Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 50: You’re The One

Jayla gave Andrés a baffled, long-distance look, her heart doing a frantic, jagged rhythm against her ribs. The air in the ice cream parlor suddenly felt twice as thick, tasting of sugar and the ghost of a two-year-old secret.

​"Indeed," she breathed, her voice a low, vibrating chord. "It has been a very long two years."

​She fought the urge to touch her own hair, to straighten her jacket, to do anything that betrayed how often his face had flickered across the back of her eyelids in the dark.

She wouldn’t let him know. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he had been her gold standard, the benchmark against which every other man had failed—miserably.

​Andrés let out a rough, appreciative chuckle and didn’t wait for an invitation. He pulled out a pastel-pink chair with a casual, predatory grace, the metal legs screeching against the tile like a warning. He sat, directly next to her, claiming the space with an effortless arrogance.

​"What are you doing here?" Jayla asked, her voice regaining its edge. "This isn’t exactly the kind of place I’d expect a... man like you to frequent."

​"Believe me," Andrés said, leaning back and stretching his legs out. "The irony isn’t lost on me. My brother, in a sudden and suspicious fit of generosity, asked me to deliver some car ownership documents to a certain ’best friend’ of his fiancée. Usually, his version of a gift is leaving someone with all their limbs intact, so this is quite the upgrade."

​Jayla froze. Her mind raced, connecting the dots so fast it made her dizzy. "Ah, okay. So that’s why you—"

​Then, the realization hit her like a physical blow.

Her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open. "Wait. What did you just say?"

He frowned. "Which part?"

​She stared at him like the universe had just cracked open, her hand flying up to cover her lips. "Don’t tell me. Don’t you dare tell me you are the brother of Prince Mafia."

​Andrés’s brow shot up. A second later, a deep, rich laugh erupted from his chest, drawing the eyes of the few remaining patrons.

"Prince Mafia? Is that what you call Luciano? God, that’s perfect. I’m telling him that. He’ll hate it, which means I’ll love it." He leaned in, his gaze intensifying. "But to answer your question: No, he isn’t a ’mafia’—not in the way the movies portray it, at least. But yes, I am his one and only brother. The handsome one, obviously."

​Jayla muttered something under her breath, a string of words that sounded suspiciously like: "And he behaves like a mafia boss with every single breath he takes."

​​"I heard that," Andrés noted, his eyes dancing. "How do you know my brother, Jayla?" he asked, curiosity sharpening his tone. "He isn’t exactly a man who does brunch or makes himself visible to the public. He’s a ghost in a bespoke suit."

​Jayla leaned forward, her red lips thinned into a line of righteous indignation. "I don’t ’know’ him. I know of him. I know he kidnapped my best friend. I know he’s holding her captive in a gilded cage and calling it an engagement. I know he’s a man who takes what he wants without asking."

​The realization hit Andrés like a physical shock. He looked at the red leather, the fierce eyes, and the baseball bat, then back at the folder in his hand.

"Fuck," he whispered, the pieces slamming together in his head with brutal clarity. "You’re the one. You’re Eloise’s best friend. The one I’m supposed to give the McLaren to."

​

"Yes."

For a brief moment, Andrés considered laughing again—because if he didn’t, the irony might actually kill him.

​Across the table, Eric, who had been sitting in the booth like a discarded prop, finally found his voice. He looked between Jayla and Andrés, his face a mask of twitching jealousy and confusion.

​"So it’s true?" Eric hissed, his voice cracking, his face turning a mottled purple. "You were seeing him behind my back! This... this thug! What car? What are you talking about? Andrés, what the hell is going on here?"

​Andrés finally turned his head to look at Eric. It was the first time he had acknowledged the man’s existence since walking through the door. His expression shifted instantly from playful to a cold, clinical disgust.

​Once upon a time, in a life that felt like a different century, long before the De La Vega name was whispered with fear in boardrooms across the globe, they had been best friends. College roommates during the lean years, when the De La Vega brothers were scraping by. When money was a rumor and survival was a skill. Eric had been the millionaire’s son then, too—smug, entitled, and eventually, a traitor. He had sold out a trade secret Andrés had been developing.

​Andrés had never forgotten. A De La Vega never forgot a debt, especially one paid in betrayal.

​"The grown-ups are talking, Eric," Andrés said, his voice like the click of a safety being turned off. "Stay in your lane."

​Jayla looked at Andrés, then back at Eric. She felt a surge of cold, focused clarity. The man she had once sought comfort in was a snake. The man she had once dreamed of—the stranger from a night she never forgot—finally had a name, and he was the brother of a wolf. It was a messy, dangerous world, and she was done playing the victim.

​"Andrés," Jayla said, her voice steady. "I’m sorry, but the documents will have to wait. I have some... trash to deal with first."

​Andrés made a grand, sweeping gesture with his hand, his eyes glinting with anticipation. "No offense taken, Jay. Please, go about your business. I find I’m suddenly very interested in the local entertainment."

​

That was all the permission she needed.

​Jayla turned her full attention to Eric. She stood up slowly, the movement fluid and predatory. The red leather of her jacket creaked in the quiet shop.

​"You were saying, Eric?" she prompted, her voice a deadly purr. "About our ’private engagement’? About how I would be your secret little fiancée, like a little secret you keep in a drawer, while you are married to Janet for the family name? How it’s a ’win-win’ for us?"

​Eric’s ego, blinded by his own sense of superiority, didn’t see the cliff he was standing on. "It’s the best offer you’re going to get, Jay. Look at you. You’re a waitress. I’m offering you a life of—"

​Jayla didn’t let him finish. Her hand shot out, grabbing the ash-wood baseball bat. With a sudden, violent motion, she slammed it onto the marble table.

​CRACK.

​The sound was like a gunshot. The sundaes jumped, strawberry syrup splashing onto the white linen.

Eric jumped back so hard he nearly fell out of the booth, a pathetic, high-pitched whimper escaping him. Upstairs, Eloise flinched, but Luciano simply watched with a look of clinical approval.

​Andrés let out a low, appreciative whistle.

​"The nerve of you," Jayla hissed, her eyes burning like twin coals. "The absolute, god-complex nerve of you to think that I would ever settle for being your shadow. To think that I would share a bed with a man who sells his friends and lies to his lovers."

​She stepped around the table, the bat trailing behind her like a tail.

Eric scrambled to his feet, eyes wide.

"Jayla, wait—let’s talk—"

She swung again—controlled, precise—shattering his phone.

Glass sprayed.

Eric yelped.

​"It’s over, Eric. It was over the moment you thought you could play me." She paused, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face. "But the pain in my heart? The betrayal? That remains. And I’ve always found that the best way to deal with pain... is a little bit of physical therapy."

Eric opened his mouth.

​She leaned in close, her red lips inches from his trembling ear. "Your Ferrari is going to be my pain reliever today. Consider it a down payment on my sanity."

Eric sat there for five seconds, his brain struggling to process the threat. "My car?" he whispered. "What did she mean, my car?"

​"Meet me outside for the signature, Andrés," Jayla called over her shoulder, already marching toward the door.

​Andrés stood up, a genuine, wide grin splitting his face. He grabbed the manila folder and followed her, leaving Eric scrambling to catch his breath.

​

​Jayla stepped out into the bright afternoon sun. The Ferrari 812 Superfast sat there, gleaming in the light, a monument to Eric’s ill-gotten wealth and hollow pride.

​She didn’t hesitate.

​She took a wide stance, feeling the weight of the bat in her grip. She thought of Eloise, scared and running. She thought of the year she’d wasted on a man who didn’t exist. She thought of the red lipstick she’d stopped wearing because it felt like a target.

​SMASH.

​The bat hit the driver’s side window with a sickening, crystalline crunch. The reinforced glass didn’t just break; it spider-webbed into a million diamonds before collapsing into the interior.

Eric let out a strangled cry and scrambled for the door, his legs shaking so hard he stumbled. He burst out into the afternoon sun just in time to see the horror unfold.

"Jay, wait. You can’t—that’s a half-million-dollar car! Jayla!"

​Jayla didn’t even look at him. She moved to the front of the car. She swung again, this time with the full force of her hips and shoulders behind it.

​THUD.

Eric’s face went from pale to ghostly. "NO! JAYLA, STOP! POLICE! I’LL CALL THE POLICE!"

​The bat slammed into the hood, leaving a massive, jagged dent in the pristine red paint. The alarm began to wail—a rhythmic, piercing shriek that echoed off the buildings.

​"Sign here, Jayla," Andrés said, appearing at her side. He held out the ownership documents for the McLaren, a pen already clicking in his hand. He looked at the dented Ferrari and nodded approvingly. "Good form. You’re using your core. That’s important for a clean strike."

​Jayla took the pen and scribbled her name on the lines, her hand perfectly steady despite the adrenaline. She handed the folder back to him.

​"Thank you," she said, her chest heaving.

​"Don’t stop on my account," Andrés murmured, his eyes dark with a mixture of amusement and something far more primal. "The headlights are particularly expensive to replace."

​Jayla didn’t need to be told twice. She swung again, shattering the passenger window. Then the taillights. Then she walked to the rear and delivered a crushing blow to the trunk. Every swing was a year of lies. Every impact was a fake "I love you" he’d whispered into her ear while thinking of marrying Janet.

​Eric reached her then, trying to grab her arm. Before he could make contact, Andrés stepped in. He didn’t hit Eric; he just placed a hand on his chest and shoved. It was a casual move, but it sent Eric sprawling backward onto the hot pavement.

​"Don’t touch the lady, Eric," Andrés said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet rumble. "Unless you want to see if I’ve gotten better at breaking things than she has."

​Jayla stood over the wreckage of the Ferrari, the bat resting on her shoulder. She looked down at Eric, who was sobbing—actually sobbing—over the sight of his ruined car.

​"The McLaren is in my name now, isn’t it?" she asked, not taking her eyes off Eric.

​"Legally and spiritually," Andrés confirmed.

​"Good." Jayla tossed the baseball bat onto the hood of the Ferrari. It landed with a final, metallic clang. "Keep the bat, Eric. You’re going to need something to lean on when your father finds out what you’ve been doing with his money."

​She turned to Andrés, the red lipstick stark against her pale, determined face. "I believe I have a new car to test drive. And I believe you’re coming with me."

​Andrés smiled—a real, dangerous De La Vega smile. He reached out and gently took the keys from Jayla’s hand, his fingers brushing hers for just a fraction too long. Then he lifted them between them, the silver fox charm glinting in the sun, smug and unmistakable, like it had always been waiting for her.

​"I thought you’d never ask," he said.

​They walked toward the McLaren, leaving Eric Miller in the dust of his own shattered life. As the butterfly doors swung open, Jayla felt the weight of the last two years finally begin to lift.

​The storm hadn’t just broken. She was the storm.