Page 121 of The Art of Ruin

“Months. They were living together in this perfect little alternate life.”

His expression changes, turns dangerous.

“And what was worse was that other people knew,” I add, quieter now. “His partners. Friends. People I’d had dinner with. People I’d smiled at. My old boss knew, too. She let me stand there like an idiot while everyone else knew I was being lied to.”

That’s the part that still burns.

Not Jasper cheating on me, though God knows that was shitty, but the lies and the humiliation.

The room was full of people who chose his comfort over kindness to me.

“I think that was worse,” I admit. “Realizing how many people were willing to let me be humiliated because telling the truth would have been inconvenient for them all.”

Adriano sets the glass down very carefully and turns to me. “No one who respected you would have allowed that,” he says.

I swallow. “I know.”

“No,” he says, turning toward me now, his voice still quiet but carrying something fierce beneath it. “You know it logically. That’s different from believing it. He’s a disgusting piece of shit who never deserved you, and anyone who protected him is as bad.”

I look at him.

He’s angry. Angry in a way that sits under his skin and makes him look almost frightening.

But it isn’t directed at me, and that undoes me.

Having someone furious on my behalf makes me feel seen.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he says. “Not the lies. Not the humiliation. Not being made to feel foolish for trusting the wrong person.”

My eyes sting, which is deeply inconvenient and absolutely not what I intended for this conversation. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” I say, because my voice is starting to betray me.

“Then we won’t.”

Just like that, he drops the conversation. No pushing, no demand for more.

I breathe out slowly, trying to steady myself.

For a while, we just sit there, close enough that his knee almost touches mine, the fire throwing light over his face, the year ending somewhere around us while neither of us moves to acknowledge it.

Eventually, I set the plate on the table and stand. “I should go to bed.”

He rises too. “I’ll walk you.”

“It’s literally down the hall.”

“I know.”

I don’t argue.

The hallway is dim, the sounds from outside muffled now, the lodge wrapped in that strange New Year’s hush where everyone else seems to be somewhere brighter, louder, drunker.

Neither of us speaks as we walk to my door.

I stop with my hand on the handle, suddenly too aware of him beside me. “Thank you,” I say.

“For the sandwich?”

“For being there for me.”