Page 251 of Ruin My Life
One email. No subject. No sender. Encrypted.
Exactly like the one Matthias O’Doyle got.
But the moment I open it—
I know exactly who it’s from.
Damon,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m not there to tell you myself—and whatever the reason, know it wasn’t by choice. I knew from the start this plan would be dangerous, but I had to try. To do something—anything—to keep you safe. This was my fault, after all.
I know you probably have a thousand questions, but most of them won’t matter now if I’m not there to answer them. What does matter is this: I’m sorry—for the timing of our lives crossing, for the way I crashed into the quiet you’d finally carved out for yourself. I should have trusted you when it came to Alexander, but I was blind back then.
You made everything clear.
I used to wonder what the point of surviving was. I thought it was revenge. But you showed me it was more than that. You live for something bigger—for people who’ve never known kindness, for those no one else sees. You make the world less cruel for the ones who deserve a softer place to land—and even for a few who don’t.
I want to do the same. I want what happened to me to mean something good. And if I can’t do that myself anymore, then this is the next best thing.
Please… fix The Speakeasy. Rebuild it. Let it become something grand—something that saves more lives than we ever could alone. And when you stand in that new building, when you see someone smile for the first time in years, I want you to see my smile too. I want you to smile back.
Don’t drown in guilt. Don’t blame yourself for my absence. I made the choices that led me here—and I’ll carry those consequences myself. I know you’ll lie with them for a while, too. You’ll mourn what we could have had. But promise me you’ll get up off the floor.
Even love stories have to end. I’m sorry ours had to end before it could really begin.
But thank you—for reminding me what love could feel like.
Always,
Your little rose.
My jaw tightens so hard I could snap the bone in two.
The moment I reach the bottom of the email, my phone dings again. An e-transfer—
Foreight million dollars.
My breath locks in my throat.
I look up at Lola, my mouth opening, then closing. The only word that slips out is: “How?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her arms fold across her chest, her eyes flicking back toward the window—toward Brie. She doesn’t look for long. Almost like she can’t.
“She contacted me the night before you met with Matthias,” she says, her voice low. “Asked for a favour. It was all part of her plan to bribe him into submission. She handled the blackmail, and I got her the cash.”
I stare at her, not breathing.
“Apparently,” Lola goes on, “some asshole had been harassing her about selling her dad’s car collection since the day after he died. So when I showed up as her representative and said we’d sell if he could get me the cash in hand by morning—he practically drooled. I took my cut right away and transferred the rest to her so she could send it to Matthias along with her pre-written email.”
Of course she did. Of course she planned this far ahead. She always had backup plans—planned for more than I could ever see coming.
But this wasn’t just clever. This was sacrificial.
“She sold the cars,” I murmur.
But if that was just the first part—
I lift my eyes to Lola. “Where did the rest come from? And why the hell are you sending it to me?”
