Chapter 9
VALENTINA
PRESENT
I’d spent several shameful hours watching rom-coms in bed with a bowl of popcorn when I heard the loud, echoing knocks on the door.
I groaned, peeling myself off the couch, where I’d spent the better part of the evening reacquainting myself with a seven-dollar bottle of cabernet.
Nothing quite compared to that warm, fuzzy feeling wine gave my heart.
Not a man. Maybe puppies. Puppies, I could see.
I should get a dog. Or a cat. Something to come home to that wasn’t empty bottles and TV reruns.
The knock came again—louder this time. I considered ignoring it. Pretending I wasn’t home was a valid strategy, but I was pretty sure whoever it was wouldn’t fall for it. My neighbors were loud enough to blow any chance of convincing someone this place was empty.
Dragging myself up, I shuffled to the door, smoothing my wrinkled sweatshirt. I cracked the door open just enough to see who it was, and my attention fell on a man in a suit.
Sebastian Callahan.
The Callahan genes ran deep in the family, no doubt about it. The Callahans were tall, broad-shouldered, and stupidly attractive.
Cillian worked with them. Not just Sebastian, but all of them.
He’d started out in their office, a glorified errand boy running numbers and doing the kind of paperwork that didn’t leave trails.
By the time we met, he’d worked his way up, sitting in on meetings, shaking hands with people whose names I wasn’t supposed to know. Eventually, he asked for my help.
It started small—taking messages, keeping things organized—but then it grew.
He needed information, and I knew how to get it.
He needed favors, and I knew who to call.
I became part of the job even when I told myself I wasn’t.
Even when I told myself I was just helping my husband like a good wife should.
And then he died.
I told myself I didn’t blame the Callahans for that, but maybe I did. Cillian was reckless. Ambitious. He’d gotten himself into plenty of trouble without their help, but the lines between “Cillian’s problems” and “the Callahan’s problems” had always been blurred.
Sebastian came to New York when he needed something, usually from Cillian.
But also when he needed me. He worked separately from the rest of his family, carving out his own piece of the world in a way that didn’t quite align with the Callahan reputation.
His eldest brother was running for state senate in Chicago.
His middle brother was a Federal agent. Neither of them would agree with what Sebastian was doing, which was why he kept it to himself.
He needed information, and I was good at getting it. That was how it started. And the sex—well, the sex was a nice bonus. Great, actually. The kind that made you forget, even if only for a little while, all the ways your life wasn’t what you thought it would be.
But while he may have had a few redeeming qualities, he was still an asshole at heart.
Before I had the opportunity to slam the door in his face, his arms slid suddenly around my waist. Then, like clockwork, his lips found mine.
If there was anything AA had taught me, it was that old habits die hard. Unfortunate that Sebastian Callahan was a difficult habit to break.
I let him kiss me, because why not, right? It felt good even if it wasn’t gentle.
He kissed me in a way that felt hungry and demanding. It was the kind of kiss that made me forget every reason I had to stay away. I told myself I didn’t feel guilty about Sebastian. I almost believed it.
“Wait,” I whispered against his lips. He swallowed the sound. I did nothing to stop him.
His hands fell down the curve of my back and lifted the edge of my sweatshirt. His touch felt familiar, like he knew exactly where to touch me.
Shit, I wasn’t supposed to be seen with Sebastian—that was why I should stop this. But why couldn’t I? Maybe it was because I was still drunk. Or maybe because it was Sebastian.
God, I’d forgotten how impossible it was to ignore him when he touched me.
He kicked the door shut behind him and carried me to the kitchen counter. The second my ass hit the surface, he pressed himself against me and kissed my lips harder, devouring them like he needed my air to breathe.
When I felt his mouth move to my neck, a shiver ran from the bottom of my spine to the top.
His hands continued falling lower until his fingers were pulling at the hem of my shorts. It felt like he was teasing me, seeing how far I’d let him take this without even muttering hello.
And for a moment I almost let him go all the way—but then I remembered why I couldn’t, and that everything was now at risk.
My hands moved, stopping him before he could push any further.
“Sebastian,” I finally called out. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” he murmured. He didn’t pull away completely, but he gave me enough room to talk. His hands stayed either side of my waist at the edge of the counter, caging me in.
“I can’t be seen with you anymore. It’s too risky.”
His eyes narrowed, and then something shifted. “Max?”
Of course he’d guessed. Max hadn’t exactly been subtle when he’d taken over the Clarkes’ marina last year. Everyone knew his name now. His reach. His reputation. Sebastian, being Sebastian, would’ve done his homework. He knew exactly what kind of man Max was.
I did wonder something though. Was Sebastian more afraid of Max, or was it the other way around?
I nodded.
He leaned in slightly, his smirk returning. “Does he fuck better than me?”
I wasn’t under Max’s influence for lust; I was under his influence because he had my damn money.
“He’s married,” I said, shaking my head.
I thought of Max. I thought of the way I’d tried, once, to sleep with him for leverage. Not because I wanted him, but because I’d thought it might give me power. A card to play. A foothold in a world that felt like it was slipping out from under me.
But Max had shut that down instantly.
That was when I figured it out. He didn’t want anyone but Rosalie.
Max was whipped. Obsessed. He’d killed three men just to have her. Burned bridges no amount of money could ever rebuild, and I’d bet he’d do it again without hesitation. He’d burn the entire world for her smile, even if she frowned a second later.
It was ridiculous. It was terrifying. And it was the kind of love I knew I’d never have.
“And?” Sebastian said with a pause. “That’s never stopped you before.”
“Nice.” I rolled my eyes, jumped off the counter, and grabbed onto his arm to steer him toward the door.
I wasn’t a whore. That was what he was implying, wasn’t it? He hadn’t directly said it, but he didn’t need to. It wasn’t true. In fact, Sebastian was the only man I’d slept with while I was still married to Cillian. All three years.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even an affair in the traditional sense. It was an escape. A distraction. Something to remind me I still existed as a person outside of my husband’s ambitions, his messes, his constant pushing for more.
Cillian hadn’t been a bad man. He was charming in his own way. Endlessly determined to prove himself to men who’d never really see him as an equal. But he was distant. Obsessed with his work, his legacy. By the time Sebastian had come into the picture, my marriage was already a transaction.
I barely knew Cillian. Maybe that was why I didn’t allow myself to feel guilty when Sebastian kissed me for the first time. While Sebastian wasn’t the first man who’d tried to flirt with me at one of Cillian’s boring political parties, he was the first I hadn’t brushed off.
He wasn’t subtle—the Callahan’s never were—but there was something about him that made it easy to forget where the lines were supposed to be.
I had a habit of attracting men I should stay far, far away from.
“Alright,” he murmured as he lifted himself away from me, making his way to the door. “I’ll get out of your hair for now.”
“For now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I followed behind him. I could see the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“You know how this works,” he said as if I should already be aware. “You’ll come back to me when you need something. You always do.”
Asshole. I didn’t bother arguing, but I did manage a quiet scoff.
As he backed out of my apartment, I moved to close the door, hoping it would hit him on the way out. But instead something caught my eye. A blacked-out Mercedes parked at the edge of the curb. It was the classic PI car, with windows tinted so dark they reflected the glow of the streetlights.
A sudden wave of cold ran its way down my back.
Was I overthinking? It could’ve been nothing—a car waiting for someone, parked in the wrong place at the wrong time.
No, it wasn’t.
I wasn’t overthinking, and I wasn’t stupid.
I was being followed.