Rebuilding Ruins (BOOK 1)

1. NEW BEGINNINGS

THREE MONTHS LATER

ANGEL ROSE

I spot my high‑school friend Camille beaming at the airport; we’d been chatting online, and when I said I needed a fresh start she offered me a job at her flower shop. I jumped at the chance, even though it meant moving to a new city—away from Carl, whose presence had become suffocating. Now I’m here, ready for a new chapter.

“My goodness, Cami! It feels like forever since I’ve seen you,” I say, crushing her in a bone‑crushing hug.

“I know, right?” she replies, squeezing back. It’s exactly what I need.

I fled the marital home a month after Carl’s parents’ anniversary, when he left divorce papers on the kitchen counter like a bad birthday present. Convinced he’d blocked me—calls vanished and his office stayed shut—I couldn’t sign, fearing it meant admitting defeat and moving back to my mother’s.

Instead, I plotted a dramatic exit: a brief disappearance, a fierce makeover, and a triumphant return meant to shock him. I’m now rebuilding mind, body and soul, having already tackled a strict diet, yet I still feel like a stranger in my own reflection, with confidence elusive as a ghost.

Now, with a new city as my runway and Camille’s flower shop as my backstage, I’m ready to turn the drama into a comedy of fresh starts—one petal at a time.

“Wow. You’ve changed,” Camille chirps as we finally untangle ourselves from the hug‑marathon. She snatches my suitcase like it’s a trophy and wheels it toward the exit, heels clicking like a marching band.

“I hope it’s in a good way,” I grin, trying to sound casual while my heart does a backflip.

“Trust me, it is,” she winks, flashing a smile that could power a small city.

“You pretty much still look the same. It’s hard to believe you have three kids,” I laugh, eyeing the tiny “World’s Best Mom” mug peeking out of her bag.

“You’ve got to stay hot, not just to keep hubby interested but also for yourself,” she teases, nudging me with her elbow.

“You sure look hot,” I reply, winking back.

“Really? Thanks,” she blushes, the color matching the roses on her shirt.

“I should start looking for an apartment. Know any places I can rent out?” I ask, already picturing a tiny loft with a balcony for my future plant army.

“I’ll need to ask around,” she says, popping the car trunk open with a flourish that would make a magician jealous.

“Just hope it only takes a few days for me to get one. You know how my mother is when she spots valuable stuff—she’ll snatch my jewelry and sell it until there’s nothing left,” I joke, hefting the suitcase into the trunk.

“You could move in with me,” she offers, eyebrows raised like she’s just handed me the golden ticket.

“Cami, I can’t,” I protest, shaking my head, while secretly rehearsing a dramatic “no, I’m too fabulous to be a roommate” speech.

She slams the trunk shut. “And why not?” she crosses her arms, the picture of mock‑sternness.

“You’re—” I start, but she cuts me off with a grin.

“My husband wouldn’t mind, trust me. Now come on,” she says, sliding into the driver’s seat and revving the engine like she’s about to race the sunrise.

I hop in, heart thumping to the beat of a cheesy 90s pop song only I can hear. Camille drives us to her place, where I sprint to the shower, devour the mystery casserole she’s prepared, and pretend not to notice the “nap” suggestion she drops like a gentle hint.

“Jet‑lagged? Nah, I’m just high on nostalgia,” I tell her, waving a forkful of food.

After lunch we swing by the flower shop. Her mom is behind the counter, chatting with a customer while a bouquet of daisies does a little happy dance in the breeze.

"“Hey there Angel Rose,” Hazel smiles at me.

“Mrs. Cohen,” I reply, flashing a grin.

“I’m still Hazel to you, darling,” she says, pulling me into a hug.

“You don’t look a day older than forty,” I tease.

“Blame it on the genes—look at my daughter over there, she doesn’t look a day past twenty,” Hazel adds, winking at Camille.

“Couldn’t agree with you more,” Camille and I giggle.

Hazel, Camille’s mother and the wife of politician Ronald Cohen, once caused a scandal by cheating on Camille’s dad, which made Camille a bullying target in high school; her friends vanished, and that’s how we became inseparable. After a few more laughs, Hazel leaves and Camille gives me a tour of her flower shop, mentioning a college student who helps part‑time.

The day flies by; we drive to Camille’s house, where she introduces me to her husband Michael and their three sons— they look like a perfect sitcom family, and I feel a pang of longing for my own. Later, Camille shares that they’re trying for another baby, hoping for a girl, and I smile at the sweet chaos.

THE WEEK RACES PAST, and I admit I love being back in my hometown. On Saturday I swing by my mother’s house, only to find she’s not there.

“Angel Rose?” I hear someone call. I look up to see Kaito, my mother’s neighbor, a spry Japanese‑old‑lady with a mischievous grin.

“Mrs. Mac Ealair,” I say, stepping down the porch steps toward her.

Kai insists I go over to hers for tea, where we spend the next hour catching up and feeding her hilarious parrots.

When my mother’s laugh drifts on the warm afternoon breeze, I hug Kaito goodbye, the porch’s perfume clinging to my skin, and head back outside, the taste of tea and tart still dancing on my tongue.

I’m heading toward the front door when I hear a chorus of moans and giggles spilling out of the house—sounds like two people getting it on and having fun while at it. I’ve walked in on this scene countless times while growing up; mom’d keep going as if I weren’t even there.

I knock, trying to drown out the disturbing sounds, but after a few taps there’s no answer.

I decide to wait on the porch, swinging my legs gently and watching the clouds paint the sky. About fifteen minutes later the front door finally swings open. A man steps out, followed by my mother, who is giggling at what the guy is whispering into her ear.

“See you later,” he says, planting a quick, mischievous peck on her lips that makes her smile despite herself.

“Will I see you… tonight?” Mom asks, lovingly straightening his collar.

“You bet. Now remember, I want you sober, so stay away from the—” He clears his throat, giving her knowing look.

Her smile flickers, then steadies. “It’s been weeks already, baby. I can do more.”

More? The word hangs, a knot in my throat. This is new. Mom’s been hooked on drugs since I was fourteen, after Dad bolted with his mistress. My dad never stopped being a part of my life—he’s just a plane ride away, and I grab any chance I get to swing by his place, even if it’s just for a quick coffee and a laugh before I’m back to my own life. My brother Jackson? He’s still bitter, never shows up.

Her friend leaves, and she finally sees me. “Angel Rose, what are you doing here?” She looks sober today, a relief after two years of silence.

“Hi, Mom. I’m doing good, hope you’re doing well, too,” I reply, sarcasm dripping.

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t catch it. “Your husband’s been calling nonstop. You need to go back now—let me call him.”

I panic. “He knows I’m here,” I lie, desperate to stop her from dialing Carl. I don’t want him hunting me down, demanding I sign those fate‑sealing papers.

She studies me a beat, then walks back into the house. I follow her, my heart racing with anxiety.

I knew it was only a matter of time before Carl started pressuring me into signing, so the moment his sleek‑dressed assistant showed up to collect his clothes in our home, I swapped the locks—because the only thing I’m signing is my exit from Splitville.

“You know, I thought Jennie was imagining things when she said she saw you at the flower shop a few days ago,” Mom says, eyes narrowed. “Why are you back in town? You’re supposed to be at home with your husband.”

“Carl doesn’t live at home anymore, Mom,” I reply, feeling the familiar sting of sarcasm rise.

“What do you mean he doesn’t live at home anymore, Angel Rose?” she c***s her head, the curiosity in her voice almost laughable.

“He has a mistress and an illegitimate child. He lives with them now.”

“You’re lying. Why are you lying?” she yells, pointing at me. What a drama queen. “That man loves you too much to do that to you.” She glares, as if Carl were her own son.

I shrug. “I thought so too, until he realized I was the reason we couldn’t have kids.”

I drift into the living room, sink onto the couch, grab the remote and switch on the TV, needing to distract myself from what I know is coming.

“Did he stop giving you money?” Mom asks, a hint of greed flickering in her eyes.

“Why do I keep forgetting that money is the only thing you care about?” I snap, shaking my head. She’d watch Carl beat me black and blue every day as long as the cash keeps flowing—money he’s still sending her, just like he has since we married.

Carl’s “care” for my family was a neat little insurance policy. Mom’s biggest fear? Losing that cash flow if I ever divorce him. What she doesn’t know is that I’m trying to keep that from happening too.

“I do care about you, Angel Rose, but that man is my source of income. You know that. If you stay here another day he might ask for a divorce, and that can’t happen,” she huffs.

“Then go get a job or something, Mom,” I retort.

“I raised you. The least you could do is stay with that man so I have everything I want,” she snaps, crossing her arms.

“I don’t know why I bothered coming here.” I stand, my feet already moving toward the door.

"You come back here, young lady,” she calls after me.

“And just so you know, he asked for a divorce,” I say, aiming for a Hollywood‑style slam of the hallway door—only a polite thud answers.

Guess I’ll have to enroll in Door‑Slamming 101 before my next grand exit.

“What? He asked for a divorce? No, no, no. This can’t be happening. You need to go back to him and get on your knees and beg him to take you back!” she follows, her voice wavering between authority and a whining.

“I’ll call him when I’m ready,” I reply, swinging the car door open.

“It better be soon. I’m only giving you time to make up your mind because the next time he calls, I’m going to tell him you’re here,” she warns as I slip into my car and drive off.

I knew she’d react this way the moment I told her everything that’s happened over the years, but it still hurts. She puts money before me, and that sting never really fades.

The road curves toward a lake where a car sits on the shore, surrounded by a noisy group of guys blasting music that shakes the water. Feeling like a sardine in a karaoke‑bar, I bolt for the quiet—my thoughts deserve a VIP seat!

I walk away from the booming speakers, find a big rock by the water, and sit down. The lake mirrors the sky, and for a moment I let the quiet swallow the drama.

I watch the scene before me, the late‑afternoon sun painting the lake gold, and I can’t help but wonder: will Carl want me back when he sees how much weight I’ve lost? I love my body just as it is—curves in all the right places—and I’m proud of the shape I’ve earned, I'm not a fan of being stick‑thin. I hope Carl remembers our love, gives our marriage another chance, and maybe even agrees to try a surrogate for a baby again.

A family of ducks waggles past, their feathers rippling the water’s surface. I start humming a tune, the melody drifting on the breeze, and before I know it I’m belting it out full‑throttle, as if an audience of strangers is watching. The lake seems to echo my voice, the ripples dancing to my rhythm.

A sudden throat clearing slices through the moment. I spin around to see a guy about my age, a bottle of alcohol clenched in his hand. He’s grinning, the same reckless energy that radiates from the crew I saw by the car blasting music.

“Hey,” he says, voice low but playful, “you’re the one making all that noise. Mind if I join?”

I raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, and reply, “Only if you can keep up with the chorus.”

“You’re really good at this, by the way,” he says, sliding onto the rock beside me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, feeling the heat rise.

“My name’s Mateo,” he stretches out his hand. I take it, and his grip is warm.

“Angel,” I reply.

“You surely sing like one. Where did you learn to sing like that?” he smirks, eyes twinkling.

“Thank you. My grandmother taught me,” I blush, the words tumbling out.

“My dad runs a bar downtown. You should come perform tonight,” he adds, leaning in conspiratorially.

“I’d love that,” I smile, my heart doing a little jazz solo.

We talk some more then I leave and head back to the house where I find it empty. I check my phone to see a text from Camille saying she and the boy are having dinner at her in‑laws’.

After finally opening up about my situation with Carl to Camille, she's finally given me space at her house, despite the “perfect” family atmosphere. Healing is a slow, messy process, especially when I’m surrounded by her “perfect” family.

In my room I take my time choosing the perfect song, then dress up in this gorgeous peach dress Carl bought for me in Paris and a pair of colorful heels, and drive to the bar feeling buzzed with possibility.

I’m standing on the edge of my confidence, ready to jump in. When Carl shows up and tries to hand me those papers a second time, I'll be ready—snatching the words right out of his mouth as if I were stealing the last slice of pizza.

“No way,” I'll say, eyes flashing, “you can take those papers back. I’m not signing anything until death do us part—​and even then, I’ll haunt you from the other side, wearing a superhero cape and demanding a rematch!"