Diamonds (Suit’s, #4)

Chapter 1

VALENTINA

The house still smelled the same. Like lemon. Cleaner, not the fruit.

Bright pink and purple balloons were taped to the walls, and a banner hung crooked above the dining table, just a breath away from falling.

“Feliz Cumpleanos, Lucia!” it read in Isabel’s messy writing.

Another year.

Another birthday.

I could’ve sworn I was here just yesterday for Lucia’s fifth birthday. Time was funny like that. It didn’t care if you were ready, and it certainly didn’t give you the time to catch your breath or tie your shoes. It dragged you forward kicking and screaming.

Sometimes I imagined it like one of those cruel carnival rides—the ones that spun you around and around until they made you dizzy, sick, and desperate to stop.

Time never stopped. It kept moving, leaving you in a constant state of fight-or-flight, nauseous and wondering when you’d gotten old enough to be nostalgic about the things you used to despise.

Time was personal.

Deeply personal.

The years felt heavy when I thought about my life, about the mistakes that piled up like laundry I couldn’t be bothered to fold, but when I looked at Lucia, they felt impossibly light, as if everything would be okay again.

Her small hand clutched mine today, but she’d be a preteen rolling her eyes tomorrow, and eventually, she’d grow even further away from me, barely recognizable. She’d become someone new—someone who wouldn’t remember I’d once braided her hair or wiped her tears when she scraped her knee.

Meanwhile, I’d still be stuck here, completely stagnant, collecting dust like one of those ugly porcelain figurines Mama used to keep on the mantel.

I stepped further into the house. The back door was wide-open, filling the air with the smell of freshly cut grass.

The party spilled into the back yard. Kids in princess dresses and superhero capes darted between folding chairs and the bouncy house someone had rented last-minute.

Uncle Santiago’s songs crackled from an old speaker on the patio, just as they did every birthday, every Christmas, every family gathering.

Tradition was the only thing my family seemed to hold onto tightly.

The kitchen was just as I remembered it: yellow tiles, white counters, and a sink full of dishes.

When I ran my fingers over the doorframe, they caught the faint marks in the wood.

Valentina, 5’2”, written in Mama’s cursive, and above it, Isabel, 5’3”.

Isabel passing me in height was a victory she’d never forget.

Somewhere between screams of laughter and the distant static hum of the fridge, I could almost hear Mama’s voice calling me and Isabel for dinner, yelling at us to stop fighting over mundane things.

Funny how, even years later, the kitchen still felt crowded with memories—so noisy even when it was quiet.

Especially when it was quiet.

Isa and I weren’t close like we used to be.

It had been months since I’d set foot in this house—long enough for Lucia to have outgrown the shoes I’d bought her last Christmas. Long enough for the voice mail Isabel had left after Mama’s last doctor’s appointment to still be sitting ignored in my inbox.

I didn’t know what was worse: that I’d let it go unanswered, or that I hadn’t called back even when guilt had clawed at me in the middle of the night.

I’d become the daughter who forgot birthdays, made empty promises, and avoided phone calls, because I didn’t know how to admit I was scared. Scared to see Mama weaker than before. Scared to acknowledge the truth that one day Isabel wouldn’t be able to handle it all alone.

When Mama first got sick, Isabel and I had fought bitterly about responsibilities, each argument worse than the last, until there was nothing left to say.

Much as I wanted to avoid confrontation with Isa now, I knew I couldn’t as soon as the kitchen door swung open.

Isabel stood there, stunned, in the middle of the kitchen, staring at me. “Vale, what are you doing here?”

I’d almost forgotten the way her voice fell off when she pronounced the “e” in my name like “eh.” Like the “e” was on its own. She’d been saying it that way since we were kids, long before anyone else had shortened Valentina.

“I’m—” I started, swallowing hard, suddenly aware of how pathetic I sounded—how pathetic I probably looked, hiding inside while everyone else celebrated outside. “I just came here to wish Lucia a happy birthday.”

“This is going to be confusing for her. You know that.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Confusing?”

“You don’t get to just waltz in here whenever you feel like it. Show up, drop a gift on her lap, and then disappear again. She’s six. She doesn’t understand why you keep leaving, why you can’t be bothered to stick around.”

I didn’t respond. I wanted to. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that I’d changed, that this time would be different. But the words never came.

Isabel shook her head. “You think birthdays erase everything else, Vale? You missed Mama’s scans. You don’t answer your phone. You barely exist in our lives.”

Her voice cracked at the end.

My fingers curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I wanted to shrink, to become smaller, to disappear from this kitchen.

“What happened to you?” Isabel whispered, taking a step closer. “You used to care about us, about family. Now I don’t even know who you are.”

I swallowed again, my throat tight. Her words were harsh, but they were nothing compared to the accusations I hurled at myself every night in the quiet dark of my apartment.

I knew I’d become someone I didn’t recognize either—someone who ran instead of facing the mess, who hid behind excuses and empty promises.

“Say something,” she urged, frustration creeping back into her voice as she folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Yell at me. Defend yourself. Do anything but just stand there.”

But I couldn’t. Because she was right.

I had no defense, nothing that would justify what I’d done—or what I hadn’t done. And it hurt more to stand there in silence absorbing the blows than it would to fight back. But maybe I deserved to feel every bit of it.

“Mama’s sick, Valentina,” she said, turning to face me fully. “We’re all doing the best we can, but you don’t get to check out just because things are hard.”

“I know she’s sick,” I finally snapped.

“Then act like it!” Isabel fired.

“I am acting like it! You’re not the only one paying for her treatments.”

“Oh, really?” Her eyes narrowed. “Because I had to cover last month. Your card got declined.”

I froze. “What’re you talking about?”

Suddenly, I felt twelve years old again, caught lying about something stupid—my homework, a curfew, borrowing her clothes.

Except this time it was bigger. Way bigger.

This time I was an adult. Supposedly. Responsible, capable.

Again, supposedly. And yet here I was, exposed, my image crumbling around me.

“I had to use my money, because when they ran your card, it bounced. They called me. I thought you said you had it covered this month.”

My heart sank, thoughts spinning out of control. Declined? Impossible. I’d been meticulous—or so I thought. Ever since the other accounts got frozen, I’d switched to using only my personal one.

That was it. That was the last of it.

Funny how the world works. One minute you have a man who handles everything for you, and the next you don’t.

One minute you’re sitting in a penthouse, your biggest worry being which overpriced wine to order for dinner, and the next you’re standing in your sister’s kitchen trying to explain why your card got declined for your mother’s medical bills.

Maybe that was the karma I deserved for being a gold digger.

I never liked that word much. Gold digger. It sounded so harsh, painting me as some greedy villain sitting atop a pile of cash that wasn’t mine. The truth was, I hadn’t been digging for gold. I’d been drowning, and Cillian’s hand was the only one reaching out to pull me up.

And I’d taken it. Who the hell wouldn’t? I hadn’t asked too many questions, hadn’t looked too closely at the cost. I’d let him pay for everything—Mama’s treatments, the rent, the food on the table—because I wanted to believe in the illusion I could finally breathe again.

But illusions don’t last.

Now? Now I was out of options, out of money, and staring at my sister’s face while she waited for an explanation I couldn’t give her. I swallowed hard, trying to push down the bitter taste in my mouth, and forced myself to look at her.

“I’ll figure it out,” I said again, the words feeling empty.

“Valentina, you can’t keep doing this. You can’t just wing it and hope everything falls into place.”

She didn’t understand. How could she? I couldn’t even explain it to myself.

“Look, thanks for covering last month. I’ll pay you back,” I said as I made my way for the front door.

“Valentina—” Isabel reached for my arm, but I pulled away, my fingers trembling as I grabbed the doorknob.

“I said I’ll figure it out.” I slammed the door shut behind me, leaving before I got the chance to wish my niece a happy birthday.