Page 90 of Ruin
When she shakes her head no but keeps sobbing, rage returns as possibilities flip through my mind like a deck of cards. Is she crying because she let Antonio touch her? Did she fuck him tonight and doesn’t want to tell me? Was it the guy who put his hands on her? Did he hurt her?
I try to turn her so I can look at her, but she stays balled up and cries harder. Icy fury spikes through my veins. My Gi rarely cries. I’m going to have to kill whoever fucking did this to her.
“Tell me, Gi. Tell me, baby. I’ll—”
“Why weren’t you there?” It’s hard to understand her at first. “You lied to me. You said you would be there, and you didn’t come. And when I texted you, you didn’t answer. I needed you. I was all alone with my parents, pretending I’m fine. I’m always pretending I’m fine. But I’m not fucking fine, Tommy. I’m alone. You abandoned me tonight. You abandon me in this relationship.”
When I realize what she’s saying, I close my eyes. Fuck. The guy I’m going to have to kill for hurting her is me.
“Gi, work got complicated, and I couldn’t just leave. By the time we got it handled, I had to come home and shower then it took me a minute to find you and—”
She shoves me back, eyes blazing, and I let her. “You shouldn’t have gone to work! You should have been with me. WITH ME!”
“Hey. Hey, sweet girl.” I brush the back of my hand along her cheek to wipe the tears away, and she smacks me away. “What did we talk about before I left?”
“What?” she snaps.
“Marriage, babies. I need to—”
“You’re not sorry, are you.” Her tone is flat. It’s not a question. She knows I’m not sorry. Everything I do is for her, and I’ll never stop.
When I don’t answer, she rolls away and I lean my forehead against her back, pulling her close, curving my body around hers.
Because no matter how much she hates me tonight, she’s still mine. Always mine.
36
Giovanna
The restaurant hums with conversation, silverware clinking against porcelain, warm light fractured by the chandeliers and candle holders. It’s fall, and Tommy sits across from me at dinner, gorgeous in the navy suit I had made for him. It’s working on him, but there’s something about it that seems wrong, that I can’t quite put my finger on.
He looks comfortable, like he belongs here. He responds to the wait staff with pleasant smiles, makes eye contact with people he knows, giving a friendly wave when it’s appropriate. Gone is the guy who used to fidget uncomfortably, wanting to leave, the guy who used to stare at me because he couldn’t bear to look away, who barely grunted if he spoke at all to those who tried to make pleasantries.
He’s sharper than he was, more polished. His lack of presence with me is making me very fucking uncomfortable. When Paisley Wallace, a real estate investor, sees Tommy from across the room, she makes a beeline for him, and he smiles at her without the usual groan under his breath orglance of irritation at me.
“Tommy,” she says, laying her hand on his arm like they’re best friends. “I heard you were the one who cracked that zoning loophole for the councilman. Brilliant.”
Tommy tips his head, his smile growing in a way that makes my stomach twist. Smooth. Easy. “You give me too much credit. Donovan saw it first.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Tommy.” She laughs, soft and practiced and leans just close enough that her cloying perfume coils around our table. He doesn’t pull away, which I don’t like. Instead, he leans back, relaxed, his eyes bright while she glances at me as if to include me in the ‘how cute is he’ energy she’s sending him. I do not smile back.
The most irritating thing? He’s fucking lying. I’m the one who sat up late with him, spread out maps and codebooks, watched him put the pieces together. It wasn’t Donovan. It was Tommy.
Even worse, there are zero tells. I only know he’s lying because I was there. I know Tommy better than anyone, and I honestly cannot tell that he’s lying.
The air between them hums with a subtle charge. There’s professionalism, but it’s laced with something else, something spicy. His tone is too warm, her smile too familiar.
I wait for him to shut it down, to redirect, to remember I’m sitting here. But he doesn’t. He plays the game perfectly, as if this woman is the only person at the table.
I press my nails into my palms.
This is what I taught him. This is the skill set he needed to be successful. So why do I feel like I want to slam her face into the table and throw my drink in his lap?
When she finally leaves, a hand lingering on his shoulder,Tommy turns back to me, unbothered, with that same smile, that weird fake smile that lacks the depth of intensity in his eyes that made me fall in love with him.
He is trying to read my expression. “She just wants something from Donovan. It’s not a big deal.”
“She wasn’t looking at you like she wanted zoning favors.” My voice is sharper than I intend.
