Page 42 of His Savage Ruin
"Delivery from Signor Romano," the older woman says. Her voice is polite, professional, empty of warmth. She doesn't look at me directly—her gaze skitters past my shoulder, lands somewhere near the window, anywhere but my face and this bothers me.
My stomach clenches. "Where are the other women?"
Her mouth compresses into a thin line.
"They no longer work here,signora."
I grip the back of the sofa, and guilt twists sharp in my chest because I know exactly what happened—they lost their jobs because I stole those keys, and now two women who were just doing their jobs are paying for my choices.
I should have known there would be consequences, should have realized Matteo would find out eventually and someone would take the blame. "I see." The words scrape out, catching on guilt that tastes like copper.
They finish their work in silence. No small talk, just efficiency and careful distance. They know what happened to the others. They don't want to be next in line. I get it, I really do.
When they leave, I sink onto the sofa and press my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my eyelids.
The shopping bags sit untouched for several minutes while I try to breathe through the nausea churning in my gut. Finally, I force myself to go over to the bags.
Silk scarves in jewel tones. Cashmere sweaters soft enough to melt between my fingers. Shoes that probably cost more than those maids made in a month.
I should be grateful, probably. Should appreciate that Matteo's providing for me.
But all I feel is sick.
I move toward the bags slowly, sorting through tissue paper and designer labels with hands that still haven't stopped shaking. A dress the color of midnight. Lingerie so delicate it's nearly transparent. More things I don't need and didn't ask for.
And then I see it.
A pearl. Catching the light wrong, gleaming white against dark fabric.
My wedding earring.
My hand freezes midreach. That's not possible. These deliveries came from boutiques.
Not from the Moretti house, let alone from my old room, my vanity.
My pulse hammers in my wrists as I lift the pearl with trembling fingers. The weight is exactly as I remember—heavy with memory, cold against my palm. I know this earring the way I know my own face. Lorenzo gave them to me on our wedding day, pressed the box into my hands with that smile that never reached his eyes.
"Something borrowed from my mother," he'd said. "She wore them on her wedding day too. Now they're yours."
What he meant was: Now you belong to us. Now you're Moretti property, marked and claimed.
I'd worn them exactly once. Taken them off the moment we reached the hotel room and never touched them again until now.
How did they get here? Who went to the Moretti house, into my old room, and took these from my jewelry box? And more importantly—why?
Beneath the earring, half-hidden in tissue paper, there is a white envelope.
My name is written across the front in a looping script I don't recognize.
I shouldn’t open it. Whatever's inside, it's nothing good. I must walk away.
But my fingers are already tearing the seal before my brain finishes forming the thought.
The paper inside is heavy, expensive. The kind of stationery wealthy people use when they want their words to carry weight. I unfold it with hands that shake so badly the edges rattle.
Interesting that you claim to be pregnant when you've never even slept with your husband. Some secrets are harder to keep than others. We should talk soon. — A friend
The note slips from my fingers.
