Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 45: What Did You Do To Her

The air outside the restaurant was heavy with the scent of overpriced steak and the humid breath of a city that never slept. Jayla waited by the curb, the McLaren 720S idling behind her like a tethered beast. When Eric pulled up, looking every bit the charming, middle-management hero, she didn’t let the fire in her gut reach her eyes.

​She met him with a smile that was a masterclass in deception—the kind of look she had seen in a hundred noir films, where the leading lady is already holding the knife behind her back. She stepped into his space, wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug that felt like silk but tightened like a noose. She kissed his cheek, the contact making her skin crawl, but she hummed with a staged, girlish delight.

​"You really want this bag, don’t you?" Eric asked, his voice thick with the smug satisfaction of a man who thought he held the leash, blissfully unaware that the collar was about to snap.

​Jayla pulled back just enough to look up at him through her lashes, her eyes wide and shimmering with false adoration. "You have no idea, babe. When I saw it, I just fell in love at first sight. It’s perfect."

​Eric’s expression shifted, a playful, proprietary pout tugging at his lips. He reached out, his hand settling on her waist with a weight that felt like a brand. "You’re making me jealous, Jay. I should be the only thing you fall in love with at first sight. I should be the only one here." He tapped a finger against her heart, right over the ribs that were currently housing a category-five hurricane.

​The irony was so thick it was almost suffocating. Jayla slapped his chest lightly, a playful giggle bubbling up that tasted like copper. "Oh, come on! Stop being naughty. It’s just a bag."

​"I know it’s just a bag," he murmured, his voice dropping into that husky, performative register he used when he wanted to feel like a leading man. "But I don’t like sharing your heart—even with Italian leather."

​He hooked a finger under her chin, tilting her face up toward his. His eyes darkened, his head dipping for a kiss that Jayla knew would taste like the betrayal she’d discovered. She felt the bile rise in her throat. At the last second, she pivoted with the grace of a dancer. His lips landed harmlessly on her cheek instead of her mouth.

​She lowered her gaze, feigning a sudden, girlish bashfulness that made him chuckle. She glanced toward the restaurant windows, then back at him, her voice a hushed, shy whisper. "Eric, stop. People are watching. My coworkers are right there."

​Eric let out a triumphant laugh, his ego inflated by the idea that he could still make her flustered in public. He reached into his leather wallet and pulled out a sleek, titanium-grade credit card. He tucked it into her palm, closing her fingers over it one by one.

​"Go get it, Jay," he said, his thumb grazing her knuckles as he leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "And tomorrow, I’m taking you on an ice cream date at our favorite place, The Sweet Spot. I know you’ve been craving sugar lately."

​Jayla’s grin was blinding, a flash of white teeth. "As always, you know exactly when I need my fix."

​​​"You bet I do," he said, pulling her into one last, stifling hug.

​Jayla leaned into it, her eyes cold as stone over his shoulder. "Now go," she urged, pushing him gently toward his car. "Before Manager Janet starts looking for you. I’d hate for you to get in trouble on my account."

​​He nodded, reluctant, and kissed her cheek once more. "I love you so much, Jay," he said, pausing with his hand on the car door, looking back like a man who thought he was the hero of a romance novel.

​Jayla looked him straight in the eye, her smile sweet enough to cause a cavity. "I know."

​She stood on the curb, waving like a quintessential doting girlfriend until his taillights vanished into the flow of traffic. The moment he was gone, the mask didn’t just slip—it shattered. Her expression went cold—dead, flat, and focused. She turned on her heel and slid into the McLaren. The engine’s roar a much better soundtrack for her mood than Eric’s voice. She didn’t want silence; she wanted a war cry. She scrolled through her playlist and hit Conan Gray’s "Checkmate."

​"You think you’re funny, right? / Calling me drunk when it’s too late at night..."

​The bass thrummed through the carbon fiber, vibrating in her chest as she tore toward the high-end shopping district, the McLaren weaving through traffic like a silver needle through cloth.

The boutique was a temple of excess—polished marble floors, soft golden lighting that made everything look like an heirloom, and the hushed, reverent whispers of people who didn’t look at price tags because they didn’t have to. Jayla walked in with the stride of a woman about to commit a legal robbery.

The sales assistant, a woman named Clara whose eyes sharpened at the sight of the McLaren keys in Jayla’s hand, hurried over with a practiced, predatory grace.

​​"I want the most expensive pieces you have," Jayla stated, her voice cool and absolute. She didn’t look at the displays; she looked at Clara. "Dresses, bags, shoes—luxurious, high-end, and bold. If it’s in the vault, bring it out. Don’t show me anything with a price tag that doesn’t make you blink."

Clara’s eyes lit up with the predatory gleam of a high-commission salesperson who had just found her Great White Whale. She led Jayla through the private showrooms, areas draped in heavy silk and smelling of expensive leather and ambition.

Jayla was a whirlwind of destruction. She didn’t try things on. She didn’t care about fit. She cared about the numbers. She chose a quilted Chanel vanity case, three pairs of Louboutins with heels like daggers, and a series of evening gowns that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. She was bleeding Eric’s account dry, one swipe at a time, watching the digital numbers climb with a grim, internal satisfaction.

She was passing through a contemporary section when a mannequin caught her eye. It was dressed in red leather shorts, fishnet stockings, a black crop top, and a sleek, armored leather jacket. It looked like something a rebel would wear to a funeral.

​"I want that," Jayla said, pointing. "In my size."

​"Of course, Miss White."

At the counter, the air was thick with the scent of fresh paper and expensive ink. Jayla handed over Eric’s card for the mountain of luxury goods. Approved. She watched the receipt print—a long, scrolling testament to Eric’s impending financial ruin.

The thrill of the "declined" notification that would eventually hit his phone—perhaps while he was in a meeting with "Manager Janet"—made her stomach flip with a dark, giddy joy.

But when it came to the red leather and the fishnets—the war suit—she paused. She reached into her own bag and pulled out her personal card.

​​"This outfit stays with me," she told the assistant, her voice dropping an octave. "And I’ll pay for it separately. I don’t want this one on the same tab."

The assistant looked confused but complied. The shopping bags were so numerous they couldn’t possibly fit into the McLaren’s limited trunk space. A courier was arranged to deliver the mountain of luxury goods to her apartment by evening.

The assistant practically bowed as Jayla prepared to leave. "Thank you so much, Miss White. Come back anytime."

Jayla smiled—sharp, sweet, final.

"Oh, I will. You can count on it."

She drove home in a daze of cold satisfaction.

​10:00 PM.

Jayla stepped out of the shower, the steam clinging to her skin. She wrapped herself in a robe, her damp hair dripping onto the floor. The courier had come and gone; her tiny apartment was now a fortress of shopping bags—monuments to a dead relationship.

​Her phone began to vibrate on the nightstand.

​A strange number. No caller ID.

​Her heart leaped into her throat, a frantic bird hitting the bars of a cage. Eloise. It had to be. Eloise had made it to her destination, found a burner phone, and was calling to say she was safe. Relief, hot and dizzying, flooded Jayla’s chest. She snatched the phone up on the third ring.

​"Eloise? Oh thank God, are you—"

​"Good evening, Miss White."

​The voice wasn’t Eloise’s. It was a male voice—smooth, cultured, and lightly accented. It wasn’t the voice of a thug, but something far more terrifying: the voice of a professional. It filled her cramped apartment like cold smoke.

​"This is Ian," the man continued. "Mr. De La Vega’s personal assistant. I believe you may know him as Miss Winters’ fiancé."

​The air left Jayla’s lungs as if she’d been punched in the solar plexus. The phone felt like an ice cube against her ear, freezing her jaw.

​"Where is she?" Jayla whispered, her hand trembling so hard the phone rattled against her teeth. "What did you do to her?"

​"Miss Winters is perfectly safe, Miss White. In fact, she is currently in the Master Suite of the De La Vega estate. Mr. De La Vega is... quite thorough when it comes to the safety of his belongings."

Jayla sank onto the edge of her bed, her knees giving out. He caught her. He caught her and he brought her back.

She found her voice—low, steady, dangerous. "Put her on the phone. Now."

A soft, condescending chuckle. "She’s... resting. It was a long journey. But she’s unharmed. Happy, even. You did well today, Miss White. The decoy was convincing."

Jayla’s blood turned to ice. He knew. He knew about the McLaren, the coffee shop distraction, the entire frantic choreography of their escape. They had been dancing in a cage the whole time.

​"Why are you calling me?" Jayla hissed, her fear curdling into a desperate, cornered anger. "If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with. I’m not giving you anything."

​"On the contrary, Miss White," Ian said, his tone remains disturbingly polite. "Mr. De La Vega was quite impressed by your... protective instincts. He appreciates loyalty. Especially when it’s directed toward his future wife."

There was a pause, the sound of paper rustling on the other end of the line, as if Ian were checking off a list of souls he’d bought that day.

Ian continued, his voice smoothing out. "He asked me to extend his gratitude. And a reward."

Jayla’s laugh was sharp, humorless. She looked at her reflection in the darkened window—a woman who had just lost her best friend to a monster. "Tell your boss," she said, her voice like a jagged blade, "that if he ever hurts her, I’ll burn his world down the way she burned his estate."

Silence stretched, cold and razor-thin.

Then Ian, sounding genuinely amused: "He said you’d say something like that. He finds your spirit... refreshing. But that is not why I called you."

Jayla’s fingers curled tighter around the phone. Her pulse roared in her ears. She didn’t relax—she sharpened. Silence, she’d learned, made powerful men talk.

"Mr. De La Vega," Ian said, his voice smoothing out into a professional lilt, "wants to transfer the McLaren 720S deeds into your name. Permanently. He considers it a small token for keeping his fiancée entertained during her... travels. The car is yours. No strings, no debt. When are you free to sign for the title?"

Jayla froze. The McLaren? The car she’d been using as a shield was now being offered as a prize? She felt a dizzying surge of irony. She had spent the day trying to ruin Eric’s finances, and here was the devil himself handing her a six-figure supercar just because she’d been a good friend.

​Jayla leaned back against the headboard, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. If the world was going to be this insane, she might as well enjoy the ride.

​"Well, look at that," she said, her voice turning saccharine-sweet, dripping with a newfound, lethal charm. "I knew I would like him. Tell your boss he has impeccable taste in peace offerings."

​"I shall," Ian replied. "So, about the paperwork?"

​Jayla’s mind flashed to Eric—the man who thought he was taking her for ice cream while his world crumbled. "Tomorrow," she said lightly. "I have a date at a place called The Sweet Spot at one o’clock. You can bring the deeds there."

​Ian chuckled—a dry, knowing sound. "No problem at all, Miss White. Someone will bring them to you. Enjoy your evening."

​The line went dead.

Jayla lowered the phone slowly. A McLaren. In her name. A reward, not a warning. Prince mafia didn’t just see the board—he controlled it. And worse... he’d just shown her exactly how dangerous gratitude could be.

She smiled to herself, eyes glinting.

Checkmate came in many forms. And this one had four wheels and a wicked engine.