Page 70 of The Art of Ruin

I’d shifted my weight subtly, keeping my movements efficient so they wouldn’t notice the way my body had already started to tighten against it and gone to bed early, hoping rest might take the edge off it. It hadn’t, and I should have known better, but hope is a strong motivator for ignorance.

By morning, the ache had sharpened into something heavier, deeper, the kind of pain that doesn’t spike so much as build, layering itself until it becomes impossible to separate from anything else. My back had started to join in, with a slow, dragging pull that made standing upright feel like work, and the exhaustion that came with it had settled in just as quickly, thick and unrelenting in a way sleep never quite fixes.

The short drive home had been torture, taking far longer than it should have. I had to keep stopping because sitting upright behind the wheel for too long made the cramping unbearable. Thankfully, my friends understood why I’d cut our visit short, having watched me struggle through college. Getting home late last night had been a relief.

I’d stood in the bathroom for a long time, staring at my reflection, trying to decide whether I could push through it. Whether I could get on a plane, smile through it, keep moving, and go on this trip to Aspen. I’d pushed through before. Jasper hated it when my period pain, as he called it, disrupted our plans.

But the thought of being trapped in that kind of pain somewhere unfamiliar, surrounded by people I was still trying to keep a careful distance from, had been enough to tip the decision the other way.

So I’d texted Isabella. She knew about my condition, but I didn’t want to worry her, so I kept it simple. Vague enough not to invite questions.

I think I’m coming down with something. Probably better I sit this one out so I don’t pass it on.

It wasn’t a lie, exactly.

Just not the truth.

Now, hours later, I’m curled on the couch in the annex with the heating pad pressed low against my stomach, the steady warmth the only thing taking the edge off the deeper ache that keeps tightening and releasing in slow, deliberate waves.

I’ve shifted positions more times than I can count, trying to find something that feels manageable, but nothing lasts for long. Sitting hurts. Standing is worse. Lying down works until it doesn’t, and then I’m back to adjusting again, chasing a version of comfort that never quite settles.

A mug of tea sits on the coffee table in front of me, long since gone cold. I’d meant to drink it. I just haven’t had the energy to reach for it.

The quiet in here is different from the rest of the house, softer, more contained, but today it feels heavier, like it’s pressing in rather than wrapping around me. I listened to the faint movements from the main house earlier—doors, voices, the rhythm of people coming and going—but it’s faded now.

They’ve left.

The thought sits somewhere in the back of my mind, dull and distant.

I should feel something about that. Relief, maybe. Instead, all I feel is tired and alone and slightly weepy.

Another wave rolls through, deeper this time, and I close my eyes, focusing on breathing through it, steady and controlled, waiting for it to pass rather than fighting it. My hand presses instinctively against my abdomen, grounding more than helping, but it’s habit at this point.

This is familiar, although that doesn’t make it easy. It just means I know how long it might last.

I shift slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around myself, and for a moment I let my head fall back against the cushion, eyes still closed, letting the heat seep in where it can.

The knock comes just as I start to drift.

Firm, measured, confident.

Close enough that it pulls me back immediately.

For a second, I don’t move; my brain slow to catch up with the sound, trying to place it.

The internal door. Not the main entrance.

Which can only mean—Adriano.

I sit up too quickly, the movement sending a sharper spike of pain through my lower abdomen that makes me suck in a breathbefore I can stop it. “Just a second,” I call out, my voice not quite as steady as I want it to be.

I push myself upright, swinging my legs off the couch and pressing my hand briefly against the armrest as I wait for the dizziness to pass. The room tilts slightly, then settles, and I take a slow breath, straightening as much as I can.

You’re fine. Just answer the door.

I smooth a hand over my hair, then immediately regret the effort when another wave of pain follows the movement, deeper and slower this time, forcing me to pause again.

This is exactly why you didn’t go.