Chapter 18
VALENTINA
The first guy Max tried to set me up with worked in finance.
Of course he did.
There wasn’t much to the guy. His name was ordinary. Ryan. He was clean-cut and Ivy League. He seemed like the kind of guy who had a Peloton in his apartment and liked podcasts about the collapse of cryptocurrency.
He smiled so much I wondered if something was wrong with him—or worse, me. Was there something on my face, or was it just fun to be a bore?
I didn’t care much for him, but he did take me to an overpriced steakhouse. I fully intended to eat my way through his pockets as payment for having to listen to him.
“So I started in investment banking, but, you know, that world is cutthroat. I needed something more sustainable.” He took a sip of his drink. “Real-estate investing is where it’s at. That’s the move. Asset-backed security.”
“That so?” I said, leaning my chin in my palm, bored out of my damn mind.
“Absolutely.” He seemed oblivious to my blatant disinterest. “Diversification, risk management—it’s all about making your money work for you.”
I hummed. “Sounds thrilling.”
He grinned. “You joke, but it really is. You should get into it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
And by “think about it,” I meant I’d rather walk barefoot over broken glass than willingly listen to another minute of this guy’s finance TED Talk.
He smiled again. It was starting to creep me out. Did finance bros learn to smile like that, wide and constant, to make up for the gaping hole where their personality should’ve been?
My gaze drifted from my plate over to his. The guy had ordered a salad. At a steakhouse. Who did that? He’d come to a place famous for prime cuts, juicy steaks, and he’d willingly picked kale off the menu?
Sasha probably did that too.
I wondered briefly what he was up to. Last I’d heard, Mikhail—that cold-hearted, cruel Russian—had tossed Sasha onto another babysitting gig somewhere downtown.
Whoever was dealing with him now had my sympathy.
Poor bastard was probably getting dragged on sunrise runs and forced into drinking something green and disgusting that tasted like freshly mowed grass.
Better them than me.
He paused briefly to wipe his mouth, and I hoped to God he was done. But nope. He kept going as if he had an endless supply of financial advice no one had asked for.
“I’m telling you, passive income is life-changing. If you can secure even one investment property—”
I couldn’t help but think about what Sebastian would do if he heard this conversation.
Probably throw back three glasses of bourbon, made some sly remark, then pick a fight just for entertainment.
Marco, on the other hand, would’ve sat there with that flat, unamused stare, probably calculating how quickly he could choke the guy out with his tie.
The image almost made me smile.
Ryan was still talking. Dear God, he was still talking.
I sighed inwardly, twirling the stem of my glass between my fingers.
It was just one glass, and I’d only ordered it when I’d started to fall asleep—which, to be fair, was approximately fifteen minutes into his lecture on mortgage-backed securities.
I needed something to numb the mind, and unfortunately, alcohol was my go-to method.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t. I’d sat through the meetings, collected my chips, smiled at strangers like I believed everything they said. I’d even tolerated Sasha’s lectures about my “destructive tendencies” and “the power of healthy choices.”
But listening to Ryan ramble on about passive income? It was either the wine or clawing my own eyes out.
And I liked my eyes. They were one of my better features.
“Valentina?”
My attention snapped back to the world’s most boring date. “Hmm?”
“I asked if you had any thoughts on investing,” he repeated patiently, as if I were the one wasting his evening.
“Oh.” I smiled sweetly. “I’m more of a spending type, really. Assets bore me.”
His smile fell—just a bit, but enough to satisfy me. At least one of us was finally reading the room.
He didn’t ask much about me. Just enough to be polite. Just enough to make sure I wouldn’t embarrass him if he took me somewhere with his friends.
That was fine.
I wasn’t here to be interesting, and neither was he, apparently.
When the check came, he didn’t hesitate to pay.
I leaned back. “So what do you think?”
He raised a brow. “About?”
“About me. About this.”
He smiled. That same easy, practiced smile. “I think you’re stunning.”
Stunning. Not interesting. Not funny. Not someone he couldn’t stop thinking about. Just stunning. I knew I wouldn’t get love out of this arrangement, but still, I figured it’d be more than that.
I already knew how this ended. I pushed back my chair and stood, reaching for my coat.
Ryan looked surprised. “No dessert?”
I smiled. “I’m watching my figure.”
His eyes flicked down my body before he caught himself. “Right. Well, can I see you again?”
“No.”
I left him sitting there stunned and walked out into the cold.
He left a bad taste in my mouth all week, and I’d never even stood closer than three feet from him.
I told Max I didn’t like him.
He didn’t ask why, and I didn’t offer any explanation.
What was I supposed to say? That Ryan had the charisma of plain oatmeal and talked about investment strategies the way most men talked about sports or cars?
That I’d spent half the dinner picturing creative ways to stab myself with the steak knife just to end my misery?
No. Instead I gave Max a shrug and a bored look and left it at that.
It wasn’t even Ryan’s fault, really. He was exactly what Max thought I needed: stable, predictable, financially secure. The kind of guy who probably never even missed a dentist appointment. Someone who had his taxes prepared by February and ironed his jeans.
But he wasn’t Cillian. He wasn’t even Sebastian. God forbid. He was nothing. Bland. Just a guy in a suit with money, no real vices, and apparently, no soul.
I mean, say what you want about Cillian—and God knows, there was plenty to say—but at least he’d been interesting.
At least he’d made it bearable. He wasn’t exactly the great love of my life, but he was fun.
Silver-fox handsome—which, honestly, was a lucky bonus considering what I was really after.
Money was the main thing, and I’d never pretended otherwise.
But somewhere along the way, I’d realized I actually liked talking to him.
He kept me on my toes, threw questions at me as if my answers genuinely mattered, and always made me feel clever enough to belong in his world.
Maybe it was just a game, but it felt good to be trusted; to be part of something bigger, even if that something was shady as hell and had nothing to do with love.
He’d told me everything. Work, politics, all the dirty stuff.
He’d even told me about the women he was screwing back in Chicago.
Believe it or not, I preferred that. Knowing the whole ugly truth was better than sitting alone in some penthouse guessing, going quietly insane every time he didn’t answer his phone.
At least this way, I always knew exactly where I stood. No illusions. No surprises.
I still slept with him sometimes, obviously. Had to keep him coming back somehow. Had to keep him close, keep the money steady. It wasn't exactly romantic. Afterward, I always felt a strange emptiness—hollow, like something important had been scooped out of me, leaving me raw and exposed.
It wasn't his fault really. Not completely. I’d spent my whole life making these kinds of compromises. Girls who grew up with eviction notices taped to the door and electric bills overdue for so long they’d learned to keep the candles handy.
I just needed a man who could pay the bills, keep the lights on, fix all those broken things I couldn't figure out myself. Cillian had been exactly that—my golden ticket out of the constant anxiety of overdue rent, Mama’s missed medical bills, and grocery-store shame.
But it wasn’t free. Nothing ever was. Sleeping with him reminded me that even the things I thought I controlled were still on someone else’s terms. So I drank—wine, cheap beer, whatever was easiest to swallow—to numb the guilt, regret, loneliness. Whatever you wanted to call it.
And when drinking didn't work, Sebastian did.
Sebastian was fun. Way too charming. Honestly, he’d have made a great husband if I hadn’t permanently linked him to everything I was desperate to leave behind.
Clubs, neon lights, 3:00 a.m. whispers, car sex that felt wild and careless and completely irresponsible—and exactly what I’d needed at the time.
Plus, his life moved in a totally different orbit than mine.
His brother Cade was running in Chicago, which meant Sebastian was forced to spend half his life at fancy political events, surrounded by women who looked like Lilly Pulitzer had thrown up all over them.
Imagine me at something like that. Bright dresses, pearls, hair perfectly pulled back by one of those preppy little headbands.
No, thanks. I had enough trouble matching two socks, let alone multiple bright colors at once.
That was exactly the kind of girl Sebastian needed. Someone good, someone wholesome, someone preppy enough to balance him out. Sebastian was too impulsive, always seconds away from his next bad decision.
He thrived in chaos, but he couldn’t live there full-time—he’d burn himself out.
What he needed was someone reliable. Someone who’d gently pull him back before he dove headfirst into disaster.
A woman with a neat, uncomplicated life, who’d iron his shirts and remind him to get sleep and keep him from running too far off the rails.
It was the same reason I needed someone boring like Ryan.
But when he didn’t work out, Max set me up with another.
This one was worse. He was a lawyer.
Not like Marco.