Ruin Me Gently

Chapter 4

-Sable-

The room pulsed with low jazz and soft chatter, a lullaby for the elite. Candlelight shimmered off golden cutlery, and behind my champagne glass, I studied London across the table—just slightly off-center from where I sat. Close enough to touch. Far enough to keep mystery intact.

He didn't recognize me. Not truly. Not yet.But he couldn't stop looking.

"Tell me again what your name was?" he asked the woman I'd become—Lena Volkova. I'd whispered it into his ear at the last gala, licking secrets between my lips like candy, and left him hungry.

I dedicated my time to being wherever he was.

"Lena," I said again, slowly, letting it melt on my tongue. "Like the goddess."

London smirked. "You don't seem the divine type."

I tilted my head, mouth curling. "You'd be surprised."

Our eyes caught—his were fire and restraint; mine, ice and ignition. A server passed by. Another glass of champagne appeared at my elbow. I barely noticed.

What mattered was that London was leaning closer, elbows on the white linen table, gaze narrowed in fascination. He hadn't done that with anyone else tonight.

And I'd made sure of that.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked again, voice a little lower now. Less guarded.

It was working.

I leaned in too, lips brushing the rim of my glass, the scent of rose perfume swirling between us like a spell. "Maybe in another life."

"Or the one I can't remember," he murmured.

He was joking. But my spine stiffened. If only he knew.

Across the ballroom, Delilah Prescott—London's on-and-off fiancée—watched from a corner, drink clutched too tightly in her manicured hand. I had greeted her earlier with a honeyed smile and a compliment about her heels. The woman had looked confused. Then suspicious.

Good. Let the cracks spread.

I was playing a long game. And this time, the pieces moved how I told them to.

Later, beneath the moon-drenched terrace of the Prescott estate, I found him again.

Or rather—he followed me.

"You disappeared," he said, stepping into my shadow.

"I needed air," I replied, watching the fog of my breath curl and vanish.

"You always need something," London said. "But I don't know what it is."

He was too close. I let him be. The air between us was tight with memory neither of us dared name.

"Do you chase all the women you meet once?" I teased.

He didn't smile. "No. Only the ones who make me want to remember things I'm not supposed to."

My heart did a slow, traitorous flip.

London stepped closer. He reached up, brushing my wind-tossed hair behind my ear with a gentleness that didn't belong in a man like him. "There's something about you, Lena."

I tilted my chin up, eyes on his. "What about me?"

"I don't know. Maybe that's what drives me crazy."

I was about to respond—something cutting, something clever—but he kissed me.

His mouth pressed against mine like a question he didn't expect to be answered. I hesitated just long enough to feel powerful, then kissed him back. Deep, slow, claiming.

For a second—just one—I forgot I hated him.

Then his hands slipped around my waist, tugging me in, and memory came rushing back. His betrayal. His lies. His cold back the night everything fell apart.

So I let the kiss grow darker.

I bit his bottom lip just enough to make him groan.

"You should be careful," I whispered against his mouth. "You don't know me."

He laughed. "That's half the thrill."

He kissed me again.

And I kissed him like the enemy he was—slow and beautiful and doomed.