Page 44 of The Art of Ruin

“That compromises the dignity of the species.”

Letty gasps loudly enough to suggest genuine offense. “No, it doesn’t.”

“It absolutely does.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

Casey presses a hand against her chest. “I learned from the best.”

Letty dissolves into laughter, falling sideways onto the rug hard enough that crayons scatter in every direction.

The sound fills the space differently lately. Warmer somehow. Less careful.

Casey laughs too, and for a second, I catch a glimpse of the version Isabella described before she arrived here. The woman who teased easily, and who apparently informed Matteo he had “the energy of a rich raccoon” within ten minutes of meeting him.

Then she notices me standing there.

The smile disappears almost immediately, not forced away exactly, but tucked back behind something more measured.

I’ve started noticing how often she does that.

“Daddy,” Letty says the second she spots me over Casey’s shoulder. “Casey says dragons need dignity.”

“She’s right.”

Casey snorts softly under her breath before she can stop herself.

I step fully onto the patio.

“You’re home early,” she says, already smoothing her expression back into professionalism.

There’s that shift again, the subtle withdrawal that happens whenever attention settles too directly on her. I’d started noticing it several days ago, mostly because it seemed instinctive rather than deliberate, as though some part of her no longer trusts comfort enough to remain inside it for very long.

“Earlier than expected,” I reply.

Letty climbs onto her knees and shoves a drawing toward me. “Look.”

The dragon is aggressively purple.

“It looks dangerous.”

“It breathes lightning.”

“Of course it does.”

“Casey said fire was overdone.”

Casey immediately looks offended. “I said fire lacked originality.”

Letty points triumphantly. “See?”

I look between them, my attention catching briefly on the tiara still sitting slightly crooked in Casey’s hair. She either hasn’t noticed it or Letty insisted it stay there.

Neither possibility feels entirely normal in my chest.

I hand the drawing back to Letty. “Go wash your hands for dinner.”

“I’m not dirty.”