Beautiful Ruins

Chapter 1

~ DINNER PARTY ~

Peter and Mae Cooper

Your presence has been requested by hosts, Damon and Jason Shaw, to attend dinner and drinks this

Saturday, seven p.m., at the Shaw residence.

The invitation is valid only if both guests are in attendance.

55 Kings Avenue, Bel Air

“You know, Mae, I expect at the very least that my wife be excited for me.”

I flatten the thick-carded invitation on my thigh as Peter’s tone fuels my apprehension about tonight’s lavish dinner. Ignoring the luxury homes we’re driving past, I focus on my husband. The glow of the dashboard lights illuminates his hardened jaw and his desire to pick a fight.

“Peter, I am excited for you. I know you’ve been looking forward to this evening.”

“I have been, which is why I’d appreciate it if you wore a smile instead of that scowl.”

There is no scowl.

He’s simply intent on warring with me only minutes before joining a dinner party of strangers, and placating him is about as dangerous as dismantling a bomb. One wrong word, and he’ll explode.

In silence, we turn into a guard-gated estate, palatial mansions lining the hillside street illuminated like brilliant chandeliers. Spying a magnificent three-story contemporary build, Peter slows the car to peer through my window.

“In a year or two, I want to be living on the same street as these assholes instead of the dump we’re in.”

Dump?

Our Hamptons-inspired home near the coastline is stunning. Built just a few years ago, it has already borne witness to some terrible events, barely having the chance to age.

With his stare fixed on me, I feel the personal attack before it’s even launched, so I focus on creating a mental visual diary of the street to harness my act of indifference when he seeks confrontation.

“Say it,” he goads.

The lawns. The endless line of manicured front yards with grass so lush I doubt a single soul has stepped foot on them besides the gardeners. “Say what?”

“That you think this isn’t achievable for me.”

The windows . Even set back from the road and far enough away from the ocean, each mansion boasts clear, glistening, curtainless windows as if they have no secrets to hide. Or perhaps they bury their secrets in other ways. “I don’t think this is unachievable for you, Peter. You’re a talented engineer. Anything is possible.”

Nothing I say will ever be good enough.

“I hope one day, Mae, you’ll realize that growing up poor doesn’t mean you have to fall on the same sword as an adult.”

Life . There’s no one walking the streets. No kids playing outside. No lovers stealing a moment of affection while watching the setting sun. Nothing. “I’m not falling on anything.”

“Your mother made her choices. For what it’s worth, it was a cowardly choice when she just up and left with a small child on her hip and not a dollar to her name. It’s ingrained mediocracy into you. Worse, actually, I married a woman who just accepts it.”

Asshole.

“Peter, you wouldn’t understand the position she was in. I’m proud of her for being brave enough to leave.”

Regret. If anyone passed us on our drive, would they look through the windshield and see the regret etched across my face?

My mother was a good woman who raised me on her own after surviving a traumatic marriage. Peter knows the intricacies of my childhood, including when my father held a knife to my throat simply because his dinner was served cold, but my husband is quick to side with the abuser because he is one himself.

His fingers drumming on the steering wheel act as a second-by-second countdown. Any moment now, I’ll feel the further sting from his words and the burn of his touch.

He hates it when I agree.

He loathes when I don’t.

“Peter, I don’t want to fight.” I turn to find his hardened stare locked on the road ahead. “I’m sorry. This is your night. Let’s just enjoy it.”

There’s no acknowledgment, and my heart rate spikes.

Half a minute—a palpable eternity—passes before he promises, “We’ll continue this discussion at home.”

My back aches with the tension he’s created, and is guaranteed to continue long into the night. Perhaps the distraction offered by a group of wealthy strangers might just be enough for me to remain unscathed later.

It’s been four days since we received the invitation to attend a dinner party at the Shaw brothers’ lavish Bel Air home.

The two men want my husband on board with a project they’ve decidedly kept the details hidden on, and my guess is that they’re using this opportunity tonight to further lure him into something legally binding.

I didn’t want to go.

I learned early on in our relationship that no place is safe with Peter because, in public, his cruelty simply adds an extra layer of humiliation.

Since I had little choice in the matter, I’ve spent the last two days delving through article after article, and what I discovered wasn’t terrible. Yet, the anxiety balling in the pit of my stomach says otherwise.

Damon and Jason Shaw run an empire. Together, they work alongside the president of the UAE, Prince Ziyad, in creating luxurious hotels and resorts, including palaces for Middle Eastern royalty. According to what I’ve read, Damon is the drive behind the company, sending his brother to oversee the builds once he closes the deals. Damon is the smooth talker, knows how to whet appetites, and pushes all the right buttons.

While totally different in appearance, the brothers are incredibly attractive men—Damon insanely so. At thirty and Jason thirty-nine, they are among the country’s young wealthiest. Online pictures within news articles show one or both standing next to the prince at the base of newly completed builds dressed in designer tuxedos while attending prestigious openings. Even in photographs, it’s evident that Damon is a dominant presence. However, as far as social media goes, both are nonexistent.

“ Holy shit!” Peter leans over the steering wheel, attempting to gain a better view beyond the windshield.

Following his line of sight, I stare in wonder at what awaits us at the end of the road. “It’s breathtaking. It’s something out of a storybook.”

We’ve reached the top of the windy hill, and perched on the pinnacle behind an elaborate iron gate lay a palatial Italian-inspired mansion, illuminated in all its brilliance.

“Whatever they want, I’ll give it to them,” Peter proclaims, slowing the car to a stop, where a sudden knock on the driver’s side startles us both. Only half lowering the window to greet the suited security guard, he mutters, “You scared the shit out of me.”

“My apologies. Names, please.”

“Peter and Mae Cooper.”

The guard ducks a fraction lower and looks beyond my husband, his stoic gaze holding mine longer than probably necessary.

Peter clears his throat. “We good to go?”

With a curt nod, the guard steps aside and opens the gate. “Enjoy your evening.”

As the car rolls forward, I glance over my shoulder through the back window to find the man watching, his line of sight zeroed in on… me .

How very strange.

“You know him?” The accusation in his tone has me swiftly turning back around. He chooses to see what he wants when it fits his narrative.

“No. He must think I have a familiar face.”

“You’re twenty-four, honey. You must know a thing or two about men by now.”

I do. The one I married is a monster.

We take the slow cruise up the cobblestone driveway lined by tall, cast-iron lanterns. The dreamy landscape of lush rolling lawns, perfectly symmetrical hedging, and a full-color palette of blooming flowers are all artfully illuminated.

“I hope you didn’t put on any underwear like I asked.” He doesn’t care for an answer. “I’m sure we can find an empty room in a place as big as this.”

I pray we don’t.

Before the night ends, he’ll be sloppy drunk, belligerent, mean, and, more often than not, downright terrifying. He doesn’t need alcohol to be cruel or violent. It’s just his given nature, but it does make him almost unsurvivable.

“I just hope we’re dressed for the occasion,” I say, hoping to distract him and lighten the mood.

Peter is dressed in a fitted charcoal suit with a lapis-blue tie, the one he considers lucky, though I can’t think of a time it actually did bring him any out-of-the-ordinary luck. I’m wearing a figure-hugging crimson, knee-length dress. It wasn’t my first choice, but Peter insisted, explicitly telling me what would and wouldn’t make a good impression. My natural blonde hair falls to the middle of my back in soft curls, and I’ve accessorized with diamond studs and a single solitaire necklace. I inspect my fingers and nails once more, ensuring there are no remnants of oil paint from today’s work.

“There’s definitely no going back now,” Peter murmurs as we curl partially around the roundabout driveway with a baroque marble water fountain in the center and pull up to the magnificent portico front entry, where a valet greets us.

A young man opens my door and extends his hand. “Good evening, madam.”

I return the greeting, and he helps me down from the Range Rover, where the warm, dry air tingles my skin. The palm trees gently sway in the summer breeze, and the leaves rustle. It would be easy to believe we’re somewhere exotic.

Uninclined to wait, Peter is already through the grand entry when I join him under the domed, stained-glass ceiling and sweeping crystal chandelier.

Oh my goodness! This place is gorgeous.

Peter eyes himself in the ornate mirror and straightens his jacket. “All right…” he begins, holding the gaze of his reflection, “… let’s go see what these assholes have to offer.” He snatches my wrist in his tight grip and draws me close. “No matter what happens, including how drunk I get, don’t under any fucking circumstances leave me here.”

~

“The money some people make is sickening.”

Peter says that now, but if the tables were turned, he’d have no problem showcasing his wealth. He swipes two champagnes from a passing server, and in a single gulp, he finishes the first, places the glass on a hall table, and then sips from the second. Envy has his greedy eyes roaming every square inch of luxury before adding, “It’s just not fair how some have it all while others struggle.”

His tunnel vision of what success looks like shouldn’t rile me so much, but it does. We do well for ourselves as a couple and as individuals. “I hope you’re not referring to yourself as ‘struggling’ because—”

“It’s all relative, Mae. Compared to the Shaw brothers, I am.” He casts me a glance as if I’m a fly he can’t get rid of. “Just for tonight, forget everything you were taught. Forget giving your time for free at the Charity House and try to see things from my perspective for once. Can you do that?”

Never one to miss an opportunity—every jab has to be with a poison-laced spearhead.

The grip on my clutch purse has turned white-knuckled, and I can’t even bring myself to look at my husband or grant him the submissive answer he seeks.

Instead, his hand snakes around my waist, and I tense under his touch. “Put a smile on your face, honey. I know it’s there somewhere.”

Nudged into step, we move past a stunning grand staircase and into a living room that opens up to an enormous entertaining pavilion with a dining table for twenty and tufted, white leather sofas surrounding a fireplace. Beyond this lay large stone steps leading down to the resort-style infinity pool with unobstructed views of LA, the Pacific Ocean, and the mountains. Looking around, I’m surprised the décor isn’t more fitting for two bachelors. Instead, it boasts classic elegance, keeping in line with European architecture.

“It seems we might be the last to arrive,” he says, annoyed, while I quietly observe the sheer wealth mingling under the chandeliers. “I knew we should have left earlier.”

“The invitation said seven.”

“And they all look two deep already.” Peter critically assesses the group. “Do you get the feeling they all know each other?”

Feeling grossly out of place, I pay closer attention to the sixteen other guests, who seem very comfortably lost in conversation. “It looks that way.”

“I bet they all attend the same goddamn country club,” Peter mutters.

Not to feed into his contempt, my wandering gaze moves around the room, from admiring stunning designer dresses to the authentic artwork on the walls.

That’s when he finds me.

I recognize his handsome face immediately, my attention well and truly hooked by the stranger. He takes a devoted moment, absorbing the sight of me as the conversation with another couple trails to an end. His beautiful lips form a smile, the kind that reaches the eyes, sincere and warm. Then, as if nothing else matters—as if I’m the keeper of his undivided attention—the man, who I believe to be Damon Shaw, politely excuses himself before crossing the room.

Peter’s quick to add a final snide remark behind the safety of his champagne glass. “Christ, just look at him. That bastard’s got all the luck.”

That, at least, is true.

Damon’s confidence is truly captivating. It’s not an arrogance that could be attributed to my husband’s confidence. It’s more refined . More authentic. And if that doesn’t hold your attention, his towering height and impossibly broad shoulders will. He wears a suit with manly sophistication, perfecting the mix of class and casual elegance with his crisp white shirt partially unbuttoned. A wash of dark hair—short on the sides and longer on top—a close-cut beard and piercing sky-blue eyes, the kind of blue on a dry summer’s day, are all complimented by an enviable summer tan. His cheekbones and jawline are strong and sculpturally angular, while his charming smile is like drawing a moth to a flame. Anyone on the receiving end stands no chance. Myself included.

“Peter, good evening.” Damon shakes my husband’s hand firmly before shifting his intense focus back to me. “And you must be Mae.”

Transfixed by my name on his lips, my words are barely audible. “That’s me.”

“I should hope so.” He leans down, kissing my cheek, his perfectly groomed stubble against my skin, igniting senses I didn’t know existed.

Oh my, should anything ever feel that good?

In what is an unexpectedly intimate first greeting, his fingers run the length of my bare arm right down to my fingertips, where they linger for one, two, three moments, bringing my heart to a thudding halt.

When he steps away, his deep voice, which is both eloquent and authoritative, seems solely directed at me. “I’m pleased you could attend.”

“Thank you for hosting us. Your home is stunning, and I just love seeing all the art on your walls.”

The following smile is nothing short of disarming. “The pleasure is mine, and I’d be happy to give you a private tour. There’s art in every room I’m sure you’d appreciate.”

For whatever reason, my cheeks flame, and he offers a hint of an amused smile in return. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

A single nod—barely an incline—seals the deal.

“My wife is obsessed with art, so from one man to another, there’s your warning. Don’t let her waste your time because she’ll chew your ear off if you get her started.” Beneath the joke is Peter’s evident disdain for my career.

I’ve often wondered if strangers looking in can detect his level of resentment, and judging by the flash of fresh contempt in Damon’s eyes, I’m now certain of it. In the unexpected comradery, I find the validation I’m so regularly stripped of.

“I’m here…” my husband continues, “… because I’m eager to learn more about your proposal and what my involvement will be.”

“Fortunately, Peter, I consider myself somewhat of an art enthusiast, so I’ll happily talk shop with Mae and business with you both.” His gaze shifts behind us. “But first, I’d like you to meet Jason.” On cue, a man rounds on us and stands beside his brother. “This is Peter and Mae Cooper.”

The stark difference in demeanor is immediate, and they share no physical traits. Jason is handsome but in his own way, with a longer, trimmed beard and lighter hair. His irises are a deep brown, almost black voids, and lack warmth. He, too, is fit but doesn’t carry the imposing physique of his brother.

“Pleasure,” Jason greets, a notable coldness in his delivery. He doesn’t look like he finds pleasure in anything. It’s also evident why his brother performs the business negotiations. Jason obligingly shakes our hands before Damon resumes.

“We have some time before dinner. Let’s say we head to my office to discuss the proposal?”

“So soon?” Peter asks, pretending like he’s not chomping at the bit to get started.

“Delayed gratification is for pleasure and never for business.”

I hate that I can feel Damon’s familiar gaze, but I can’t bring myself to look at him.

I don’t hate that such a remark has left my skin tingling or that my feet don’t move when Peter follows Jason down the hall.

With him now gone, it feels like I can breathe again, even if the thudding of my heart has grown painful. Damon steps close, his body offering protection from any onlookers. The noise of the party beyond him, however, fades, and suddenly, it’s as if we’re alone.

There’s something about his stare, how it lingers, and the way it has memorized the pace of each rise and fall of my chest as if he’s known me for a thousand years. Like two chess pieces—he most definitely a king—we stand before each other, destined to dance around the same board for another millennium.

“You feel it, too, don’t you?” he murmurs, placing a finger under my chin and tilting my face to meet his.

So, I wasn’t imagining it, and it isn’t one-sided.

This current between us is nearly impossible to put into words. “I feel… something .”

I find myself enjoying the smile that forms on his lips. “That’s better than nothing.”

This is more than just a mutual attraction. It’s a certainty that we’ve crossed paths before, his presence one I’d never forget even if, at the time, it didn’t have a face to match the feeling.

Damon takes two champagnes from a passing server. Handing me one, he raises his own in a toast. “To this evening’s adventures and wherever it may take us.”

Oh.

“Should I be nervous?”

Something wicked and delightful flickers in his eyes, drawing me closer toward his flame. “Perhaps.”

~

“After you.”

With his hand settling on the small of my back, Damon escorts me into his office sans Jason and Peter. It’s a room of creativity and hard decisions, rich and moody in vibe, courtesy of mahogany wainscoted walls and finishes, luxury brown leather-tufted armchairs, and warm light emanating from brass wall sconces. There’s a giant antique globe in an Italian-inspired tri-legged cradle nestled in front of an arch window and a…

“ Oh my goodness.” Lining the wall behind Damon’s desk is a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf loaded with titles, new and old. “That is an impressive collection.”

“Thank you.” His deep voice rumbles its way right down to my soul. “I started collecting first editions quite some time ago, and as you can see, I’ve run out of room.”

“It’s incredible.”

“Do you have a favorite?” Damon’s genuine interest throws me off guard, and it takes me a second longer to answer.

“You think you’ll have it?”

“Try me.” He gestures to the collection. “Author and title.”

“Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray .”

Approval etches across his handsome face, and it’s almost as if he knew of my choice before I said it. He moves to the shelves, scans a line of books, slides out the one, and hands it to me with a sentiment I also share. “The world would be rather dull without Lord Henry Wotton’s fascinating yet misguided philosophies.”

It’s true perfection. The brown leather cover is still in impeccable condition, and as I lightly trace the gold embossed title of the first classic story I ever fell in love with, I muse, “Quite the paradox, isn’t he? One of history’s well-written, arrogantly charming characters but pity the soul who heeds his delightfully misguided theories.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

When I look up from the book, I’m greeted with the kind of smile that has me feeling things in places I haven’t felt in a long time.

A throat clears behind me, and I startle at the sudden intrusion. “Are we interrupting something?”

Reluctantly, Damon’s gaze leaves mine, glancing over my shoulder to where Jason stands at the door. “Only something you wouldn’t care to understand.” There’s an easiness between them, a slight pull of Jason’s lips, indicating he’s accepted the jibe.

Peter steps inside the office, and never one to waste an opportunity, he points to the book in my hands. “ God , you found her other passion. Don’t say I didn’t warn you earlier, Damon. Art… books, same thing. She’ll be signing you up for book club before the night’s over.” My husband knows full well I don’t attend a book club, but even if I did, who cares? Nonetheless, he persists. “Mae learned a long time ago not to waste her energy on it with me.”

Damon looks between us and leans against his desk, his arms crossed over his chest, a thumb idly grazing his bottom lip in contemplation. He regards Peter with a look of casual reproach, then says, “Complacency is another man’s opportunity.”

My husband shrugs as if it’s a scenario he’s never had and never will need to consider. “Perhaps you’re mistaking it for trash versus treasure?” He tops the insult off with a forced laugh, but it falls on deaf ears.

Damon’s frown deepens, his thumb stilling. “That’s an interesting perspective you have. Except, I know value when I see it, and you’ll soon learn I’m the type of man who always walks away with the prize.” He sends my heart racing the moment our eyes meet but the question remains for my husband. “What kind of man are you, Peter?”

“I like to win.”

“At what cost?”

“There’s nothing I won’t do. I’m willing to sacrifice everything.”

Damon raises a questionable brow. “Everything?”

Everything being me .

“If it means I can build a life like what I just walked into tonight, then yeah. Nothing is irreplaceable.”

In front of two near strangers, Peter admitted that I’m disposable to him. If the vows we took stand in the way of him making the money he’s only ever dreamed about, then the decision would be easy enough.

So why won’t he just let me go?

Because he wants to be in control of who ends us.

“Peter, I’m going to hold you to that because we both have something the other wants.”

“Well, you know where I stand. Let’s hope that tonight, we both walk away happy.”

Damon returns to me, his wink nowhere near subtle. “I’m sure we will.”