Page 36 of Ruins
‘Sleep well.’
It’s the first time he’s texted without me sending a message first.
This is strange territory—planning to marry someone I barely know, wrestling with the idea of sharing a life with him. But each text from Santo feels like an outreached hand, a small gesture telling me it’s alright to take the leap. And with each day that passes, I find myself more willing to grab onto it.
I decide to take a leap when my father mentions the retirement party set for this morning. It’s a Monday—early in the week and early in the day, so Santo is certain to be there. Maybe we can talk in person, despite his initial insistence that we not meet before the wedding. His texts say otherwise. They have sparked something in me, a small hope that maybe he wouldn’t mind seeing me there after all.
I choose an off-the-shoulder pink dress, one of my favorites because of the way its skirt flows gracefully with every step. It feels like me—soft and a little romantic—a far cry from the tight dress and smoky makeup Luna coaxed me into at the club. She meant well, but that bold look felt like an act, and today, I want Santo to see me as I am.
I pin my hair half up and go lighter on makeup—I want him to see my face today, not one hidden under layers. Finally, I slip on my highest heels, a necessity now given how tall Santo is. My shorter frame would look even more prominent without a little boost.
With a steadying breath, I smooth my dress and glance at my reflection one last time. My heart thrums with nerves, but I push them aside. It’s just a meeting. A conversation.
And yet, as I reach for the door, my fingers tighten around the handle, the weight of what I’m about to do settling deep in my chest.
I exhale slowly.I’m ready for this.I have to be.
With that, I head downstairs, determined to speak with my groom face-to-face.
Chapter 8
Vasilisa
Theofficeshoutsagroup greeting as we walk in, everyone happy to see my father, clapping his back and shaking his hand. My mother immediately goes into her role of perfect wife, never leaving my father’s side. My sister makes a beeline for the appetizers, and I scan the room for Santo, but I don’t see him anywhere. Slipping away from the crowd, I trail through the halls, my gaze catching on my father’s old office—only now, the name on the door isn’t his.Santo Amato.
I hesitate on whether I should knock or not but decide against it and simply open the door.
Santo is seated behind a sleek, large glass desk with metal drawers attached. The city skyline forms a striking backdrop behind him. He’s focused on something he's scribbling on a notepad, partially hidden by his computer monitor, and doesn’t notice me enter. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and his tie is loosened, giving him a relaxed yet undeniably sexy look. A tendril of hair falls into his face from his otherwise perfectly tousled style, and his strong jaw is shadowed with stubble.
My eyes linger a second too long.
“Are you going to keep staring, or do you plan to say something?” Santo’s voice cuts through the silence, his eyes still on the notepad.
I choke back a response, unaware that he even noticed me. “I just wanted to get away from the crowd. I didn’t think anyone would be in here,” I lie, forcing my voice to stay even.
His stormy gray eyes flick up to meet mine. My breath catches. A smirk tugs at his lips.
“Well, surprise. I’m here.”
I feel like prey under a predator’s gaze, but I refuse to let him see that. Keeping my movements unhurried, I walk toward the bookcase, running my fingers casually over the spines. I recognize quite a few titles.
“You have an extensive collection,” I murmur, tilting my head slightly. “Do you actually read them?”
Santo leans back in his chair, his eyes still following my movements, “I do.”
His voice, smooth and deep, reaches my ears and sends a thrill down my body.
“Tolstoy is a favorite of mine,” I say, sliding the book from the shelf.
“One loves because one loves. To reason about it is to destroy everything,” Santo says quietly.
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face as my fingers brush over the worn book. “You read Anna Karenina?”
“I have,” he replies, his gaze never wavering. “You seem surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” I manage, my voice softer than I intend. “Just… impressed.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his face a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “Why?”
