. “I can’t just walk into the boss’s room.”
I blink at him. “Good thing this is my room then.”
Still, he doesn’t move. Instead, he grips my canvas tighter, like he’s debating running in the other direction.
“Yeah, the room you share with Mr. Amato,” Romeo says carefully. “I’d rather not die today.”
A sharp, bitter laugh escapes me.
“No, this ismyroom.” I gesture toward myself, then motion outside the hall. “Your boss sleeps somewhere over there.”
Romeo’s mouth opens—then closes. His expression shifts, realization dawning.
“Separate rooms?” He stares at me like I’ve just shattered some sacred truth. “He lets you have separate rooms?”
My laugh is humorless.
“Lets?”I echo, arching a brow. “No. He requested it.”
Romeo’s gaze drags over me, slowly, his eyes shamelessly drinking me in.
“To be away fromyou?” His voice is laced with disbelief.
I force a casual shrug, pretending it doesn’t sting. Pretending I haven’t spent too many nights questioning why. Like I don’t feel the sting of rejection every night when I lie alone, wondering if he regrets marrying me at all.
He hesitates for a beat longer before finally stepping inside, breaking that invisible line. It’s small, but it feels like a win.
