Chapter 17 #2
Jacob started talking, rattling off more details, and I forced myself to listen, because this was the shit that mattered.
Not her.
Not Valentina, who never listened, who thought warnings were just invitations to break more rules.
Not with the way she looked at men like Sebastian, thinking they were any different from Max.
They were all the same, cut from the same cloth, just in different suits.
Different ways of dressing up the same brand of control.
She always did this—walked straight into trouble, expecting a different outcome. Like playing with fire was harmless until it inevitably burned her. Then she acted shocked, looking around for someone to blame. Someone to pick up the pieces.
And why the fuck did that someone always have to be me?
Max’s voice broke through my thoughts, pulling me back to the room.
“Something wrong?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in mild annoyance.
“No,” I lied flatly, shaking my head just enough to dismiss his suspicion.
Lies came easy. Always had. But with Valentina, every lie felt heavier, every half-truth harder to manage.
Max studied me for a second and then let it go. “Great. Once we’re done here, I’ll need you at the office to handle things while I meet with Mikhail’s men at the marina.”
“I can head out now,” I said, already grabbing my coat and sliding it over my shoulders. I needed to move—to get away from this room; from Jacob’s knowing smirks and Max’s suspicious glances. Needed to clear my head before Valentina made any more of a mess than she already had.
I didn’t wait for Max’s answer before turning toward the door.
Waiting only gave room for questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
Eventually, when I’d made it to the office, the woman at the front desk shot me an apologetic smile—the kind that said she knew I wouldn’t like whatever was waiting for me.
I wondered why.
And then I saw her.
Valentina.
Standing in the middle of the lobby.
I gave the receptionist a pointed look. Last time, I’d explicitly said Valentina wasn’t allowed inside.
She shrugged helplessly. “She asked for you or Max.”
Of fucking course she did.
Without saying another word, I stepped closer to Valentina and grabbed her arm lightly, moving her further down the hall toward my office.
She didn’t fight me, which was unlike her.
“Do you manhandle all your clients like this?”
“You’re not a client,” I said, correcting her as I pushed open the door and gestured for her to step inside.
“Give me my dollar back then,” she argued.
The dollar. She was still stuck on that dollar. It had to mean something to her—something more than she’d ever admit. Maybe it meant something to me too, even though it shouldn’t. I still kept it in my wallet.
I shut the door behind us, crossing my arms. “Sit.”
She smirked. “You’re bossy.”
“Why are you here?”
She finally stopped playing around and reached into her bag, pulling out a stack of papers and a handful of plastic poker chips.
AA chips.
The signed slips.
All of it.
“I want to give these to Max,” she said.
“You think this is going to get you a ring on your finger?”
“It’s a start.”
I looked away from her. Funny. This was exactly what I’d helped her for—so she’d have these stupid slips, these tokens of fake progress.
But suddenly, I hated it. Hated the idea of Max putting her in someone else’s hands, handing her off to another man who’d fail to see her clearly. Or worse, someone who actually might.
“You won’t be getting married. You haven’t done the work.”
“We’ll see. I have the proof here.”
“Come back later. Max won’t be here for another hour or two.”
She nodded like it wasn’t a problem. “That’s all right,” she said sweetly. “I can wait for him.”
I grinded my molars. “No.”
She raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“No,” I repeated, clearer this time. Because if I gave her even an inch, she’d make herself comfortable and take a damn mile. And suddenly, my whole day—hell, my entire week—would revolve around her again.
Valentina crossed her legs, settling deeper into the chair, her expression daring me to drag her out. “Afraid I’ll cause trouble if I stay?”
“I know you’ll cause trouble.”
“I’ll behave,” she said like a promise. “I’ll get out of your hair when he gets here.”
I didn’t argue. What was the point? She always got what she wanted.
I took a seat behind my desk, flipping through a case file, trying to focus on literally anything besides the way Valentina crossed her legs, the way she tapped her nails against the wood, the way she hummed quietly under her breath as if this weren’t a complete fucking waste of my time.
Then she reached for a stack of files.
I looked up. “Don’t touch that.”
She ignored me, flipping through them. “You’re so organized.”
“Put it back.”
Valentina reached across the desk, sliding a paperclip between her fingers, watching me. “You seem irritated.”
“I’m not irritated,” I said as I scratched my pen against the paper again. A signature here, a date there. Every deal, every contract, every liability—processed, signed, moved along.
And yet somehow, with Valentina standing across from me, watching me, I felt like I was signing something else entirely. Accepting risks I had no business accepting.
“When Cillian had this office, he had pictures on the desk. Lots of sticky notes too.”
I didn’t like when she spoke about him. I wasn’t sure why she was bringing him up.
“Good for him.”
“There’s nothing on your desk. No personality. No photos. Nothing to give me any clue as to what kind of man you are.”
“I’m a lawyer. You know that.”
“You’re a boring lawyer.”
I flipped to the next page, signing my name again.
Valentina exhaled dramatically. “No childhood trophies? No framed degrees? Not even a single sad little plant?”
“You want a ficus, Valentina? Would that make you feel better?”
“It’d make you seem less like a serial killer.”
I signed another document, ignoring her.
She moved closer to rest her hip on the edge of the desk. “I used to help my husband with this kind of thing—well, before he died anyway.”
I said nothing. I knew what she wanted—a reaction, some acknowledgment I was listening or that I gave a shit. But I wasn’t going to bite. Not today.
I kept my eyes fixed on the file in front of me, gripping the pen tighter.
I was at the edge already, dangerously close to breaking whatever patience I had left.
She knew exactly what she was doing, and she was doing it anyway.
Because that was who Valentina was. She pushed until she got what she wanted, consequences be damned.
I stayed quiet, forcing myself to focus on the file even though I couldn’t read a single damn word. Anything was better than acknowledging her and what she did to me.
“What’s your last name?” she asked suddenly.
I lifted my gaze to hers. “Why do you want to know?”
“Curiosity. Cillian had a plate with his last name on it and everything,” she added, still prodding, pushing. “You don’t.”
“Grey.”
“Grey?” She arched a brow. “English last name. But your first name isn’t.” She studied me. “Was your mom or dad Hispanic?”
Valentina had a habit of asking questions she shouldn’t, and she didn’t realize she’d just asked the wrong one.
She didn’t know I’d never met my parents. Didn’t know my last name came from a system, not a family. A label assigned to make paperwork easier for someone who didn’t plan on keeping me around long enough for it to matter.
She had no idea the closest thing I’d ever had to a home was a foster house in a run-down part of town—a place where broken kids went when no one wanted to deal with them anymore.
A foster father who communicated through closed fists, and a foster mother whose coping strategy was measured in empty bottles.
Valentina didn’t know that she, with her pretty smile, reckless mouth, and her tendency to drown her problems in liquor, reminded me of her.
And I hated Valentina a little more every time she reminded me of how helpless I’d been back then, because it meant I was still helpless now.
“Why does it matter?”
She smirked again. “I was just curious. You don’t look the part.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The part?”
She gestured lazily. “Black hair, blue eyes. Too American.”
She was right. I didn’t look the part. I didn’t bother to explain myself.
The room went quiet. Valentina didn’t seem to mind. She leaned back in her chair, flipping through one of the case files on my desk, her eyes skimming the words as if she actually gave a shit.
I watched her carefully, wondering if she even understood half of what she was reading, or if she was just flipping through pages to irritate me. Probably the latter. Valentina wasn’t the type to admit ignorance, even when it was obvious. It was part of her charm—or annoyance, depending on the day.
She paused at a page, her brow pinching slightly as she pretended to study the notes scribbled in the margin. She turned a page, humming slightly.
“This guy’s totally guilty.”
I glanced at the file in her hands. “Doesn’t matter.”
She looked up, brows raised. “It should.”
“My job isn’t to care if someone’s guilty, Valentina. My job is to defend them.”
She scoffed dramatically. “It’s wrong.”
“I defend you, don’t I?” I finally looked up at her. “You’re not exactly innocent.”
She sat up straighter, crossing her arms. “I’m not a criminal.”
“You lie.”
“That’s not a crime.”
I cocked my head. “Depends on who you’re lying to.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly not liking that. “I lie, and you defend me.”
I called her out for lying, implying her deception was something to be judged. If I truly believed morality was irrelevant in my line of work, then I wouldn’t hold her lies against her.
“Guess that makes me a hypocrite.”
Valentina didn’t argue. She turned back to the file, flipping it open again as if I hadn’t just called her out.
A lie by omission. The worst kind. The kind she thought I wouldn’t notice.
I let it go. For now.