Ruin Me Gently

Chapter 8

-London-

The air between us crackled—not with tension, but with the danger of something far more volatile. Desire sharpened like a blade. Trust, brittle. And beneath it all, the sickening ache of memory.

I leaned against the marble railing of the Brinchfort estate's upper terrace, watching her from behind. I didn't have a name for the feeling burning through my chest, but it had her face. Her voice. Her scent.

Lena was a fire I couldn't stop touching, even as it scorched every part of me.

Below, the garden lights cast a soft, deceptive glow on the evening's charity gala. My family's legacy on full display—gowns and diamonds, men with too-sharp smiles, champagne served like salvation. A perfect picture.

But all I could see was her.

Lena.

Or whatever her real name was.

I hadn't said it aloud, not yet. But the suspicion had taken root, growing wild and fast. The way she moved through the elite like she was born to it—and yet, somehow, didn't belong. The way she looked at me sometimes, like I was both prey and penance.

I needed to know.

And I needed her.

Downstairs, she held her mask with polished ease, smiling, laughing, swaying gently to the string quartet's rhythm. She had spent years learning how to weaponize charm—I could see it now. And tonight, it was her shield.

But something was off.

I hadn't approached her once tonight after what happened in our home. Not a lingering glance. Not a cutting tease. Not even one of those near-silent challenges we exchanged like gunfire.

I was too quiet.

Which meant I was watching.

She turned slowly and saw me exactly where I expected her to look—at the top of the terrace steps. Dark suit. Tie undone. Glass of whiskey untouched in my hand. And eyes that didn't hide the storm inside me anymore.

I descended the stairs without breaking eye contact.

Her breath caught before she could hide it.

"Miss Lena." My voice was lower tonight. Slower. "You're glowing."

"Must be the lighting," she replied coolly.

I studied her like she was a problem with only one solution—and I was still deciding if I wanted to solve her or break her.

"Or maybe you're just dangerous when you're winning," I added.

"And you'd know a thing or two about winning… wouldn't you, Brinchfort?"

Our smiles were all teeth now. The crowd buzzed around us, oblivious. Champagne flutes. Cigars. Careful gossip. And two ghosts orbiting each other with secrets pressed to our ribs like knives.

I leaned in. "Careful, Lena. You're starting to feel familiar."

The air vanished from her lungs.

But she didn't flinch.

Instead, she tilted her chin and whispered, "Maybe you're finally paying attention."

My hand found her waist—possessive, but not tender.

"You think you're clever."

"I know I am."

We stood too close for civility. Too far for forgiveness.

"You remind me of someone," I said. "Years ago. Back at Ravensward."

She froze. Only for a second.

That was all it took.

I noticed.

"Maybe I've just got one of those faces," she offered lightly.

"No," I said. "You've got her face."

The music shifted. The lights dimmed a little. And the night coiled tighter.

She needed to move. To say something cruel. Walk away. I could see it in her eyes—anything but stay trapped under my stare.

But the old rhythm pulled at her. The memory of me. Of us.

I stepped even closer. My breath warm on her ear. "Who are you, really?"

The question wasn't playful this time.

It was an accusation.

And a prayer.

Before she could answer, a shrill chime interrupted the moment. My phone.

I looked down. The color drained from my face.

My father's name lit the screen.

A news alert followed, bright and cold:

"Controversial Brinchfort image resurfaces in leaked documents. Whistleblower claims embezzlement tied to family estate—more to come."

Her blood ran ice-cold—I could see it in her face.

The photo. The one she'd leaked. It was supposed to be buried in bureaucracy longer. She wasn't ready—not yet.

I looked at her, something dark dawning behind my eyes.

"You knew about this," I said slowly. "Didn't you?"

"What are you talking about?" Her voice faltered.

"Don't lie to me now."

I stormed past her, moving like something had snapped. She followed on instinct—half-guilt, half panic.

"London—"

I whirled on her.

"My mother's in tears. My father's threatening to sue half the city. And somehow you're right here… right now… the exact night this comes out?"

"Coincidence," she whispered.

I laughed. Bitter. Hollow.

"No such thing."

She didn't answer.

Because I was right.

Because part of her wanted me to hurt.

And part of her didn't.

That war—the one she thought she could control—had just turned on her.

*****

Hours later, in the back of my private car, I gripped my jaw so tightly I thought it might crack. My phone kept buzzing—my mother, the family lawyer, the firm's board. All asking the same thing: What the hell is going on?

And all I could picture… was her.

The way her voice shook. The flash of fear in her eyes when the headline hit. Not fear for herself.

Fear for me.

God help me, but that almost broke me.

Could it really be her?

Could it be Sable?

I whispered her name into the silence.

And the car kept driving toward a truth I wasn't sure I wanted to find.