Page 7 of Saint (The Divine Ruin #2)

Lily

“I don’t think you need to try on a third outfit just to study, Lily,” Zoe says, leaning against my bedroom doorframe with folded arms and raised eyebrows.

I ignore her, examining my reflection in the full-length mirror. The cashmere sweater hugs my curves perfectly—not too obvious, but definitely not the baggy hoodie I’d normally throw on for a study session. The leggings make my legs look longer, and when paired with my ankle boots...

“Hello? Earth to Lily?” Zoe waves her hand in front of my face. “Since when do you care about looking cute at Mystic Mocha? You practically live there in pajama pants.”

"I just felt like looking nice today,” I say, reaching for my mascara. “Is that a crime?”

Zoe narrows her eyes until they’re just slits of suspicion, her psychology major instincts practically radiating from her like a superpower.

"You’ve changed outfits twice, you’re putting on makeup for a study session, and you’ve checked your phone every thirty seconds in the last hour like it’s going to sprout wings and fly away.

” She flops dramatically onto my bed, making the lavender duvet puff around her like a cloud, and props her chin on her hands.

"I’m coming with you, and that’s non-negotiable. ”

My stomach drops. “Actually, I’d rather study alone today. I need to focus."

“Since when? We always study together on Saturdays.” She sits up, the mattress springs creaking beneath her sudden movement.

Her dark eyebrows draw together, and that familiar vertical line appears between them—the same one that shows up during finals week.

“Fine, I’ll sit at a different table if you’re having some weird concentration issue. ”

"No!” The word bursts from my lips like a cork from champagne. My hands flutter nervously to my hair, smoothing down strands that don’t need smoothing. “I mean, it’s not a good idea today.”

Zoe crosses her arms, her expression hardening into the one that got her elected president of our debate team freshman year—chin tilted down, eyes narrowed to laser-focused points, lips pressed into a thin, uncompromising line. “Okay, spill it. What’s going on? Why don’t you want me there?”

I bite my lip, deliberating until I taste the waxy remnants of my cherry lip balm.

Zoe has been my roommate for almost two years, my confidante through every college crisis from failed algebra exams to midnight panic attacks.

But this feels different. Bigger. Like a fault line opening beneath the careful foundation of my life.

“I’m meeting someone,” I finally admit, swirling my brush through the peachy-pink blush and watching the soft powder dust rise in the sunlight streaming through my bedroom window.

“Someone...?” Zoe prompts, her voice dropping an octave as she leans forward, the mattress dipping beneath her weight.

“A man.” I feel a blush rising that has nothing to do with makeup. “An older man.”

Her eyes widen. “How much older?”

"Thirty-eight,” I mumble, focusing intently on applying lip gloss.

“Thirty-eight?!” Zoe practically shrieks. "That’s twice your age!"

“It’s not twice,” I correct her. “Is it?” Displaying my lack of mathematical skills.

“Who is this guy? How did you meet him? Is he a professor? Because that’s totally against?—”

“He’s a friend of my father’s,” I interrupt, watching Zoe’s eyes widen until I can see the flecks of gold in her brown irises. “Well, business associate might be more accurate. I met him at Dad’s dinner last night.”

Zoe’s glossy pink mouth falls open, her lip gloss catching the light from my bedside lamp. “You’re meeting one of the Governor’s associates—one of those suit-wearing sharks with perfect teeth and seven-figure bank accounts—for a coffee date? Does your dad know?”

I laugh, the sound skittering out like marbles on hardwood, higher and more nervous than I intend.

“God, no. And it’s not really a date.” My fingers twist a strand of hair so tightly it almost hurts.

“I just... might have flirted with him at the dinner. I told him I study at Mystic Mocha sometimes, and mentioned I’d be there today at two. "

“So you’re hoping he shows up,” Zoe says slowly, “and what? You study algebra together?”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, avoiding Zoe’s piercing gaze in the gilded vanity mirror.

"He’s gorgeous, Zo. Like, illegally gorgeous.

Those obsidian eyes under perfectly arched brows, that razor-sharp jawline that could cut glass.

” I shiver, goosebumps prickling along my bare arms as I recall how those blue eyes had traveled from my glossed lips to the hollow of my throat, then lower, lingering on the modest swell of cleavage above my black dress.

“When he looked at me, it was like being touched without a single finger on my skin. I’ve never felt anything like it. "

“Lily..." Zoe’s voice drops an octave, that familiar crease appearing between her brows.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, swiveling on the cushioned vanity stool to face her directly, my knees brushing against the soft fabric of my duvet.

“But I’m not a child. I’m tired of being Governor Moore’s perfect daughter, the virgin princess everyone treats like she’s made of Venetian glass.

” I lift my chin, feeling a flush of defiance warm my cheeks.

“Maybe it’s time I shattered that illusion. ”

"Your V-card?” Zoe looks horrified. “You want to lose your virginity to some random old guy who works with your dad?"

“He’s not random, and he doesn’t work with my father,” I protest. “His name is Luca Ravello. He runs that huge foundation that built the new children’s hospital wing.

And he’s not old, he’s... experienced.” I can feel my cheeks heating up.

“The way his fingers brushed against mine under the table... Zoe, I swear my entire body was on fire.”

Zoe springs to her feet, her worn NYU sweatshirt bunching at her elbows as she throws her hands up. The afternoon sunlight streaming through my dorm window catches the alarm in her wide eyes. “Lily, you don’t know anything about this man. What if he’s dangerous?”

I roll my eyes until I can almost see the inside of my skull, twisting the cap back onto my mascara with a sharp click.

"He’s a philanthropist who went to Harvard and donates millions to children’s hospitals.

His photo was literally on the cover of New York Magazine last month. What’s dangerous about that?"

“Men like that—powerful, older men with perfect suits and practiced smiles—they prey on young girls like you.” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper as if someone might overhear us.

"You’re literally walking into a textbook predatory situation straight out of my Psych 301 case studies! "

“We’re talking about Mystic Mocha at two in the afternoon, not some back-alley rendezvous,” I say, glancing at my phone. 1:40 glares back at me. “I need to leave now if I want a decent table.”

Zoe blocks the doorway, arms crossed. “Here’s the deal: either I sit at a nearby table—completely out of your way—or I’m going to follow you there and make a scene.” Her shoulders drop slightly. “I just don’t want you getting hurt, Lil.”

I exhale slowly, recognizing the immovable force before me. “Whatever. Tag along if you must. But keep your distance, no spying, and if things heat up between us, you disappear. Understood?”

“I’ll give you space,” she agrees reluctantly. “But I’m keeping my pepper spray handy.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re walking into Mystic Mocha, the rich aroma of freshly ground beans enveloping us. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. I scan the café, trying to look casual, but there’s no sign of Luca yet.

“I’m going to grab that corner table,” I tell Zoe, nodding toward a cozy spot partially hidden by a bookshelf.

“And I’ll be over there,” she says, pointing to a table with a clear view of mine but far enough away to give me privacy. “Text me if you need an emergency exit. One text and I’ll fake a roommate crisis.”

I roll my eyes but squeeze her arm gratefully. “Thanks. Now try to be invisible.”

I settle at my table, arranging my textbooks and notes in an artful display of studiousness. I check my reflection in my phone’s camera, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and try to calm my racing pulse.

The bell above the door chimes, and I look up.

And there he is.

Luca Ravello walks into the café like he owns it, the ambient chatter dying as heads turn.

Six-foot-three of raw masculine energy wrapped in a charcoal button-down that clings to his torso, sleeves rolled to expose tanned forearms corded with veins.

His dark hair, artfully tousled with those distinguished silver temples, makes my fingertips ache to touch it.

The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something dangerously masculine—reaches me before he does.

His blue eyes lock onto mine across the room, pupils dilating slightly. A slow smile curves his full lips, the kind that promises sin and satisfaction in equal measure. The temperature in the room rises ten degrees.

My mouth goes dry, a delicious shiver racing down my spine and pooling low in my belly. What have I gotten myself into?