The Art of Ruin (The Syndicate Legacy #2)

Prologue Casey

I fly in a few days early because I miss my boyfriend. Not the idea of him but the version of us that only exists when we’re in the same room.

Distance has sanded down something between us lately. Heat into routine. Touch into habit.

Later, when I replay what happened, I don’t try to hide from that knowledge.

We haven’t seen much of each other lately, what with both of us working so much, and I just wanted to reconnect and get us back to where we were.

I told him I was in New York for the week visiting my friend Isabella, and that’s partly true.

I was, but I’d left early to come home, knowing he’d never check my flight details.

Thanksgiving with Isabella and her new family, the Mancinis, was great, but seeing them together made me realize how desperately my own relationship needed some work.

That spark we’d had, that I saw so clearly between Isabella and Nico, was barely a flicker in my own relationship.

Networking dinners that go on too long mean we often miss each other when he’s working and I’m away, and I miss him.

He’d kissed me goodbye at LAX, his hands warm on my waist, and told me to text him when I landed.

His kiss was firm and deep, making my body flood with heavy tingles of desire.

It had been the first time in months that I felt that heart-racing excitement.

I smiled and promised I would, and that I’d see him in a week.

But three days later I’m sitting on the plane with my sunglasses pushed into my hair, and my fingers wrapped around a paper cup of bad coffee. I imagine the moment his door opens. The pause. The blink. The way his smile always comes half a second late, like he can’t quite believe I’m real.

I replay that feeling as the plane descends. It steadies me.

I’ve been gone too much lately. We’ve both felt it. Distance stretching things thin. I want to close it. I want to remind us what we are when we’re in the same room.

I rent a car, needing the freedom of my own transport, and drive with the windows down, the California sun brushing my bare arms. I flick my hair off my face at red lights, annoyed at how the curls refuse to behave in this heat.

I’m wearing linen pants, a soft white tank, flat leather sandals—comfortable, intentional.

The kind of outfit that says I belong in this city, even if I don’t. I’m not sure where I belong sometimes.

Moving around as a nanny has allowed me the freedom to see the world in a way most jobs don’t, especially when I have bosses like mine who treat me more like family than staff, but it’s also stopped me from putting down real roots.

I’m at the behest of what they want or plan.

I’m along for their ride, not my own. That was fun for a long time, but more and more lately, I feel the need to lay foundations of my own.

I stop at the Farmer’s Market because it’s Saturday and that’s what we do here.

We wander. We taste. We argue over whether heirloom tomatoes are worth the price.

He pretends not to care, then carries the bag like it’s some kind of treasure.

I want to get some of the strawberries he likes to go with the champagne I’d splurged on.

The market is loud and alive. Music drifting from somewhere.

Citrus stacked too perfectly, the scent of fruit mixing with the smell of artisan bread.

Dogs weaving between legs, making a person almost trip over.

I breathe it in, feeling that lightness I associate with weekends and ease and being someone’s person.

I’m reaching for strawberries when laughter reaches me and my body reacts before my mind does.

It’s a jolt. A sharp internal pull, like something has snagged inside my chest.

I look up, a smile already starting to form on my lips. I should have known he’d be here; Jasper loves the Farmer’s Market.

He’s standing three stalls away, a wide grin on his handsome face, and I take a step towards him and freeze. This picture is wrong.

At first, my brain tries to soften it. That looks like him. Then the details snap into place. The familiar slope of his shoulders. The way he shifts his weight onto one hip when he laughs.

But what he’s holding against his chest isn’t right.

The baby fits against him like it belongs there. His arm curves around her small back without thought, fingers spread protectively, instinctive and sure. She’s pressed to his chest, cheek against his shirt, her tiny fist tangled in the fabric.

I can’t breathe as he presses a kiss to her downy head.

My stomach drops so hard it feels like free fall. Heat rushes to my face. My hands go cold, pins and needles biting at my fingertips. I grab the edge of the stall to keep myself upright, the rough wood grounding me as the world tilts.

The strawberries slip from my fingers. One bursts open on the ground. No one notices.

My gaze slides to the woman beside him. Close enough that her arm brushes his.

Close enough that she reaches up and adjusts the baby’s hat with a tenderness that makes my throat close, before she leans in to kiss the baby’s cheek before smiling and kissing his cheek too.

My breath hitches with a sob that tries to tear free at the sight that’s like a stab to the gut.

He shifts her higher against his chest. She settles immediately.

My breath leaves me in a rush I can’t control.

I feel my heart splinter and wonder how I can live with so much pain.

He turns then, and our eyes meet.

I see it all cross his face in the space of a breath—recognition, shock, fear. His mouth opens.

“Casey—”

I don’t wait. I can’t do this here, now, with her as a witness to my heartbreak.

My feet move before I decide anything.

I step away, turn, and walk before I break into a run. My legs feel unreal beneath me, like I’m moving through water. I hear my name again, louder this time. Footsteps. A hand brushing my arm before I shake it free.

I keep going.

By the time I reach the car, my vision is tunneling.

I slam the door and sit there shaking, my pulse roaring in my ears.

I don’t remember pulling out of the lot.

I remember the side of the road, gravel crunching under my shoes, my body folding in half as I throw up until my throat burns and my eyes stream.

I cry then. Really cry. The kind that steals your breath and leaves you gulping. My chest aches. My head throbs. I curl in on myself like I can make it smaller, quieter, survivable. The sound that comes out of me doesn’t feel human.

When my phone starts ringing, I glance at it and see his name. I don’t answer.

Not yet.

I can’t. Instead, I head home and slump onto my bed and cry until my eyes feel dry and gritty and then I stare at the picture of us from last year, smiling at the camera, looking like the picture-perfect couple.

There could be a simple explanation for what I saw today, but in my heart, I know there’s no denying the truth.

It’s over. Probably was a long time ago by the looks of it. I just didn’t know it.

By the time he knocks on my door, I’ve showered. Scrubbed my skin until it’s pink. Changed into clean clothes. Brushed my hair back into a low knot that keeps it out of my face and composed myself.

I open the door calmly.

His face crumples when he sees me, relief and panic colliding as he reaches for me. I step back, knowing that if he touches me, my fragile psyche will crack. His hand drops heavily to his side, the wounded puppy dog look I once loved now makes anger worm its way through me.

“Please,” he says. “Let me explain.”

I step aside and let him in. Not for him, but for me. I deserve this.

I don’t sit.

I don’t offer him anything.

He paces. Runs a hand through his golden blond hair. Looks at me like I’m something he might lose. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s already lost me.

“How long,” I ask, my voice steady in a way that surprises even me, “were you planning to let me live like a fool?”

“I love you,” he says immediately, like it’s armor.

I snort, crossing my arms over my chest.

“She doesn’t matter,” he rushes on. “It was one night. She got pregnant. I didn’t know at first.”

I listen. Really listen. I let him talk. Let the words stack up between us.

“How old is she?” I ask.

“Four months.”

The timeline clicks into place. All the gaps filled neatly. “And who knows?” I ask.

He hesitates.

That pause is louder than anything he’s said. “Who knows?” I repeat.

“My partners,” he admits. “Some friends. I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

Something inside me goes very still.

He reaches for me.

I step back.

“No,” I say. “You don’t get to touch me. You made a fool of me in front of everyone. You lied and you cheated and betrayed me but, worse, you took away the trust of everyone I know.”

If hate had a taste, it would be bitter and acidic, and that taste floods my mouth as I stare at him, the depth of his lies settling inside me. I can’t bear to be near him. I have no idea if I can control this rage inside me right now.

I open the door.

“This is over,” I tell him. “Not because you cheated. Because you decided I didn’t deserve the truth.”

He says my name again. “Casey, please. I love you. So many times I wished Lucy could be ours. I made a mistake.”

Lucy. God, that hurts. The name we’d picked out for a future fictional daughter.

Jasper steps forward, tears in his blue eyes. “Baby, please. It’s always been you. We can get past this.”

I huff a laugh. “I can and I will, and I’m sure you already have, but not together. We’re done.”

I know he sees the finality in my expression, hears it in my voice, but Jasper didn’t end up on the Forbes list without determination.

“I’m not giving up on us, Casey. I love you.”

“There is no us.”

I stand by the open door as he looks at me once more before he walks away. I close the door, letting a shaky sob fall from my lips. Then I straighten my spine, lift my head, and make a plan. I need to get away. I need a fresh start, so I call the one person I know will always have my back.

It rings once before the call clicks. “Hey, you miss me already.”

Her voice is what allows the floodgates to open. “Izzy, I need a place to stay.”

My best friend must hear my anguish because she doesn’t ask questions; she just listens and books me a flight and tells me she’ll have a room ready when I arrive.

But I can’t bear to see her happiness when my own heart is breaking and tell her I need a hotel.

She doesn’t argue; she just tells me she’ll text me the details.

“Thank you, Izz.”

“It’s OK, Case. Whatever it is, you’ll get through it, and I’ll help you.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I hear a muffled sound, and then Izzy telling her overbearing man that she’s talking to me and to calm down. The man is literally a ball of hot, dark, gorgeous, testosterone and she handles him like he’s a teddy bear. It makes me smile when I wasn’t sure I ever would again.

At the airport later, I sit with my hands folded in my lap and watch families pass by. A man bouncing a baby. A woman kissing a tiny forehead.

My stomach tightens, but I breathe through it.

Something settles inside me.

Cold.

Clean.

Final.

I understand this now: people will let you love them inside a lie if it protects their comfort.

I won’t.

When my flight is called, I stand and walk forward without looking back.

I don’t know where my life is going yet.

Only that I’m done trusting words without proof.