Page 101 of The Art of Ruin

“Out?” I echo.

“To the ski lodge,” she clarifies. “Hot chocolate, comfortable seats, and a perfect view of the slopes so we can pretend we’re participating without actually doing any of the work.”

I smile, already nodding. “That sounds ideal.”

“I thought you might say that.”

The ski lodgeis exactly what it promises to be.

Warmth hits like a blanket as we enter through the heavy wooden doors, followed quickly by the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the soft scrape of chairs against wooden floors. Large windows line the far wall, giving a clear view of the slopes beyond, where figures move in sweeping lines across the snow, the brightness of it almost too much to look at directly. It’s like every ski lodge I’ve ever seen in a movie. I’ve never been to Colorado or even skied before. Jasper hated the cold, so he only ever booked hot destinations when we went away.

We find a table near the window, tucked just far enough away from the main flow that it feels like a small pocket of space rather than part of the crowd. We place our order for hot chocolate; Isabella’s laced with Irish Cream and mine with extra whip. Much as I’d love to spike mine, alcohol so soon after a flare is unwise.

“This is nice, just being able to relax and people-watch.”

I turn to Isabella with a warm grin. “Do you remember how much gossip we picked up by doing this in the student bar?”

“Oh my God, that was how we discovered Jilly Sanders was sleeping with Corey Marshall behind her sister’s back.”

I slap my hand over my mouth, a laugh bubbling out. “Oh shit, yes. And that Trevor Martin was sleeping with his professor for grades.” I laugh a full belly laugh, the heavy weight that has been on my shoulders these last few weeks lifting. “Good times.”

Isabella smiles. “The best.”

By the time the hot chocolate arrives—thick, rich, topped with so much cream it drips down the side—I feel more like myself than I have in days.

“I’ve missed this version of you,” Isabella says, watching me over the rim of her cup.

I raise an eyebrow. “The version that can sit upright without looking like I’m about to collapse?”

“Exactly that one.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“But also the carefree one, the less guarded one.”

My smile dims at her words, not because I’m angry, but because I hate that I let a man change me. “I felt really bruised after finding out about Jasper’s lies. I just needed time to lick my wounds and heal a bit.”

“I get that. What he did to you is disgusting, and he should have his balls cut off.”

A laugh breaks free despite the topic not being one I want to discuss. “You’ve been hanging around with Nico too much.”

Isabella quirks a brow. “True story, but on this I actually agree with him.”

“Well, as nice as that sounds, you can put your blades away. I’m doing a lot better.”

“Good,” she replies lightly, but her gaze lingers for a second longer. “You look better.”

“I feel better,” I say, and this time I don’t have to think about it.

She nods once, satisfied, before leaning forward slightly, curiosity threading into her expression. “And?” she asks. “How was he?”

I blink. “How was who?”

“Adriano,” she says, like it’s obvious.

I let out a quiet breath, my gaze dropping briefly to the swirl of chocolate in my cup before I look back at her. “He was… a lot,” I admit.

“Casey,” she whines, “that tells me nothing. I want details. So spill it.”