Page 162 of Ruin My Life

DAMON’S MOTHER’S HOUSEreminds me of a beachy version of my grandmother’s place back in Alberta. The floors are polished pinewood, warm and creaky underfoot. The walls are lined with bright white horizontal panelling, drawing light from the last threads of the sunset bleeding through the large sliding doors on the far side of the house. The whole place smells like salt, woodsmoke, and a faint hint of cinnamon.

Rebecka leads me into the living room and gestures to the striped couch. It’s soft and low to the ground, upholstered in white with faded navy and beige lines that echo the rug beneath my feet and the curtains framing the windows.

She disappears into the small country-style kitchen off to the left, and Damon sets our bags by the door before quietly joining her.

“Go sit,Mamá,” he says gently, his Spanish accent slipping through as he reaches past her for the mugs in the lower cabinet.

“I can make tea, Damon,” she replies, her tone playfully defensive.

“So can I,” he says, smiling like he already knows she’s going to lose this fight.

She huffs, accepting defeat—but her smile lingers as she pinches his cheek. “Fine. But only because you’ve brought company.”

Then she turns her focus back to me.

I tense instinctively.

She walks over and lowers herself carefully onto the couch beside me, still smiling like I’m not a live grenade her son just dropped on her doorstep.

“I’m sorry,” she says, brushing a loose silver strand behind her ear. “I feel like I didn’t really introduce myself properly. My name is Rebecka.”

“I know,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “I mean—I know you’re Damon’s mom. And thisis… your house.”

“Yes, both true,” she says with a quiet chuckle. “And you’reThe Black Rose. The first person to ever get through my son’s security network.”

The blood drains from my face.

That name. It doesn’t sound like mine anymore.

Shame pools in my stomach, heat crawling up my spine. But then Rebecka reaches out and places a hand on my knee—light, but grounding. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she laughs.

“I have to say, it was impressive,” she says.

There’s something genuinely proud in her tone, and it knocks the wind out of me.

“Damon was so flustered on the phone, I almost didn’t recognize him. Anyone who can rattle him like that has earned their seat on this couch.”

“Mamá.”

Damon warning tone travels from the kitchen. He steps into the room carrying a wooden tray with three ceramic mugs, steam rising in gentle spirals.

He sets the tray on the coffee table and spoons two teaspoons of sugar into one of the mugs before handing it to his mother, like he’s done it a thousand times.

When Rebecka takes her mug, her hands tremble under its weight.

Damon watches her closely, barely blinking as he picks up his own tea, ready to intervene the second she needs him.

When she lifts the cup to her lips, a thin stream sloshes over the rim—and both of us instinctively reach out to steady it in her hands.

She snaps her gaze over the edge of the mug, eyes sharp despite her gentle features.

“I’mfine,” she says, lowering the cup to her lap as her stern gaze zeroes in on Damon. “I’ve been living alone for a long time. I think I can manage a cup of tea.”

Damon retreats, sinking slightly into his seat across from us. “Sorry. It’s just a reflex.”

She exhales through her nose and gives a small shake of her head. “Just because I have Parkinson’s doesn’t make me incapable,mijo.”

The word hits me like a bullet.